This Nintendo system was pulled from the market because it can cause seizures. Really!
This Nintendo system was pulled from the market because it can cause seizures. Really!
Rummaging around in my aunt’s fridge, quarter past midnight on a Friday night, my furtive eyes fell upon this exciting bottle of Zazz. The first things I thought of was pouring it all over myself and taking a picture. If it had been a pile of horse manure instead of a bottle of Stop and Shop seltzer that was called Zazz then I would have rolled in it. And taken a picture. If Zazz was a new kind of Charles Worthington conditioner I would squirt it all over my naked body! I’m only kidding, but I thought it was a great name for a seltzer product. If only because its an excuse to ask my aunt if she wants Zazz with that whenever I get her a glass of juice.
Here is a transcript of my favorite Will Ferrell skit… imagine him as Robert Goulet, up in the nature of mountains:
“Announcer: Ladies and Gentleman Mr. Robert Goulet.
Robert Goulet: Hello I’m Robert Goulet Da da de da da do. I know one thing we can agree on when a professional gets his mitts on a song that’s when it really takes off. Da da de da da do ba dob a do. That’s why I’ve gone out and done the music world a frickin’ service, and cut this compact disc. It’s called The Coconut Bangers Ball: It’s A Rap. Ha Ha Ha A little inside I know. Anyway what you get is one full hour of rip roarin’ rap music. Not by some dubious ruffians without the chops, but by a professionally trained voice man. No musical accompaniment. It’s just me out there. Watch what I do with this little ditty from Sisqo called the “Thong Song.”
(singing “Thong Song” by Sisqo)
“Oh girl that dress is so scandolous,
And you know another Nigga couldn’t handle it.
You see dumps like a truck, truck, truck
Not like a what, what, what
Baby move you butt,butt,butt
I think I’ll sing it again
Sha bang, sha bop,bop bop.
Something like that. Hey you wouldn’t let a clown fix a leak in the john. So why do you let these hooligans tear down the biz. Yeah!!!!! I don’t care if he is mister Notorious big. Can he croon.
(singing “Poppa” by Notorious B.I.G.)
“Poppa, I like it when you call me Big Poppa
Throw your hands in the air if you think your a playa
Poppa, I love it when you call me Big Poppa
To the honeys makin’ money playin’ niggaz just like dummies
You get the idea. We call it Coconut Bangers Ball: It’s A Rap. It’s Snoopy, Dre, Biggie, Puff Man, Cooooooooolio, the whole bunch.
(singing Who Let The Dogs Out by Baha Men)
“Who let the dogs out,
Who let those dogs out,
Who let those little muts gooooooooooo!
Well I gotta a gig to make, but do yourself a big favor alright and go out and ( Big Horn walks into scene) hold on lookee here. It’s a big horn. Well! (grabs bowl of food) That’s why I come up here. Look at you. You’re hungry. You don’t even blink do you . Quick staring contest me and you Now! (staring contest begins, Goulet blinks) You win, you always do. That’s why I come up here.
Anyway check out the CD you’ll just love it. Or my name isn’t Robert Goulet.
Announcer: The Coconut Bangers Ball: It’s A Rap in stores now.”
There’s an abundance of sunlight and flowers and cookies that say, “Friends Forever,” in Spanish, intermingling amongst my synapses with Wellbutrin and daily oral GINSENG ENERGY NOW packets (“Ideal for Athletes, Dieters, Workers, Travelers”)… forming a firewall against seasonal affective disorder as the month of February (even with the stubborn leap-year day) gases up the engine and roars into the passing lane. Spring is happening so fast now that I feel a belated digital valentine may be in order, if to only pause the progress for a beat:
I am pretty sure that this psycho and bizarre note, posted with packing tape above the three mailboxes for the building, qualifies as an attack on my Americanism. The communication is basically an accusation, but this is no petty j’accuse! The first-floor resident accuses the upper-floor monkeys of a felony! Because this is America we live in, and the system here is a presumption of innocence until guilt is proven, I feel law-empowered to demand evidence for the crime!
Acting as a suspect, because that is my aboriginal state as outlined in the damning (they started swearing first, damn it) accusation, which might as well have been affixed by dagger to the spot directly above the three mailboxes, I took it upon myself to investigate the scene of the crime. Here we have three mailboxes, all of them in clear view of the street. They are on the side of a house, directly left of the front entrance. In the grubby front yard there is stubby brown shrubs, a concrete pathway, and a chain-link fence with gate that does not lock. None of the three mailboxes can be called secure from the sticky fingers of the passersby. My investigation births its first reasonable doubt.
I have questioned my two roommates and the two middle-aged gentlemen who live upstairs. All of us have declared innocence, and most of us are more than a little shocked by the note. There is the tinge of anti-Americanism in the air.
I call into question what motive my roommates and I would have had to open this piece of mail. First of all, we barely open our mailbox, nevermind the rareness with which we perforate our letters… Yes, perhaps now that we know that whatever was in this letter was so personal and private that it made this note-writing person go APE-SHIT to have it opened, maybe we WILL want to open his letters. My point is not that we want to open the note-writer’s mail. My point is that only someone with intimate awareness of the note-writer’s life could possibly anticipate and intercept said missive, and that ain’t us. I still don’t even know the note-writer’s true name, but I DO know the handwriting.
Take into account that the note-writer knows, within a twelve hour approximation, when the mail was opened and the felony committed. My roommates aren’t even awake “on Saturday A.M.” You can them forget prowling around with their ear to a cup on the floor, trying to determine if the time is right for a good old-fashioned mail opening! For the case of the accused, there’s no need for such specificity in denial. But for the note-writer, the specifics in quotation tend to support the hypothesis that the mail-opener is in tune to the note-writer’s bio-rhythms; what I will call the “motive hypothesis.”
The motive hypothesis offers up that the sensitive mail in question would likeliest be opened by someone motivated to do so. Someone with ties to the note-writer, a connection. Maybe they were star-crossed lovers. I really don’t know. But I do know that the note-writer is very upset, and his tremendous emotions have propelled him past the bright lines that mark off socially acceptable behavior in the U.S.A. over to the dark-side of criminal libel, defamation, slander, and the baddest of the bunch, VILIFICATION. This is one of the most offensive public notes I have ever seen. The worst in my lifetime so far, it is truly so bad.
This note condemns a group of innocent citizens for a crime that only one, or maybe two, could have possibly committed. Through association it draws unnecessary negative attention to individuals who are clear of any wrong-doing. All this in the name of an impotent prosecution of a single bad egg. This note is rotten and it stinks. Maybe it is simply what the internet hath wrought for America. We all feel so comfortable expressing ourselves in public that wrongfully accusing others for a serious crime feels right when the emotional winds begin to blow. Let’s all get it together, people. It is not okay to do this. As a matter of fact, it is against the law of the land:
n. the act of making untrue statements about another which damages his/her reputation. If the defamatory statement is printed or broadcast over the media it is libel and, if only oral, it is slander… Some statements such as an accusation of having committed a crime, having a feared disease or being unable to perform one’s occupation are called libel per se or slander per se and can more easily lead to large money awards in court and even punitive damage recovery by the person harmed.
A Note to the Note-Writer: Shut up or put up!
After being traded to the Phoenix Suns, Shaq got into a beef with Bill Walton, who is also a former Lakers’ center. Walton said no matter what happened in the rest of this season, whether the Suns win a championship with Shaq or not, Shaquielle will get dissed for not playing hard with the Heat, for nursing his injuries. Shaq had an awesome comeback; that Walton had broken the “Big Man Code” (click on it to watch the video.) That got me searching for more nuggets of Shaq wisdom, which lead to the discovery of Shaqquotes.com. I promise this is the last time I post about Shaq for a while.
“I’ve won at every level, except college and pro.”
“I’ve succeeded at every level, except high school and college.”
“This really isn’t a game we really should be proud of. This game is liking taking your kids to the zoo. You’re supposed to take your kids to the zoo. You’re a father. So a team like that, we’re supposed to beat them like this.”
On his first championship:
“Why did it happen? The big dog got fed. And when the big dog was fed, the little dog even got some meat in there, too. Big dog owns the domain, but the little dog can go wherever he wants.”
“My game’s like the Pythagorean Theorem. It ain’t got no answer.”
“There is no answer to the Pythagorean theorem. Well, there is an answer, but by the time you figure it out, I got 40 points, 10 rebounds, and then we’re planning for the parade.”
“I don’t know how it is for you earthlings, but where I’m from, strength is mental.”
“I am Superman. And the only thing that can kill Superman is Kryptonite. And Kryptonite doesn’t exist.”
“I’m tired of hearing about money, money, money, money, money. I just want to play the game, drink Pepsi, wear Reebok.”
REPORTER: Why do you think there’s such a mystery about how big you are?
SHAQ: Because I’m a freak of nature. You’ve never seen anyone this big, this sexy, move this way.
“When you feed the big dog, it does whatever you tell him to do.” (Referring to himself.)
Part of my recovery from the shock of Superbowl 42 was to write the long, mostly pointless but definitely cathartic sports diatribe yesterday. Something major has happened since then that suggests the blessed path to the championship opening anew. My all-time favorite NBA player, the DIESEL, Shaquille O’neal may be traded to my favorite team in the NBA, the RUN AND GUN Phoenix Suns today, or tomorrow. In return for the hardest working man in professional sports, the Heat would acquire the Matrix, Shaun Marion.
Many sports bloggers are putting the KIBOSH down on the trade, saying an older, slower Shaq could not keep up with the style of play the Suns are so famous for. But that is nonsense! The Big Man tilts the floor towards himself. The Dude IS very, very heavy and big, yet can be graceful and adroit. Thats why he is called the Diesel AND Shaq Fu! Plus, imagine if Steve Nash rode on his shoulders?! That would create an unstoppable play-making human machine that would DEFINITELY win an MVP. I dismiss this running game hoopla that hasn’t won the Suns any championships… when its time to grind it out, Shaq stacks up like BLUE CHIPS against any other center in the league.
Obviously, I miss Shaq being relevant in my life, and thirst for his return. Go Suns!
The main reason I love to watch sports is because of championships. Don’t get me wrong; I do watch plenty NBA games during the regular season, but mainly because I know that every game is setting up that team for the contests that really matter. Every big game matchup that occurs during the regular season in basketball serves as a precursor to what may eventually be a championship match. A win or loss in December or March may not seem important at the time, but when a seven games series is on the line, these previous contests can show what has worked and not.
In the NBA’s championship, the Finals, great NBA teams like the Spurs, the Suns, the Pistons, the Lakers, know that no one game determines the course of that series. Professional basketball, in this sense, is really the ultimate game of adjustments. What didn’t work in Game 1 can be changed for Game 2. Mismatches can be prevented by players swapping position. Defense can be adjusted to better contain the other team’s offensive thrusting. Home field advantage can be a serious advantage; if you drop one of two in the opponent’s court, all you need is three wins at home and the best of seven is yours. Otherwise you’ll have to win one in the heart of the enemy.
In that sense, the NBA Finals are similar to the World Series. Both teams are going to play at their home stadiums for about half the series, and the winner of four games out of seven clinches the title. The NFL could not be more different. In professional American football, the regular season record does determine whether a team’s playoff games are played at their home stadium. But the championship itself, the Superbowl, is determined in a neutral third party stadium, regardless of any team’s record coming into it, and the World Title is determined in one single, sixty minute game. For a team like the Patriots, coming into the Superbowl with a perfect record after two playoff wins at home, the NFL’s championship format became their undoing.
The New York Giants had won six games in a row on the road, on their way to Phoenix, Arizona and the Superbowl. They did not expect a stadium to be packed tight with cheeky home fans. The Giants were happy if a handful showed up. I was speculating over the weekend that if I were on the Giants, or coaching the Giants, I would probably LET New England win, because then they would have a perfect season, the first since 1972’s Dolphins coached by Don Shula. I am not a Patriots fan, but I was a fan of the Patriots storyline and I wanted to see it end the right way. If it were the Giants coming into the Superbowl with a perfect record I would want them to win, too, because I’m a fan of symmetry.
This is the United States of America, however, and not Japan. It was not the Superbowl for the Japanese Football Association, and no one on the Giants team at the Superbowl in Arizona cared about saving face for New England. Where I saw a game that HAS to be won by the team with the perfect record, I missed what turned out to be the true story; New York saw this as a perfect time to punch Boston in the mouth, and remind its sister city of its second class citizen status. New York wanted, more badly than anyone anticipating the culmination of a perfect season, to beat down Boston, a city that has gotten too big for its britches. It was part reprisal for the World Series win this year.
Sports karma works in mysterious ways. Everyone who saw star Amare Stoudamire of the Suns sidelined for two deciding games in the Western Conference Finals last year knew it was complete bullshit. He was suspended those two games for jumping off the bench and taking two steps onto the court. The reason that he reacted like that was not because he wanted to physically attack the San Antonio Spurs. It was because Spurs like Robert Horry and Bruce Bowen were punching Steve Nash in the face, sitting on his chest and gouging his eyes, popping him in the nose, administering smurf bites and Indian burns. But the karma gods watched Nash take that horrible flogging, and allowed the Spurs to go on and win the championship.
This time it was Eli Manning, the younger brother of Peyton who won the Superbowl last year, and his team the Giants who engaged in the nasty nasty. Perhaps in response to Tom Brady’s arrogance, the karma gods powered up the Giant’s defensive line, and they hammered Brady until he lost the will to fight. Even if his ankle was supposedly fine before the start of the Superbowl, Brady the human must be broken now. He got clobbered until he was forced to submit. Eli Manning saw the star fall from the sky, and then administered the jungle boot to the Patriot’s neck. Prophetic words were spoken before this game, and many commentators called folly. With the play-winning game, Plexico Burress shut them up.
New England is a different place after last Sunday. People seem despondent; my roommate did not come out of his room for twenty four hours. No one has heard from my manager at work, an ardent Pat’s fan, since the conclusion of Sunday’s game. All the trees are brown, and the sky is gray. Grown men wept and dogs howled. The truest fans watched their perfect season conclude with a loss, and the one game that meant everything slipped away, never to replace the many games now meaningless. Those with less fanatical feelings and a fondness for championships, like myself, know I watched a damn good one. Hats off to the G-men. Forget the Patriots; Boston has to be worried about resetting that fickle thing called sports karma.
With one minute left in the season the Giants did the unthinkable, Don Shula popped open the champagne and poured all his ’72 Dolphins a glass, and the entire Patriot’s team made plans to jump off the Golden Gate Bridge. Both teams said they would leave it all on the field. For the Pats, that meant leaving behind their dream of a perfect season. For New York, it meant leaving behind the bloodied carcass of Boston and going back to New York for the City’s first ticker tape parade since 2000. For me, it meant dancing with the karma gods, reflecting on winning and losing in America, and more NBA. Go Suns!
Its a funny feeling that I get when I look at the digital clock of my computer and realize that I’ve spent the past four hours (yes!) reading descriptions and accounts of imaginative, queer animals rumored or reported to exist. Such animals are referred to as “cryptids” by cryptozoologists. This label applies to creatures as diverse as the Emela-ntouka (a hippo-sized relative of the sauropods, supposedly living in the swamps of the Congo), Mongolian Death Worm (looks like the intestine of a cow, able to electrocute enemies, attracted by the color yellow) and the Shunka Warakin, a prehistoric wolf whose name means “carries off dogs” in the language of the American Indian Ioway people.
Just in case you are about to stop reading because I appear to be babbling on about myths, monsters, and other unprovable symptoms of the hysteria-fueled public imagination, let me assure you that research conducted by noted cryptozoologists PROVING these things are real is going on RIGHT NOW. As a matter of fact, the stuffed trophy of a Shunka Warakin, shot and killed by Israel Ammon Hutchins on a ranch in Montana in 1886, was unearthed last month (December 2007) and is now undergoing DNA testing. The results may show that like the thylacine (the largest carnivorous marsupial of modern times, for hundreds of years presumed to be extinct until discovered living on the island of Tasmania), this slope-headed canine has survived in small packs since the last Ice Age. Or not. The thylacine itself went extinct sometime last century.
In the world of Unidentified Mysterious Animals (named so the acronym “UMAs” could act as a spin-off of Unidentified Flying Objects, “UFOs”), anything is possible. The acid test for these creatures is now DNA testing. Take for example, the case of the Globster. These are organic masses that wash up on all the world’s shorelines, and cryptozoologists have speculated breathlessly that they may be plesiosaurs or giant octopus. In fact, a pair of Canadian scientists proved, through DNA analysis, that the Newfoundland Blob was decayed blubber from a sperm whale. When these sperm whales die, their internal tissues liquefy, held together only by their skin. Eventually the dermal layer is punctured, and huge amounts of blubber pour out. Nature!
I did not come into this evening with this knowledge of dead sperm whales, but four hours on the internet later and there it is. Perhaps it will also interest some of you that dead whales can explode? In 2004, a dying sperm whale beached itself in Taiwan. (Did you know that whales and dolphins beach themselves when injured or sick because as breathing mammals their last survival extincts propel them to land so that they don’t stop swimming and drown? Kind of like how humans get on breathing machines at a hospital.) It was the largest sperm whale Taiwan had ever seen and its corpse drew the attention of local men who were drawn by its five foot penis. I’m not kidding. “More than 100 Tainan city residents, mostly men, have reportedly gone to see the corpse to ‘experience’ the size of its penis,” the newspaper reported.
Anyway, long story short, scientists decided enough of the whale remained to allow for a necropsy by marine biologists, so they put the dead sperm whale on a truck in order to drive it to National Cheng Kung University in Tainan. On the way there, however, gases that had built up in the animals entrails blew up, covering the street and passersby with organs, bloody blubber and greasy guts. No one was seriously injured, and the whale was already dead. Luckily, no cryptozoologists were on hand, or they may have tried to declare that the penis itself was a Mongolian Death Worm, capable of killing by electrocution, and vulnerable only to the nuclear breath of Godzilla himself.
Four hours may seem like a lot, but when you tack on the extra two hours spent blogging, thats a serious time commitment. Its called learning, and I’m not the only one doing it. Especially in respect to unidentified mysterious animals. The man responsible for this blog in the first place, my webmaster Eliot, today emailed me news that a new, cat-sized mammal had been found in the mountains of Tanzania. It is called rhynochocyon udzungwensis, a type of giant elephant shrew, or sengi. It has the snout of an anteater and the spindly legs of an antelope. In the past twenty four hours I have also received, from no less a reputable source than my scientist sister, a picture of a rare, snuggly “kitty monkey dog bear,” pictured here.
Along with the picture, she included a her favorite comment on the subject, posted by Cute Overload reader Holly. The comment is notable because it utilizes a rumored, previously undiscovered form of the verb “want.” Cryptolinguists, take note: “OMG! Daaarling! So poofy and soft looking. Wanty!”