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THE MANIFESTO REMIX You've been pwn'd by ☡.☠ ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| ...Fairy dust could get a party started just about right, yeah? I was cleaning out my closet (with trash bag and dust pan, not like Eminem) and came to the realization that it was time to start tossing out some of the old wardrobe. Who wears Phat Pharm anymore anyway? It was tough, but I parted with my "I'm Not as Think as You Drunk I Am" Tee. It was a classic, but alas, had to go. Then there was my XFL shirt, it lasted longer than the league, but it too was due to die. I have a bad habit of keeping things for way too long, a "Pack Rat" the bigots call us, "Preserving Americans" is what we're actually known as. I was brought to tears when I realized that the rag I was tossing into the bag was my old T-Ball jersey...yeah, I still had it. Somethings shouldn't be kept for long though, like annoying people, or hopes that one day you too could be on American Idol. Never keep a cheating boy/girlfriend for too long either, nor should you hold onto a handgrenade for long. The things that are best kept forever are trophies, herpies, the memory of a first kiss, and fat (I keep mine in me gut). I did the deed tonight though, and it was well over due. The closet is cleaned and I have much less laundry to do than ever and more space to start storing new things like 7-11 collectable Star Wars cups, or the severed limbs of hookers...ooops, did I say that out loud? Cause I honestly meant to, the guilt is killing me! |
| ...but the Tar Heels must march on. For those of you not in the know, a 21 year old kid who dressed up as the UNC mascot died after three days in critical condition. He was hit by a car before the UNC, USC game. He died at Hackensack Hospital (where else would you take a college student but to a hospital named after a classic campus game dealing with a small, knitted bean bag). Yup, it's a tragedy indeed, and this whole thing has me thinking of mascots. Like USC's, the Trojans, who the hell wants to name their team after a race of people tricked by a large toy horse? Or, the UCLA Bruin. Bruin is just a fancy name for Cub, and where I'm from, St. Louis, Cubs are loathed and mocked (all to the soundtrack of Parliment's Aquaboogie). Take me for instance, I'd root for Al Queda before the Cubs (and they probably have a better infield too). I don't have much room to talk though, I was a Webster GORLOCK. What's a GORLOCK? It's a mythical beast with an enlarged prostate and therefore, an ill-temper that it releases on all our conference opponenets. Like the Fontbonne Griffins, or the Maryville Highlanders, or the University City College for the Deaf Helen Kellers. The GORLOCK is also known to enjoy long walks on the beach and its star sign is Cancer. In high school I was a Warhawk, which was apparently a large blue bird that ate Tigers (however improbable that may be). In actuality, the name Warhawk comes from those first colonists who argued a course of war against Britain for our independence, and also ate tigers. But what about the heart of the mascot? Those brave women and girly men who wear the suit, get hot and sweaty, and make us adults groan at the novelty. Who wants to do that? Probably kids who didn't get the kind of attention they would have liked from their parents, and are forced (due to their inability to accept admiration) put a costume between them and the public. Do you think any hot chicks get in those things? Doubt it, probably geeky guys who lack the body size to participate in an actual sport. Anyhoo, my favorite mascot is the Dirt Cheap Beer and Liquor Chicken (Cheap, Cheap, Fun, Fun). Back me up here, Suga, let them know what I mean. Alright folks, remember the more she drinks the better you look and you can always stop in here, the last home for the persecuted smoker. |
| ...this show called Ninja Warrior on G4 TV!?!?! It's freaking crazy! I mean...FREAKING crazy! These little Japanese men go hurtling through wacked out obstacle courses, some timed, others just hella difficult. All the while, they're totally composed when they lose and doing it for like family honor. It blows my mind! They have a log rolling down some tracks these dudes have to hold onto, there's a vertical wall they have to run up, etc. etc. There was an American in the competition once and he was so big he basically stepped over the obstacles in the first round, but by the third, his size became a burden. For a show with "Ninja" in the title though, there's really very little ninja stuff going on. For instance, there's no test to see who can toss throwing stars for distance, no bo-staff pinata challenge, and nothing to do with beating mutanegenic turtles (wit' 'tude) in combat. In fact the only thing this show has taught me about ninjas is that they have very little body hair, and have enough free time and money to build replica obstacle courses in their backyards so they do better the next time around (which these guys really do, they're obsessive!) Ninja news doesn't end there though: ANGOLA IS SENDING 2500 NINJAS TO ZIMBABWE. I did not make that up, that's true! Stop what you're doing (except keep reading this, just put down the bong...Twinks), take a deep breath, and ponder: The leader of an independent country is sending NINJAS to help out in a civil war. WTF MAN!!!!! That would be like Presdident Bush saying: We've heard Africas cry for help, and we are answering with a platoon of pirates. Come to think of it I'd believe he'd actually say that. I mean, why not some regular foot soldiers Angola? Why we gotta dip into fantasy land? Perhaps though, just perhaps, it isn't fantasy. Maybe Angola is the last refuge of the persecuted Ninja. A place where katana swords never dull and polyester parachute pants tucked into linen boots never go out of style. It's like MLK's dream come to life! Anyhoo, I got a kick out of the Nin-shit-su that's been flying around lately and thought I'd share. Now pass the bong (Twinks)!!!!! |
| ...how Drago always has to out do me in everything I do? I invent a blog term, she invents two. I have a Sweet Tart addiction, she's addicted to crack. I get old, she's gotta be older. Sheesh! I almost wrote an entire thing today about how horrible my menstrual cycle was, just to see if she would try and out do me. (Happy B-Day Drago!) But seriously, folks, let's get to brass tax. This things almost a year old. Less than a month from the one year extravaganza. I doubt there will be conffetti, but I intend to see a balloon or two. Just think about all that has happened in a year. I mean really think about it...yeah, not a whole lot. I guess some stuff has happened; Tin moved, Gabby travelled, the CARDINALS won the world series (which, Gabby, yes you still owe me a merit badge). But, all in all, nothing has changed that much. That got me thinking, and a thinking I did! What if nothing changes because of the internet. Yeah, like we all are so tuned into this thing that our biological selves just sit stagnant! Holy crap, Blogman! To the Blog Tunnel! Okay, now that we're in the Blog Tunnel we can speak as Masons do, privately. I'm thinking that WdC is not what it portrays itself to be, but is actually a tool of corporate America (or worse, Texas) whose intent is to make us so benign as to never revolt against the coming of the New World Order! I mean what the F! When that thing comes, I don't wanna be here, I'll be in the old world where the gypsies roam and beer flows from the teets of vestal virgins...come to think of it, that's not the old world either, but my imaginary world, but that's still better than the new world. It's an argument as old as Columbus; To create the New World, to stay in the Old World. New world has podcasts and Real World/Road Rules Challenge, Old world has statues and a younger drinking age. Weigh your options carefully, Lewis and Clark. Well, whatever the case, we're coming up on a year here at the Remix offices, and we thank you for your support and hope that you will continue to support us in however many days we last past one year. |
| ....Good Morning! I just woke up from, what we in the blogustry (blogging industry) refer to as, a "bender". This is where you go out a drinkin, and a smokin, and a jokin for several nights in a row. There are soooo many March B-Days, and then there was St. Patrick's Day, that I was booked solid at every bar in town doing two shows a night (tip your waitress). My birthday was March 14th, and I was TEEEEE-RASHED, but now I'm grounded and back here to check up on my little lumps (that would be you guys). I turned 26 and let me tell you, I feel like the oldest 26 in the world. My knees crack, I have liver spots all over my tuckis, and I watch the Lawrence Welk program with conviction. I know people older than me who are doing what I do at like 30 and 33, they complain about being stuck where they are, and then I start up and get that "who the hell are you to complain, junior" look. Oh do I hate that look! You know what else I hate, teenagers. They got their hippity-hoppity music, their colorful T-shirts and One Tree Hill TV show! Why, in my day we used to watch Small Wonder and had to like it cause we had nothing else! Why I oughta....OH! SNAP! See! I'm old! I hate teenagers! Too old for the street, too young for the Centrum Silver, I must be in that ambiguous phase of aging where you're a non-entity. That age where no one cares what you have to say because you don't drive a hip marketing trend or a Rascal scooter. I'll have to wait until I'm fifty five for anyone to hear me again, I'll have to wait until I'm sixty five for my opinion to matter (as it will when I fill out an AARP questionaire). I want to grow old like our grandfathers did. With stories of making it with a suffragette to prove a point and knowing a guy who knew where the Lindburgh baby was. I want to be a dignified OAP, with a cardigan and a pipe. But no, I gotta wait through the abyss that is my silver-twenty something years. It's going to be sooo long before I can fart in public and no one will look abashed. Anyhoo, I see Gabby is back (hooray!), and Lyssa actually kept me alive on this site. As usually happens with me and bills and I put them off until the end, and my membership here is no different. Luckily Lyssa came through like a government check and kept me in Section 8 housing (i.e. WdC) with blocked cheese and everything! What would I do without you ladies!!!! Alright, keep your heads up and your pants down...no, wait, pants up and heads down...I think I blew my outro...later! |
| ...but we can talk about something else. A little wasted, watching a lot fo blah on TV (cause the Oscars wouldn't be the Oscars unless they went till tomorrow). But I'm 2 for 4 right now and plan on running the gamut with the rest of my picks. I just found out, today, that one of my favorite writers has passed. Robert Anton Wilson was anything but an ordinary writer. A quote of his I always carry about with me: "Anyone in the US today who isn't paranoid must be crazy". Wilson wrote "The Illuminatus" and "Schrodinger's Cat" (both trilogies), two books that read like acid trips. He worked for Playboy and interviewed Dr. Timothy Leary extensively. He spent the last several years of life struggling with illnesses and fighting to legalize weed for medical purposes. He passed, with little wealth to be sure and not even a NY Times obit. He did though change the way I think, I write and I view the world around me. In keeping with R.A.W. thinking he once wrote about playing with a Oijia (yup, spelled that hella wrong) board during WWII and it telling them the exact date that the war would end. He retold the story to a professor while he was in college who explained it quite simply: Figure out how many different (logical) options the board could give, then figure out how many boards were sold, and how many times that date would repeat. The point being that they figured over five hundred other people must have gotten that. So, if you can even follow, how many of his books were sold, how many others took something away.... FUCKING A RIGHT!!!!!! I have called four of six thanks to Forest mutha-fucking Whitticker!!!!!! We'll talk about the Oscars tomorrow, read Robert Anton Wilson, and give me time to sober up. |
| It's my duty to care about the Oscars, as unfortunate as that is. I can't help it, I went to school for film and as much as I hate award shows and the what-not, I gotta do this. So, for your consideration, my picks in the top categories for this years Oscars: BEST ADAPTED SCREENPLAY Children of Men BEST ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY Little Miss Sunshine BEST PERFORMANCE BY AN ACTRESS IN A SUPPORTING ROLE Adrianna Barraza (Babel) BEST PERFORMANCE BY AN ACTOR IN A SUPPORTING ROLE Alan Arkin (Little Miss Sunshine) BEST PERFORMANCE BY AN ACTRESS IN A LEADING ROLE Helen Mirren (The Queen) BEST PERFORMANCE BY AN ACTOR IN A LEADING ROLE Forest Whitaker (The Last King of Scotland) ACHIEVEMENT IN DIRECTING Alejandro González Iñárritu (Babel) BEST PICTURE Babel So, those are my picks. I'll get at least 70% right. Discuss this among yourselves and then get back to me with picks of your own. The thing that confuses me is best director. Marty S. is nominated, he's usually a definite "NO", but The Departed is one of his crappiest movies. So, it begs the question, will he win as a sort of "make-up" for not winning in the past. I used to believe that he would be given an Oscar at the end of his career, one of those lifetime achievements. So, Scorcese is my "yes-no". Does he deserve an Oscar? Most certainly. Does he deserve it for this film? No he doesn't, but if he was going to win it, it would be now. The other thing is Best Original Screenplay. This usually goes to the academy's second favorite film of the year, so Little Miss Sunshine is my pick, where as Babel has so much Hollywood power behind it, it can not be defeated. There's so many bits of politiking that goes into this stuff, you got to take that into account. Sunday we'll see just how right or how wrong I am. |
| ....could be my neighbor soon if this evil grad school plan keeps going like it is. He gave me a merit badge for entertainment. Gracias, amigo, now let me entertain you with what a night out for Paul and I would be like if I end up in the honky motherland (or UK). For the sake of time and what-not, let's say we're in London. Our plan for the night is to get pissed and pull some fit birds. We'll have to be dressed all swanky so we'll wear matching white, silk suits with bolo ties (cause the ladies like-o da bolo). We start at The Metropolitan on Baker Street, this is my doing cause I figure I'll meet a lass who enjoys Sherlock Holmes stories and my thin gangly frame (not to mention my addiction to opiates) will remind her of the famous detective and I can let her roll play as Irene Adler and let her get a one up on me. I strike out though and as Paul circles in on a fine bit-o-lady, I offer to "fall on the hand grenade" (a wingman term for taking the busted chick). Unfortuneately her geezer of a boy friend is there and he threatens to shiv us with his shoe unless we burn out. So then we go to Picadilly to scout the action there. Paul is a little down after the encounter and now he offers to save me from the "hand grenade". I spot an awesome looking chick and use the best line an American can on a lady in a foreign land: "Excuse me, but I never voted for Bush and I was wondering how that sits with you?". The girl turns out to be an American from Texas who not only votes for Bush, but seals her own bush in a plastic wrap of born again Christianity. She tells me that I'm a traitor to the stars and stripes and that I should never return to America. She is interested in Paul though and the two chat, only to end tragically when (due to her lack of cultural sensitivity) she lets drop that Wolverton has to have the greatest soccer team in the world. Now we're at the Hippodrome, eating Kabobs and wondering how the night went so terribly wrong. We decide to go into the club and get wasted. Mission accomplished....too accomplished in fact as we both black out. We wake up the next morning, each in a different part of Asia, next to hand grenades we some how have seemed to marry. I, for whatever reason, have been drafted into that Tiger rebel army as a cook. Paul fairs much better as he finds that he bought a thousand shares in Casio and a new wrist watch from them takes the world by storm. My wife, Wei Ling, is quite the chef and I learn to look past her moles and warts. Paul's wife, Russel, isn't even a woman and the relationship fails. That's what a night out for Paul and myself would be like if I went to school over yonder. |
| ...shopping blitzes...don't exist. So I'll be bored today just like every other day. So this grad school thing is in effect, but I'm having trouble getting my professors to write me letters of rec. Don't they want to recommend me? What did I ever do to...oh, oh yeah. So Valentine's Day sucks! Can I tell you why? Will you shut up long enough for that at least? It's an invented holiday! Not real, but fake! The history of Valentine's Day if you please: Hogarth Sandow Hallmark, inventor of the greeting card and movie series, noticed he wasn't as rich as his other tycoon neighbors. Both Jiminy Goodyear and Wallaby Kotex had added in ground pools that year and Hogarth wanted one. So he schemed, and a schemed he did! He invented a "retail holiday", a day that society recognizes for its whatever, but the government and religious bodies don't care about. Because the government and church shunned his holidays, Hogarth keeps all his stores open on July 4th and MLK Day, a practice other tycoons have picked up on (like Daniel J. FootLocker and Amhotep Matchdotcom). I copied that word for word out of Wikipedia...no seriously I did! Whatever the case, happy Valentine's Day!!! And don't get the VD on VD you frisky manimals you! |
| ...to complete my mission. To finish the task I was put here on Earth to accomplish. NO! It's not save the children or the dolphins or even the football Dolphins from another crappy season. It's to remind men everywhere that JULIA ROBERTS AIN'T HOT. That's right people, she ain't a hottie, she's an awkward, goofy faced, funky laughed dame from...well, I dunno where she be from, but it ain't Hotsville that's fo'sho. I said, for some reason, at some time, that I thought it would be horrible to wake up with Julia Roberts next to me in bed. To which a female replied "Some men wouldn't mind". Which men!?!?!?! That's what I wanna know! She wasn't pretty in Pretty Woman, she wasn't worth a smile Mona Lisa Smiles and she was a down right vitch in Erin Brocavich. That Oscar she won...totally a rip! Ellen Birkin's portrayal of a momma on speed was so much better! So, today, I ask that every man stands, goes to his window, flings it open and cries, "Julia Roberts isn't hot and, damnit, I'm not gonna look at her anymore!". Stand with me men! Later we'll subdivide into the Anti-Renee Zellweger Club, and the Cameron Diaz is a Dog Team. I demand more Monica Belluci! With that out of the way, how have you been? It looks like you've lost weight. Atkins? Really? That's awesome, your capri pants look swell. I'm so over those Ugz boots and I'm glad you are too. We should go out for a drink. Tonight? With you, anytime. Got to catch up on your stuff, so slow down and let me do that. We'll chat soon. |
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