My attempt at sports writing. Officially.

With the Summer Olympic Games commencing in London this month, I figured now would be a good time to do a topical piece, as opposed to one of my usual personal, arbitrary rants.  Don't worry, I will resume random acts of snark soon enough.

Let's start with a little bit of history, because the Olympiad is seriously one of the oldest, most-revered traditions in the Western World, on par with keeping down brownish people.  Since the days of Classical Antiquity, athletes have come together in a spirit of peace and camaraderie to compete against one another on behalf of their homelands in a way that doesn't involve bloodletting.  Even the bitterest rivals in Ancient Greece could meet on the sacred fields of the Olympiad instead of the battlefield to settle old scores and prove the merits of various ab workouts.  It sure beat the hell out of the United Nations.  Truly, the Greeks were an enlightened, civilized people well ahead of their time.

Pictured: Enlightened civilization.

When they weren't busy kicking messengers into bottomless voids, spewing Samuel L. Jackson-worthy one-liners and generally inventing badassitude, or waging brutal warfare on each other over a region the size of North Carolina, the Greeks took it to the field in honor of Zeus, whom we now know as Liam Neeson.  There, they would show off their mad discus-skills in the buff to rep their hometowns and score some olive-oiled ass, an unsurpassed spectacle until the advent of Jersey Shore.  Then, a whole bunch of shit happened and nobody celebrated the Olympic Games for centuries.

Skip ahead to 1896, when the tradition was officially revived, birthing the modern Olympics, a global competition between freakish specimens of humanity whose time might better be served acting as actual goddamn superheroes, brought to you by McDonald's.  But I think it's safe to say our venerable forebears would laugh their togas off at the sight of certain events . . .

Racewalking

You knew this was coming.  Even when this event (and I use the term in the broadest possible sense) was added to the docket, I have to imagine at least a few skeptics fairly pointed out, "Hey, that's complete bullshit."  Because we already had pedestrian races that employed the more-traditional means of speedy foot-based locomotion called "running." It's kind of been around for a while.

So easy, even a cave- . . . well, you know the rest.
(NOTE: Quota for 3/4 naked, ripped men filled.)

Power-walking is what you do when you are trying not to run, yet get somewhere faster.  There is no reason to pretend you aren't in a hurry at the Olympics - it's called a race for a reason.  I refer you to the Wikipedia description of racewalking:

There are two rules that govern racewalking.  The first dictates that the athlete's back toe cannot leave the ground until the heel of the front foot has touched. Violation of this rule is known as loss of contact. The second rule requires that the supporting leg must straighten from the point of contact with the ground and remain straightened until the body passes directly over it. These rules are judged by the human eye, which creates controversy at today's high speeds. Athletes may sometimes lose contact for a few milliseconds per stride which can be caught on high-speed film, but such a short flight phase is undetectable to the human eye.

The fact that specific rules had to be laid down to define walking, so as to avoid confusion with really slow jogging, should have precluded it receiving serious consideration for Olympic contention.  Bizarrely, women were barred from this glorious event until 1992, and, stranger still, they actively campaigned to be allowed into this ridiculous farce.  Hooray for feminism?

Ping Pong

Because, really, it's fucking ping pong.  End of story.

Synchronized Swimming

You've probably seen it lampooned in parodies of olden musicals, but I'll bet more than half of you didn't even know it was a real thing.  Yes, I have that much faith in my readership.  Swimming in formation with other swimmers is considered not only a legitimate pastime for non-weirdos, but an actual sport.  Even the International Olympics Committee, the shadowy, Illuminati-like cabal governing the Games, agrees.  I hate to say this, but it feels like a half-assed, old-timey attempt at political correctness.  The conversion probably ran something like this:

"Well, women certainly can't participate in any real, manly sports."

"Of course not, old boy!  But we should give them something . . ."

"Competitive dish-washing?  Speed-birthing?"

"Jolly good, but no.  Wait, I've got it!  Swimming together!  To music!"

"Capital!  It's feminine, slightly exploitative, and easily mocked  by other athletes!"

I realize it takes skill and training and endurance, but that does not necessarily make it a sport. If it were, then why isn't, say, marathon hula-hooping a competition?  (Shit, Olympic Committee, don't get any ideas).  Get this, there was once a solo event as well. A solo synchronized swimming contest. Exactly what are the participants synchronizing themselves to? An imaginary friend? Despite the alternate name water ballet, you can only sync so many moves in the water to music before it gets redundant. And, let's be honest, how interesting is it really watching a solo ballerina for any length of time on stage?

Doesn't count.

And that's without splashing water obscuring the finer moves.  Anyway, it's the coordination and pageantry of multiple performers that makes ballet a spectacle.  Same goes for "synchro," as all the hip kids refer to it.  Thankfully, the solo version was discontinued when someone realized they were just watching lone swimmers flailing around in a pool set to music.  For further proof no one outside the sport gives a shit about this event, I refer you to the Wikipedia page, a pathetically short entry with no description, history of the sport, or discussion whatsoever.

Badminton

Nope, I'm not making that up.  Badminton is something you can get a gold medal for.  Isn't badminton just the geriatric form of tennis anyway?  I thought we invented it so seniors could keep swatting objects back and forth across nets with rackets.  If you are among the world's elite badminton prodigies, shouldn't you just be playing tennis?  I suspect there is more money and recognition involved, though I am no sports agent.

Damn, it's getting meta in here.  (If you get this reference, congrats, you're old.)

I half suspect it is included in the Olympics solely to allow the announcers to make repeated use of the word shuttlecock.  (Go ahead, take a moment to giggle to yourself, you pervy child.)  Given my general apathy toward sporting events, I am probably grossly oversimplifying the similarities between tennis and badminton and insulting an entire subset of distinct, respectable athletes in the process.  And I do not, for the record, care.  Deal with it, badmintonistas.

I suppose I should be glad that some past events have been culled from the lineup.  Former Olympic competitions include tug of war, motorized boating, and something called basque pelota, a sport so obscure and obtuse only one match was ever played, between the only two countries to bother fielding a team, and nobody could be troubled to record the final score for history.  Believe it.

Apparently, it's some form of Victorian scoop ball.  Sweet.

KP, out.

When you're drunk, you lean every way

If you have been following this blog for a while, you have probably come to certain conclusions about me, allowing you to paint a mental picture of the man who is KP.  Aside from the obvious godlike physique, unerring fashion sense, sword, and accompanying choir of scantily-clad feminine angels, you most likely have come to think you know my personality and tendencies.

At least this level of awesome.

From the easy jokes I drop about Limbaugh, Bush, God, and "the Man," you might well assume I am a dyed-in-the-wool, uncompromising liberal, a left-wing pinko kook with pie-in-the-sky notions and a dim view of reality.  *Insert over-the-top caricature of a liberal that I could not find on Google, weirdly.*  And in terms of actual politics, I admittedly skew blue.  But when it comes to my world-perspective?  Your feeble mind has no doubt forgotten how I outright advocated ass-kicking to stop bullying, blatantly idolize Captain America, and actively oppose political correctness at any opportunity.  It's not my fault conservatives just make better targets in general.

Ahem.

Truth to tell, there are plenty of liberal stances, practices, and vocal dipshits that raise my blood-pressure just as much as right-wing dumbassery.  I am an equal-opportunity critic, and I call 'em as I see 'em.

So we may as well start with the more obvious bullshit, right?  I hate what I have come to dub Yippie Trends.  These are, in the most general of terms, fads that seem like hippies must have come up with them on some drug-fueled bender, only to have them adopted and spread by yuppies, the perennial clueless fuckwits of American society.  Eager to conform, mindless in their pursuit of the Next Big Thing, they will latch onto anything, leech-like, and make it their own without the slightest attempt to understand what the hell they are doing.  This ranges from propounding the superiority of anything "organic" (read: brownish and/or cardboard-like), to deciding, sans medical consultation, that they are acutely allergic to wheat gluten (which, by the way, is not the same thing as intolerance, which, by the way, only afflicts a minuscule percentage of humanity), to breastfeeding their offspring until child protective services intervenes.

I live in a world where this is a thing?  Really, God?

I mean, in all seriousness, look at the image above.  That.  Is.  Disgusting.  It is not a matter of opinion, let alone medically justifiable.  And the first person who breathes the word "natural" gets a frontal lobe adjustment, courtesy of my electrified knuckles.  Tell me 20 years ago most Americans would not have said, "Um, excuse me, what the almighty flying fuck is this about?"  Now, however, we have become desensitized to improbable feats of anything-goes dipshittery that do not so much fly in the face of common sense as chloroform it, bend it over a hazardous waste skip in a Bangkok alley, violate it, then blow a gonorrheal load in common sense's unconscious face.   Case in point?  Most people can see this cover on a reputable national magazine and laugh it off, if they don't take it seriously. I cannot do either.  I am not being prudish about the bizarre indecency, I am the fool pointing out the emperor has no clothes.  The fact that this cover was published at all is sad enough; the fact I have to point out that it is mind-fuckingly ludicrous borders on criminal.

This child-rearing style - and, yes, we have styles of those now, not just philosophies - is called attachment parenting, and its entire purpose is, as the name suggests, to make your kids attached to you, "attached" here meaning "codependent and most likely maladjusted to society."  There are easier ways to keep them living in your basement into their late-20s, ladies.  Simply introduce them to Dungeons & Dragons and MMPOs at a young age.  Then again, they will achieve pariah status pretty quickly when they tell their horrified fourth-grade buddies that they "just got off the nip" three years ago, so the consequent social stigma should force them back into your loving arms faster than you can say "Oedipus complex."

Then there is vegetarianism.  In theory, I have no problem with this choice.  You don't want to eat meat, fine.  If the thought of cuddly cud-chewing bovines bleeding turns your stomach, go ahead and abstain. You are doing so solely to placate your own conscience.  And that's A-OK by me.  But before you get up on your soapbox, let's make a few things clear: (1) what you are doing is not inherently healthier, nor (2) is it "more natural" than a balanced diet.  Strand a human being in the butt-fuck wilderness and see what it eats to survive - that's our natural diet.  Animals eat other animals, plain and simple.  For the love of the Mouse, even The Lion King conceded this point-blank, in a world where half the sentient, talking, lovable characters would devour each other.

Classic.  Yeah, I'm man enough to admit I like Disney cartoons, what of it?  Notice how they all just kind of drop the subject without further comment?  In their world, there are no easy answers, so they have to carry on and pretend the incredibly disturbing scenario that would have happened if Simba had shown up five seconds later never occurred to them.  If the fauna all around me sang, danced, and made witty pop culture references willy-nilly, I would feel a lot more conflicted about them dying to feed me.  But here's the thing: they don't.

Keep it classy, PETA.  And sexually-confusing.

Honestly, is the above image supposed to conjure up subconscious cannibalistic impulses or bestial ones?  Good message, either way.  Anyhow, my point is this: Is consuming two McDeathables five days a week normal and healthy?  No, of course not.  But is it less-natural than subsisting on soy imitations of meat products and half a dozen supplements?  Not much.  As far as I have read, there is no substantial statistical evidence that vegetarians on the whole live longer, healthier lives than people with inclusive, well-balanced diets (not the average American's diet).  This is not to say I haven't enjoyed many a delectable vegetarian meal myself, but we homo sapiens have canine teeth for a reason, people.   There are obviously ways to be very healthy-conscious while maintaining a vegetarian diet.  It certainly beats a meat-exclusive diet, despite what the United Carnivores' Council of America may tell you (it consists mostly of uppity lions, wolves, and Ted Nugent fans).  The problem is that many people are under the illusion that going vegetarian is health-conscious in and of itself.  Simply by avoiding meat, they proclaim, you can enjoy immortality in peak physical condition from atop your moral high horse of self-righteous sagacity.

Or, y'know, the food chain.  Either way.

Well, guess what?  You have to plan this shit out.  You have to compensate for the vitamins, minerals, and other nutrients you're not getting from meat-products one way or another, either by learning a certified ass-load of information about the content of non-bleeding food or popping lots of supplemental pills.  You want to eat half a pound of peanuts per day to get your protein intake up?  Knock yourself out.  I have enough on my mind without thinking about the precise nutritional value of everything I shove in my craw.  While I will admit there are some exceptions, do a quick mental sketch of the average vegetarian.  Robust?  Rosy-cheeked?  Able to lift that sack of lentils they will subsist on for two weeks?  Once more, I will defer to my colleague, the eminent social commentator Ronald White.

Have you ever seen a healthy-looking vegetarian? They look like shit! They're all gaunt and yellow. After a while, their bodies become intolerant of other things. I'll give you an example: I was out to lunch with a comedian friend of mine, and later in the day he said, and I quote, "I feel nauseous and I have a headache. That soup I had must have had beef broth in it." Your system's kickin' back broth? You're a manly man, aren't you?

Sad but true.  Most of them have 5% body-fat and they can run, and that's about it.  They'll go like the fucking Energizer bunny, at least until the anemia sets in.  For contrast, I can bench-press my own body-weight 15 times, without regular weight-lifting, and most of my major muscle groups are apparent, not because I have no flesh to speak of, but because they actually stand out.  *Insert LMFAO-inspired joke here.*  Carrots and tofu did not do this.

As usual, I side with Cap on principle, but Deadpool is kinda how I feel inside.
*NOTE: I did not make up those captions, I just cleaned them up.  Really.

On a side note, you vegetarians out there have to realize what would happen if we all suddenly bought into your paradigm.  Millions upon millions of cows, pigs, chickens, and sheep would first overrun the world, then starve to death over the course of an agonizing few months, barring a spontaneous evolutionary event, a Planet of the Livestock, if you will.  Either way, they all die, so I think I am doing my civic duty as the apex predator of planet Earth, albeit vicariously.  As for vegans . . . you're just doing it to piss me off.  Stop it.  Kind of like activists who enjoy drenching unsuspecting meat-eaters in blood.

In fact, that brings me to my next point.  While protesting is actually a method of mass-annoyance used by all sides, I believe it is most-closely associated with the left-wing, probably because when people hear the word "protest," this springs to mind:

Patchouli, not showers.

Protesting is one of those things I have mixed feelings about, but one of those feelings is definitely please-get-a-goddamned-life in tenor.  On the one hand, protests like those of the angry, active citizen's heyday - the 1960s and early '70s that Dr. Hunter S. Thompson lauded - clearly helped achieve a lot, from expanded civil rights to America's withdrawal from Vietnam.  You know, after the fire-hosings and thousands of casualties.  Still, kudos, for sure.  Conversely, just last year we had Occupy . . . Anything, a surprisingly broad-based, widespread, months-long series of loosely-connected rallies, marches, and sit-ins that championed, by its own definition, the overwhelming majority of America's populace.  As mostly represented by wannabe hippies, lemming-like yippies, posturing hipsters, and confused hobos.  Which achieved precisely jack-shit.

Down with stuff we don't like!  We want more other things!

I hate to be the one to say it, but the main thing we got out of the Occupy movement was the term "the 99%."  A buzzword.  A few memes.  That's about it.  A sizable, very vocal proportion of the masses stood up for the rest of us and declared to the powers that be, "We want something new!"  And the powers that be said, "Oh, yeah?  Well, fuck you."  That was the end of that.  So, I think the last shred of faith I had in protesting as a facilitator of change died at that point.

It was already on life-support, admittedly.  As an example, I am going to bring up the bogeyman, the white elephant of casual, non-politicized blogging: abortion.  I am not weighing in on the subject itself, nor disparaging any particular views on the issue.  Seriously, though, the people who protest this are just sad.  You are passionately committed to your cause?  Great.  Go do something that actually furthers it.  Believe it or not, most pro-choice people, and even neutral parties, are aware that there is an opposition to abortion already.  It gets the occasional news coverage.

In my town, the unmarked but universally-recognized abortion clinic typically has between 1 and 11 (but never more than 12) people standing outside of it on the sidewalk silently touting signs.  Way to go, active citizenry, you are really striking a bold blow for your ideals.  Just keep standing there for another few months and the institution you oppose will surely crumble.  The same could be said of most causes, on either side of the fence.  If marches and incoherent chants make you feel better, protest away, but unless you plan to light yourself on fire, understand that most of the people in charge are just waiting for the rabble of easily-led nut-jobs outside to disperse, à la any South Park town hall scene.

Since we are talking collective action and the Occupy campaign, let's take a moment to address the economic models liberals love to wax intellectual about.

I never realized it was so simple!  Thank you, not-John-Nash-Junior!

First off, we need to make some semantic distinctions here: capitalism is purely an economic system, communism is both an economic system and a form of government, and socialism is what lies somewhere in the gray space between.  None of them are, as a rule, mutually exclusive of one another, despite what Bill O'Reilly or Bill Mahr might tell you.  Want proof?  I refer you to the example of any country anywhere on planet Earth in the history of ever.  None exists as a pure model of its respective proclaimed preference.  Much as all men know all women, especially hot ones, are bisexual on some level.

I submit my irrefutable evidence.  And that Katy Perry song.  (Don't ruin it for me.)

But I digress.  Just because you are not fabulously wealthy does not mean capitalism "doesn't work."  Don't get me wrong, I hate corporate greed and corruption, the disproportionate wealth distribution in this country, and the way the system is rigged to perpetuate the status quo as much as the next dirty, starry-eyed liberal.  But I am not under the delusion that capitalism itself is out to get us.  It works just the way it is supposed to - the problem is the way it works is kind of meant to screw over some people.  But it is a very human system that plays on human mindsets and tendencies, so naturally some parts of it suck donkey testes.  That was basically the thesis of one of my numerous papers in college, slightly better-worded and less-blunt, and I got an A on it, so you can message me if you want to read the long and roundabout version.

They smile because they know death is coming coon.

Capitalism is as capitalism does.  It is human nature, and anyone who denies it can give up their iFollow 5.0 DS.  In fact, if you are out tagging street signs with sociopolitical agendas, odds are you are mostly pissed off that Daddy made you drive his used Acura instead of that brand new hybrid you really wanted.  You are not a communist or an anarchist any more than I am the Easter Bunny or Carson the Flag Day Aardvark.

However, on the flip side, communism is not a devious instrument of the Fallen One either.  It never ceases to amaze me how people still let leftover Cold War propaganda inform their view of the modern world (*coughDickCheneycough*).  If you are one of those people, catch a ride on the clue train: we won.  It's over.  Not because the USA churned out more pants-shitting nukes, not because Ronald "the Messiah" Reagan cleverly outmaneuvered Gorbachev in the international superpowered pissing contest, but because communism isn't a viable form of government.  Especially when your bloc's main domestic industries are snow, vodka, and forms of insanity.

In point of fact, communism might actually work out great, if it weren't for the pesky humans running it, who have a bad habit of turning into James Bond villains.  Just ask North Korea, Cuba, or China, the only countries that still claim to be communist, even though it's pretty obvious one comrade isn't equal to another in any of those places.  But we aren't going to become those countries, even if we decide to, Red-White-and-Blue God forbid, socialize medical care.  This is not something to fear and bemoan and demonize.  No matter your opinion, all sides need to make like a pole-vaulter and get over it.

A sexy pole-vaulter, for preference.

While we are on the subject of things hippies like to whine about . . .

I am fully in support of a careful, progressive, well-regulated decriminalization of marijuana.  Do you know why?  Not because of the sinful waste of tax money and civil servants' time, not because of the bajillion pot-related cases clogging the court system and resulting in overcrowded prisons.  Certainly not because I give a skeevy stoner's munchie-induced fart about the moral/ethical ramifications of punishing people for smoking down.  It's because I am sick of hearing "cannabis enthusiasts" bitch and moan about it like it's goddamned slavery.  What kind of society would stop us from smoking weed?  What is this, Nazi Germany?  Next, they'll be rounding us up and shoving us into rehab centers at gunpoint!  Shut the hell up.

There, have I offended everyone now?

There are worse things happening than the Man slapping a joint out of your hand.  And stop trying to dress it up in other terms, oh righteously baked ones.  You want marijuana legalized because you want to legally smoke marijuana, period.  You are not trying to rectify some obscure form of racial injustice, revive the long-suppressed hemp industry, selflessly help cancer and AIDS victims, or save the fucking world via ganja-magic.  You want to get blazed and sit around moronically laughing at nothing with your buddies.  Nonsmokers can cite those other reasons.  End of story.

This does not qualify as a talking point.

It is not a "lifestyle choice," it's a habitual indulgence, not that different from drinking alcohol or smoking cigarettes, no matter what you keep telling yourself.  None of these quasi-arguments holds any water with anyone other than your own circle (pun, like, totally intended, man).  If you want to smoke weed, that is your prerogative, but stop pretending it is some sort of noble crusade.  And, for the love of Jay and Silent Bob, stop reading High Times, it does nothing to help your case.

All right, so this article may not have turned out quite as right-leaning as I intended at the get-go.  Just as murder will out, true colors will show.  If you don't like it, feel free to orally service a copious quantity of male genitalia.  After all, we didn't create the Internet for you, rednecks.  A followup on this topic may be forthcoming, depending on how much I want to polarize my readership.  Stay tuned . . .

KP, out.

"Don't call it a comeback" (is a line in an LL Cool J song)

Hi, my name is KP, and I am an unreliable blogger.  I know it.  You know it.  Former GOP presidential hopeful Rick Santorum knows it.  A few months ago, after another unannounced hiatus, I vowed not to let it happen again.  I promised an uninterrupted stream of observational humor, biting commentary, and intellectual masturbation.

I lied.

To make matters worse, I even knew I was lying on some level.  So it was a crackhead promise.  I didn't have many fully-formed ideas on deck.  More than that, I did not have the pure indignant bile to keep spewing witty criticism and linguistically-acrobatic dick jokes like Eminem if he hadn't dropped out of high school (and thus became cooler and more successful than God).  That's right, I am comparing myself to His Shadiness.  And this is my Recovery, my comeback, my return to the game.

Back in the hizzay, or whatever cool kids say now.

Do you know what I found out when I finally logged onto my account for the first time in a month?  I still had readers, inexplicably.  Despite not posting a single word in 30 days, over 350 people had stopped to check in.  Or one really desperate netizen visited roughly 12 times per day.  Either way, it is flattering.  I guess some people can't get enough of my brainal leakage.  Thank you, whoever you are, and I apologize for my relapse (let the Eminem references be unbounded).

So, what am I offering in penance for my sin of sloth?  How about . . .

A brief treatise on awesome things.

Bet you didn't see that coming, did you, fuckers?  I am not going to criticize (much).  I am not going to scoff (excessively).  I am not going to nitpick (more than necessary for the sake of journalistic objectivity).  No, this little monograph is going to be positive, reflecting my new view of the world.  Hardened?  Yes.  Self-aware?  Of course.  Unapologetic?  Always.  But scathingly pessimistic?  Not until something new pisses me off royally.  Let's see how it goes.

For starters, there's this:

Electrified brass knuckles.  Just say it out loud.  Electrified.  Brass.  Knuckles.  Granted, they appear to be made from some non-conductive poly-carbon fiber, but that just makes them even more space-age and badass.  Your enemies will metaphorically shit themselves when they see you slip on these instruments of pain, then literally shit themselves as they receive the brunt of 95,000 volts special-delivered by your right hook.  Naturally, you will have to christen your newly-empowered fists with suitable epithets like the Right Hand of Doom or the Nemean Cestus (just skip to the 3:00 mark to see it in action).

Like good ol' deicide-happy God of War Kratos there, you will soon be dealing out justice with your glowing blue five-finger Mary.  Whether or not your enemies will explode violently remains to be seen.  What mad genius suckled on the lore of Marvel and DC came up with the stun-knux I don't know, but odds are he read this issue of Batman:

*Insert your own obligatory homoerotic joke here.*

I don't have a bastard clue what's going on in these panels, but, yeah, suffice it to say, this device was born in the fictional mean streets of Gotham City, so it will probably serve you well.  Knuckle up and happy fisticuffs!

Then there is spider-silk body armor.  No, that is not just some slick nickname thought up by savvy marketers, it is a literal description of the next generation in protective gear.  Scientists - presumably the kind you see in movies, as opposed to the boring, AIDS-researching kind - have long known that the humble spider's webbing is, milligram for infinitesimal milligram, insanely strong, while being brain-fuckingly lightweight and flexible.  Yes, I just coined that term.  You're welcome.  How strong is it?  Well, the average spider dragline has ten times the durability of Kevlar.  You know, the petroleum-based product used to make bullet-proof vests and military-grade body armor.  The trouble was convincing our arachnid friends to weave us suits of sticky invulnerability.

C'mon, guys, you totally owe us one.  Let's just forget that whole Raid thing.

Cue the silkworm, a less-badass and sexy member of the arthropoda phylum (that's a word of the day, noobs).  Before you dismiss this lowly creature, recall that it metamorphoses into the silkmoth.  You know who's a silkmoth?  Fucking Mothra, the only Japanese daikaiju monster to take down Godzilla, that's who.  Once the geneticists (those lab-coated types from Jurassic Park) had finished dicking around with tomato plants, bacteria, and even goats, it occurred to them to try splicing the silk-producing genes of spiders into the DNA of organisms that already spin silk.  It should come as little surprise that, when you give our allies the silkworms a little injection of orb-weaver DNA, you get the kind of mass-produced, kickass fiber needed to create complete suits of supple, nigh-indestructible armor.  Now, it's worth noting that this is probably still a few years off as scientists work out the details and make it cost-efficient, but once they do, the streets are ours.  Don't believe me?  Read the official, cut-and-dry nerdy article that erroneously attributes a super-suit to Spider-Man (really, and you guys are supposed to be geeks?) here.

Finally, does anyone remember a little trilogy of 80s films called collectively Back to the Future?  It is now almost 30 years old, which kind of makes me want to cry, but I am betting a few of you retro kids are aware of its existence.  Part 2 takes place largely in the ultra-distant year of 2015 when unforeseeable leaps in technology, like wearing two neckties at once, have become commonplace and the Japanese make all the coolest shit.  Well, we are now ahead of schedule on that revolution, because Honda recently announced they have built a flying car.

Would you expect it to look any other way?

For you laypeople out there, that means a car that moves through the air instead of on the ground.  Hailing from an advanced design studio in Pasadena, California, and probably the result of reverse-engineered alien hardware, this concept vehicle "utilizes turbo vacuums and external air-flow to regenerate tank pressure for extended range and increased boost for an estimated 100 miles." To be honest, I have no idea what most of that means, but does it not sound like the specs for a goddamn pod-racer?  Further details about this piece of awesome are surprisingly scarce, even on the interwebs, but I take it on faith that this car is sweeter than two 1985 Trans Ams, with phoenixes emblazoned on the hoods.  Future-scientists have been quoted as saying, scientifically, this shit is bananas.  My logical side tells me there is no way a benevolent universe would allow the rubbernecking, tailgating, sexting, lane-ignorant public access to an aerial version of Speed Racer's Mach 5, but that voice of reason is being drowned out by the adolescent shrieks of selfish wish-fulfillment. At only 800 pounds, the vehicle is most likely not very durable . . . until we lace its chassis shell with ultralight spider-silk, that is.

So, if you haven't figured it out yet, I saw The Avengers this week, meaning thoughts of superheroism are running through my fevered mind.  And, like every other geek on the Internet, I had to find a way to talk about it.  Combine the above Stark Industries/Wayne Enterprises technologies with a six-week course at the local taekwondo dojo/dry-cleaner's/fusion curry house, and you've got a recipe for sweet vigilante justice.

And whoever said the world doesn't need more heroes never tasted sweet justice.

Just add an angst-ridden backstory, preferably with tragic family deaths, to forge your hero identity.  Because, let's be realistic, it is only a matter of time before these advancements fall into the wrong hands and the world is facing a self-styled Dr. Doom.  Or at least Super Mugger and the Indestructible Douchebag.  Who will you turn to then, America?  The world will cry out "Save us!" and I'll whisper, "Hell, yes."

Really, what could go wrong?

KP, out.

Things That Probably Have a Good Reason, But I Will Never Get

Some things I am destined never to understand.  Like Japanese television programming.  If this blog hasn't taught you yet, there are also a lot of things out there in the world that make little sense in the light of common sense or reason, but still exist because the people who made them and/or the target demographic are as bright as elephant dung.  However, I am willing to admit that not everything I consider counter-intuitive necessarily implies dipshittery on the part of someone else.  There is probably a logical explanation.  But I'll be damned if I can figure it out.

Sitting down at a restaurant when you have kids.

This is one of those things I actually hope I never understand.  I get it, children, especially the small, nimble variety, are a handful, making shrill noises, scurrying around and bouncing off things to stay just out of reach, like a rat-dog or monkey.  And that's assuming they are not pelting you with fistfuls of Cheerios or die-cast toy trucks.  Then there are car-seats to transform into their alternate mode of infant-containment-unit.

Honestly, who would put their baby in something that is so obviously a Decepticon?

Children must be passed back and forth between all adults at least three times; the mobile pre-humans corralled and forced into various seats following a five-minute debate who can sit beside whom; and diaper-bags, strollers, backpack carriers, and unidentifiable trappings resembling bombproof-suits situated, re-positioned, and finally jammed into any available space.  All I want to do as I hover ten feet away, waiting for the ritual to conclude before approaching (since it invariably consumes all of the parents' attention), is yell, "Just sit the fuck down."  But here's the part I really don't get: it seems as if, no matter how many or how few imps are involved, the presence or lack of the baby-toting paraphernalia notwithstanding, it still takes five minutes just to sit down.  It's as if the mere presence of the crotch-dumplings slows down the space-time flow, or at least parents' perception of it.  I assume this is the same phenomenon that occurs when old age sets in.

Visual cues for the blind and/or braille in odd places.

Now, just to clarify before the torches and nooses come out, I am not mocking the blind, although I do snicker every time I hear an advertisement for a local window-dressing shop called House of Blinds.  (C'mon, it's kind of funny.)  But some things just make me scratch my head, such as this:

At my bank's drive-through ATM.

Who is using these?  To be honest, I can't say I have ever seen a blind person using a teller machine in any capacity, drive-through ones even less so.  And a headphone jack?  In case you are, what, so blind you can't read braille?  Even if that were possible, you still have to accurately press buttons labeled in braille.  So it must be for people who are both blind and mentally-challenged (multi-alternatively-enabled?).  And driving cars to access money.  I am guessing all businesses just use the same generic model of ATM, whether it's for a drive-through or not, but it is always a weird thing to see when you ponder the implications.

Ha, trick question!  Got you, tax-defrauders!

There is truly no way to justify this, but it appears on almost every online tax form.  Blind people can do some pretty amazing things, despite their handicap, er, equal-difference-non-impairment . . . thing.  But I do not understand how they could be filling out their own taxes on the computer.

*Pictured: Just an average, everyday visually-impaired citizen, the muthafuckin' "I-can-kick-a-dozen-Yokuza's-asses-but-can't-use-Facebook" Daredevil.

I am forced to assume this is simply a poor choice of words on the part of the tax-form copywriter (sweet Gutenberg, does that sound like a rewarding career).  It should probably run something like, "Is this person blind?"  Then again, I am not blind, so what do I know?

Books for extremely specific things (especially this one).

Maybe the dogs are the ones taking the pictures.

Publishing a book is expensive.  As this goes to print, digitally and for free, the Encyclopaedia Britannica is ceasing all physical production of its 244-year-old tomes of accumulated wisdom.  Readers and tablets like Kindle and Nook were invented in an attempt to trick a vapid, technologically-obsessed, increasingly-illiterate public into reading books again, under the assumption they would mistake it for the Internet.  Aside from the megalithic Barnes & Noble, nary a bookstore can stay in business without offering an espresso bar, WiFi, and cut-rate crack cocaine out the back door.  So, especially in this day and age, the printing of a book on honest-to-Gaia, murdered-tree paper must be economically-viable, marketable to a mass audience.

And this is considered a sound investment?  Dog Photography for Dummies?  There are people who can't figure out how to take pictures of dogs?  Because they're really rare, elusive, seldom-photographed beasts, akin to Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster, or J.D. Salinger (how's that for an obtuse reference?).  Hell, I wouldn't have thought there were enough total people out there trying to take pictures, successfully or not, of our four-legged friends to justify the publication of such a guide.  I would think those aspiring photographers who just can't seem to snap a decent picture of Fido could look to the childless women of Facebook who treat their Pugadoodleyork rat-dogs as babies and post images of said pets accordingly.  But there must be demand if the book got printed, which sort of saddens me for other reasons.

If any of you can shed light on these mysteries for me, I would be much obliged.

Man up

Yes, I know, I have not posted since Ron Paul was a relevant GOP presidential candidate.  I offer no excuses.  I could feed you some ambiguous, intentionally-mysterious hints at what I have been doing to make it sound cool and pardon my lapse, but that's not what this blog is about.  It's about me and my opinions on totally asinine shit.  So I won't bother you with tedious details about why I haven't been writing.  Somewhere along the way, I have forgotten to be a responsible blogger (if those exist).  My apologies, loyal readers.  Let's move on.

Happy International Women's Day!  What, you didn't know that was today?  You didn't know that holiday existed?  Well, I did, and it's totally not because it was the Google Doodle of the day.  Shame on you, sexist pigs!  And it just happens to coincide roughly with the release of world-renowned ultra-prick Taylor Max's third (really, third, America?) book, Hilarity Ensues, which, to be fair, it probably does.  For about six pages.  Then, I feel quite confident, it becomes just another string of dirty, mean-spirited, sensationalized anecdotes of dubious authenticity from the life of a loser whose fame clock is hitting 00:14:59.

The kind of guy who thinks this joke never gets old.  How clever.

What sort of name is that anyway?  Tucker Max?  How about Chotchbag Max?  It sounds like the kind of online handle a 12-year-old "extreme" rollerblader would adopt.  So, I am the anti-Tucker Max.  By that, I mean I am not a narcissistic, chauvinistic, complete douche-tool (much).  Notably, I'm also not famous.  As a writer, I am perfectly aware that embellishment and hyperbole are the weapons of mass comedy, and being offensive can be funny.  Or at least I hope so.  Thus, I would like to hope Max's authorial persona, which reads like a stock character from (take your pick) Animal House/Revenge of the Nerds/PCU/Old School/whatever-the-modern-remake-is-called, is a gross exaggeration.  But let's be honest: in all likelihood, it's not.

And this is a fucking shovel.  Get it?

So, with that needlessly involved and lengthy introduction in mind, it's time for another revision of the rules governing male behavior, the Gentlemen's Agreements.  I hearby call this meeting to order.

High-fives

Like many of society's more insidious ills, we probably have the 80s to thank for this one.  The slapping of elevated palms was around well before that, I assume, but it was not until the era of neon glitz, cocaine, and laughably-stupid Reaganomics that it became the go-to gesture for any sort of masculine celebration.  More specifically, the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles are, perhaps, to blame for the rabid proliferation of this phenomenon in the modern world.

It is the only sin they ever committed.

In conducting research for this article (yes, I do that), I even found out April 21 is National High-Five Day.  That.  Is.  Pathetic.  Nowadays, high-fives are the equivalent of a participation ribbon in your elementary school field day.  We need to let this die.  At this point, a high-five means about as much as blinking.  Nothing says, "My maturity is permanently stunted!" like going for the palm-connection with a bro because you ordered something mutually-awesome in the Taco Bell drive-thru.  As a matter of principle, I do not distribute high-fives except for very momentous achievements, in an attempt to reestablish their once-lauded status.  If it helps, anytime you feel the urge to call for a high-five, just remember it will never, ever be as sweet as . . .

. . . this.  Yeah.

Stop being a dickhead (shock, right?)

Boy, am I going to catch shit for this one.  Ladies, just remember this: I am on your side.  As my good friend Dr. Watson once commented in regard to my stance on women, "He disliked and distrusted the sex, but he was always a chivalrous opponent."  Or maybe that was about Sherlock Holmes.  And they might both be fictional characters.  Either way.  My point is, no matter what your personal ignorant thoughts on the ovaried ones, treat them civilly.  As I have noted previously, I am pretty old-school, but this is one of those times when I think people would truly benefit from following my lead.  Quit being a Fucker Max.  To refer back to my earlier visual aid:

Oh, I get it, it's funny because you treat all females like anonymous receptacles for your seed who are lining up for the honor!  Well-played!

Seriously, how old are you?  The war between the sexes, the longest-running cold war in the history of ever, will probably never abate, but we can promote the detente by not being dickheads to the other half of our species.  For every Snooki, termagant, and backstabbing uber-twat out there, another 392 women are essentially respectable, decent human beings.  Yes, there are genuine bitches and sluts out there, but acting like they are the representative examples of their gender is akin to saying Germans are, by and large, the Third Reich.  Only not as funny.

Take that, rich and diverse cultural history of a nation!

Beyonce may be an obnoxious, pretentious celebrity who seems to revel in telling men off, yet you can't deny her man-slamming music is a product of women getting the shaft (damn, couldn't resist) from us.  But, while we're on the subject, you can call a girl a "slut" when you can verify that she has had some manner of sexual contact with more partners than you have.  Maybe.  Until then, shut the hell up.  That is all.

KP, out.

A snack to tide you over

While I am working on a few full-fledged articles, here's a nice collection of the most random crap I have found on the Internet and in real-life lately.  Enjoy!

So, it's open to hobos, as long as they fill out Victorian-era paperwork?

"Online dating is stupid."  (Actual caption on this sidebar ad.)

Is it wrong the first thing I thought was Hey, that's not authentic Roman garb?

Online educational grants seem to be mostly targeted toward the bearded demographic.  Also, apparently, ageless Santa Claus-types.

And superpowered Condoleeza Rices with head-police-lights.  (Sorry, just had to use this again).  Seriously, who are they targeting?

Coming soon . . . Angry Birds: The Novelization?  (I kind of want to cry).

Then again, this was once considered legit.

The Hoff.  A colossal cartoon snake.  Only one will emerge with a career.  (Smart money is on the snake).

Pray for a shanking.

Now, don't you feel dirty?