You might be a douchebag

Before anyone says it, let me acknowledge that, yes, this is hardly the most original topic for me to cover.  Thousands have tread the same ground.  You know who else did that?  Shakespeare.  Motherfucker didn't use a single original idea, and he still slays high school through doctoral-level English literature classes like a total Renaissance G.

What?  That's what methought, trollop.

That said, let's do this, America.

These days, the term "douchebag" is thrown about willy-nilly, applied to any male exhibiting mildly dickish behavior and even used ironically by obvious douchebags like Kanye West in their music.  I have heard the label generically applied to emo-kids, snobbish business-types, and even women (the proper technical term being "bitch, "cunt," or, if you want to groundlessly question her sexual habits, any derivation of "whore").  This cannot continue if we are to address the very real problem of epidemic douchebaggery.  Back In The Day, the word had a more specific meaning, coined to describe a largely new type of self-deluded, insufferable asshole the world had not previously seen, the origin of which remains a mystery to modern science.

I have my theories.

Unlike the wiggers, preps, wannabes, hipsters, and metrosexuals of yore (*bonus points if you actually remember those terms*), the modern douchebag does not seem to be actively imitating any existing subculture or precedent other than his own cohort of like-minded idiots.  If anything, he takes tiny elements from all of them, with a healthy dose of Gay, and a strange alchemical fusion occurs, creating some of the most laughably pretentious and ludicrous "human beings" to walk (or, more appropriately, strut) the earth.  These guys feel the irresistible compulsion to irradiate themselves to Chernobyl levels, wear clothing that makes a Macy's Easter Sale look ultra-masculine, and flash meaningless hand-signs whenever a camera is on them.

And the scariest part?

You just might be one without knowing it.  Hard to believe, isn't it?  But, just like contracting AIDS, it can happen to anyone if they are not careful.  Except me.  I'm not a complete retard.  Since I am blessed with a discerning wit and an inexplicable humanitarian streak, I am going to help you, the masses, recognize and avoid the epithet that equates you with a vaginal cleansing product.  You're welcome.

Warning Sign 1: Improper Use of Sunglasses

This is a newer one, the latest development in super-douchey moves.  It's a real fashion statement.  The statement, unfortunately, is, "I need a curb-stomping.  Bad."  When not being used to block harmful solar rays from your precious baby-blues, your sunglasses belong in one of four places: (1) on top of your head, (2) hanging from the front of your shirt-collar, (3) in your breast-pocket, or (4) not on your person.  Otherwise, you are just asking to have them put a fifth place: up your ass.  It should go without saying that this is sartorially-reprehensible:

Don't look at me that way.

Yet I see men doing it.  Otherwise normal-looking men.  Personally, I find that terrifying, because it signals a societal acceptance of one of the stupidest trends I have ever seen.  And I lived through the 80s.  I even saw a customer at work with his sunglasses hanging from the back of his collar.  I consulted my Bible, but this is somehow not a portent of the Apocalypse.  I can only pray to Chic Jesus this does not catch on as well.  I mean, in all seriousness, what the fuck?  Who decided this was all right to do?  Oh, yeah, the Food Network's Orange County Choppers reject, Guy Fieri.

Do you really want to emulate this bag of cocks?

Warning Sign 2: Chronic Popped Collar Syndrome

It's cliche because it's true, kids.  You pop your collar, you become Insta-Douche.  From zero to douchebag in .50 seconds.  David Blaine himself will be astounded at your feat of magically-pretentious doucheification.  Truly, I cannot stress this enough, because I see it more than most any other sign, and not one goddamned swinging dick on the planet can make it look less than monumentally douchey.  Have I employed enough variations of "douchebag" in this paragraph to make my point clear?  The fact that I even have to point this out is physically sickening to me, and threatens to implode my mind.

Welcome to Douchebag City, population: your stupid ass.  Seriously, though, burn in hell.

You are not an 80s Corey, the Fonze, or Dracula.  Turn that thing down, because it's blaring, "mock the shit out of me" at full volume.  It's become an Internet meme to post photos of yourself with as many simultaneously-popped collars as possible, for the love of Prada.  What else do you need to know?  You can't pull it off, trust me.  The only time a popped collar is quasi-acceptable is on a coat or jacket, and even then, use with caution.  To be on the safe side, make sure you're wielding a pair of fully-automatic assault pistols, and possibly a katana, while doing it.  When in doubt, don't.  Your unborn children will thank you down the line.

Warning Sign 3: Excessive Bluetooth Usage

Remember 20 years ago, when Star Trek: The Next Generation was the coolest thing on TV and everyone wanted to look just like a roboticized zombie-clone member of the Borg?  No?  Maybe that's because it never was cool.  And it's not much cooler now.

"Dude, Borg-Picard is the shiznit!"

The idea behind Bluetooth technology is laudable.  It's intended to prevent car accidents by freeing up drivers' hands to operate iPods while cruising the back-lanes at 60 mph.  Or something.  The reality, of course, is that anyone who buys a headset, now that they are cheaper than Yoko Ono jokes, forgets how to use an actual cellular telephone and is assimilated into the Doucheborg Collective.  Remember Beeper Guy, circa 1991, or Righteously Self-Important Businessman With Zack Morris-Style Brick Phone?  That's you now, Bluetooth-user.  Congratulations.  The irony is, I get the distinct impression the people who spend the most time talking loudly into thin air, confusing bystanders and appearing mentally unstable, are the ones with the least to say.  Call it a hunch.

Are.  You.  Serious?  Douchebag hat-trick!

Speaking of which . . .

Warning Sign 4: Hat and/or Visor Abuse

It takes the right man to wear a hat in the first place.  Honestly, think about your male friends (assuming you have any) and you'll realize what most people already subconsciously do - some guys can pull off the hat look, others cannot.  It's a basic principle of fashion science.

Johnny Depp, for instance, wears the shit out of any hat.

But, even if you are a genuine Hat Man, that does not give you free license to wear headgear in any way you damn well see fit.  While a fedora like the one Mr. Depp is rocking above can be worn at a slight angle, because it's a fucking fedora, you should not attempt any similar cant with your favorite college sports team cap.  It's like the baseball coach's sign for "douchebag trying to steal any base" (ha, sports-sex crossover humor!).  This is doubly true for visors of any description.

Meditate on that, Buddhadouche.

In fact, let's just unilaterally declare visor usage is now and forever restricted to the links, the clay, and the felt, where it belongs.  That 3-month span of 1999 is over, after all.

Warning Sign 5: Color Uncoordination

Take a quick look inside you pants.  Is there a penis there?  With gonads?  Ok, then give Don Johnson back his cotton candy pink V-neck so that he has something to wear under his white blazer.  I know I'm going to get berated for this, but I have a website on the Internet, so I am right.  Men, as a rule, should not wear pink unless they are actively soliciting anal sex.  Lighter shades of purple are questionable enough, but pink is just plain out, in more ways than one.  Can some guys wear it?  Yes, but why risk it?  Odds are, you look better in virtually any other color.  This may actually be more a case of effect than cause - wearing a pink shirt didn't originally make you a douchebag, but so many douchebags now favor the color that they have effectively decimated what little credibility it had.

Your rebuttal was going to be . . . ?

And, at the risk of sounding more than a bit queer myself, pink generally looks terrible with fake-bake tans and spray-on bronzers anyway.  Orange and pink don't mix, Mr. GTL.  For every one man I have seen who looks respectable in pink, I have encountered roughly three-dozen who redline my Douche-O-Meter.  Call me traditional, chauvinistic, or narrow-minded, but there is a reason gender-color identifications are beaten into our psyches from birth: when you wear pink, you look like a pussy.

So, with that said, I hope you are better-prepared to identify the signs of douchebaggery and take appropriate remedial actions.  Together, we can check the spread of this vile blight on our society, showing the world that, while the USA may be the leading producer of ignorant assholes, even we know it's wrong to take a bull's load to the face and use it as styling product.  And to any douchebags who may cross my path . . .

Here's my Situation. (go ahead, click my image, dumbass.)

Parents of the Year

For those who are new to this blog and not clever enough to scroll down to previous posts, I am a server and bartender at a large chain restaurant in a mid-sized Midwestern city.  If you have read my other serving-related articles, you have probably detected just a hint of . . . disdain for certain people.  By "disdain" I mean "aneurysm-inducing loathing."  And by "certain people" I mean "the majority of humanity."  But I have never truly delved into the profound depths of my vitriolic ire here, revealing my dark, misanthropic soul.

Let's do that now.

Who needs a muscular infarction to justify being a dick?  Serving the general public is much more painful, and Vicodin can only help so much.

To illustrate just how simultaneously pissed off and disenchanted with my own species I become as a direct result of workplace provocations, we'll kick off a new segment called My Favorite Direct and/or Vicarious Customer Interactions of the Day (or, for those into the whole brevity thing, Fucktarded Moments in Restauranting)

Moment 1

I am serving in the bar alongside the actual bartender, cleaning off tables after our initial lunchtime rush, when a man and his son walk in and proceed to seat themselves.  Let me begin by making something crystalline here: if there isn't a sign that reads Please Seat Yourself in a restaurant, don't seat yourself.  Crazy, right?  This is true in 90% of casual dining restaurants, even if a hostess does not instantaneously appear, like a genie in a puff of smoke, the moment you set foot in the door.

"Your wish is my command, impatient dumbass."

Even if you are "just going to the bar, " which most people seem to believe is some magical phrase that grants them unassailable authority, you can at least wait and ask a server or the bartender.  This may mean waiting up to two excruciating minutes in the foyer, but bear with us lowly peons who are busy serving dozens of other patrons who are just as important (or, more accurately, self-important) as you.  Unless you are literally bellying up to the bar itself, just let us seat you.  There is typically some logic behind it, such as the fact that we're running the fucking restaurant and you're not.

"Am I the only one who gives a damn about the rules anymore?!?"

But I digress.

After I go through the obligatory song-and-dance at the table, talking through my smile-gritted teeth, I get the kid a root beer and the dad a draft Bud Light.  The bartender then informs me that these people are regulars, and takes over the table.  Fine by me.  As I am taking care of other business, I cannot help but overhear the man reject his beer on the grounds that, "there's still beer left in the lines from last night," and this is somehow affecting the taste of said swill.  According to this brainiac, the tap has to be run for a minute to purge the leftover in the lines running from the kegs to the bar.  Never mind that (1) our restaurant has been open for almost three hours, (2) that the lines are presumably designed to accommodate this, (3) even if they're not, I always run out half a pint worth of foam before I bring a beer to a table, and (4) that I've never heard anyone say this, ever, including bartenders, this guy has a PhD in Yellow Fizzics.  First, you're drinking Bud Light.  Try not to sound too high and mighty.  Second, what precisely do you know about how the beer-lines work?  That's what I thought, Bill Nye.

But that was only a minor irritant, a fly in my ointment compared to . . .

Moment 2

It's dinnertime.  A group of four come in, carrying an infant in one of those monstrous, fallout-proof car seats, and are promptly taken to a table toward the front of the restaurant by a server, where there is plenty of space to put the Transformer car seat in a nifty folding sling next to the table.  But, oh no, that will never do, as anyone with half a working brain would know, because sitting at a table in a restaurant, as opposed to a booth, is one step above being shoved into a gas chamber at bayonet-point in Treblinka.  Or so certain guests seem to believe.  They then assured the server they did not need the car seat or sling, and would simply "pass the baby around" for the entirety of their meal.

What's that I smell?  Oh, yeah, bullshit.

But, since the customer is always right, this charming quartet was escorted to a coveted booth right at the center of the action, just outside the doorway where most of the food leaves the kitchen.  There, they proceeded to chat it up and pass the baby around like an opium pipe.

For approximately ten minutes.

Then, one of them went back to the front of the restaurant and retrieved both car seat and sling, asking no one if it was acceptable, and set it up right next to their booth, in the middle of the most high-traffic aisle in the building.  During our dinner rush.  To give you a clearer idea of this brilliant setup, I have created a diagram:

*Not pictured: careless fuckwits.

I saw this happen, but, since it was not my table, I pretended not to care.  That is, until I saw their server attempting to set up a stand of scalding food without dumping it on the hapless infant.  At that point, I intervened for the sake of child, expediency, and common sense.  I said something along the lines of, "I'm sorry, folks, but this isn't going to work.  We have servers with hot food trying to get through here, and it's very dangerous for your baby.  And if there's a fire in the building, this is a major hazard.  It's actually against fire code."  All of this was undeniably true.  Was my tone less-than-conciliatory?  Probably, but that's because all of this was undeniably true.  In fact, it was patently, painfully obvious.  Anyone, including Wile E. Coyote, could have walked up, looked at the situation, and said, "That won't work."

These geniuses, however, looked at me with a mixture of confusion and offense, as if I had just told them an Aristocrats joke that wasn't blunt enough.  I could have been dry-humping an inflatable llama.  "You can put the car seat in the booth across from you," I suggested helpfully, "we aren't using it.  But your baby can't stay here, sorry."  You'd swear I was presenting them with Sophie's choice.  Reluctantly, they assented, and I returned to my own section of the restaurant, satisfied that I had taken a necessary step that nobody else wanted to risk for fear of offending.  Not Giving a Shit happens to be my specialty, my super-power, if you will.  With great apathy comes great responsibility.

Sure as murder will out, these guests left behind a hand-scribbled letter outlining a complaint they directly addressed to neither myself nor their server, let alone the manager.  For your reading enjoyment, I have perfectly transcribed their note here:

To the Red-Haired Little Kid:
Your arrogance and tactless pomp would better serve you, I think, as a used car salesman, or a local school board representative.  Please reconsider your career choice.
                                                  Love,
                                                    The people who did not seat themselves.
P.S. Your hair is a fire hazzard.


Seriously?  For taking the initiative to actually protect your child, from your own flagrant retardacy no less, you decide to leave me a passive-aggressive hate-note laden with middle-school-level taunts and far more condescension than I could possibly muster on the spot?  Wow, I'm crushed.  I am so wounded to know that I do not have the approval of four people whose collective IQ barely exceeds that of their combined shoe size.  That I should endure the written abuse of people who don't have the testicular fortitude to lodge a complaint in any meaningful way, presumably because they will then have to admit to their own flaming ignorance and gross parental neglect, is more than I can bear.  I'd better go hang myself.  The fact that I had to point out to you the danger of your child being potentially trampled should make me feel guilty.  Perhaps next time I'll just kick your baby over to make my point.

You totally thought I was going to go for a South Park image.  Naked baby-kicker in your face!

Oh, and hazzard is the county where the good ol' Duke boys live, ye mighty paragons of superlative intelligence and pithy wit.  I believe you meant hazard, a danger or risk.  Try using it in a sentence, such as, "I'd hazard people like you have a fair bit of incest in your lineage."  See, it's even a verb.  Biatch.

I feel like there might have been a time when my vastly superior intellect was known as "common sense," but that's probably nothing more than looking back through rose-colored glasses on a past that never was, such as Beaver Cleaver's 1950s America or the reign of King Ataraxes the Triumphant in the Golden Age of Atlantis.  Fuck you, nostalgia.

Mankind, your collective untelligence drives Carson the Flag Day Aardvark to drink himself into oblivion.  Congratulations.

This just in: my news ticker

Representative Weiner - Ha, irony can be so ironic!

Why is it that politicians always seem to think they can keep secrets about themselves?  If there is any profession that more or less dictates you broadcast your every thought and deed to the public, it's public office.  That's why it's called "public."  So what made Rep. Anthony Weiner (D-Moronia) believe he could send poorly-staged, unsexy "sexts" to a variety of women with all the precision of buckshot?  "Hey, I'm an empowered, middle-aged, married, unattractive man.  Look at my penis!"  What was his logic?  What possible good did he foresee coming of this course?  Did he think it would get him some action?  As many, many politicians have proven since roughly the advent of society, there are plenty of ways to solicit BJs without resorting to the use of lewd messages and awkward attempts at softcore porn.

We can only hope this is a real transcript.  Hope, and pray.

Then, when he is inevitably busted, on charges of Complete Dipshittery, he cries like a little bitch and whines that he doesn't want to resign.  While I will grant this kind of scandal says absolutely nothing about his ability to bicker with other middle-aged white men, it's pretty much a deal-breaker careerwise.  If you aren't President, Speaker of the House, or a Kennedy, you can't withstand this kind of fire.  Time to take a closer look at that employment line you politicians like to talk about so much.

Celebrity cyber-sluttery can go one of two ways . . .

The right way.

And the wrong way.

What was his campaign slogan anyway, "Vote for Weiner"?  I have to think he was elected in the first place as a kind of joke, like Jesse Ventura and Arnold Schwarzenegger, but then people woke up the next morning and said, "Oh, shit, what did we do?"  It's the political equivalent of a one-night stand.  Except there is no Plan B.


Casey Anthony Trial - Bitch did it.

Bitch did it.  To reiterate, bitch did it.  End of story.  That should have been the prosecution's opening, closing, and only statement.  I'm all for justice and procedure, but how did this take almost three years to come to trial, let alone last more than twelve seconds?  She basically Googled "Murdering children and covering it up afterward," her car trunk smells like dead toddler, and there is abso-fucking-lutely no other reasonable way to explain her daughter's death.  I've seldom wished more fervently that the Boondock Saints would just bust into the courtroom, recite what is universally recognized as The World's Most Badass Prayer, and give this cunt a set of copper contact lenses.

Weiner wishes his crotch-shots looked this badass.

How is Casey Anthony's position even defensible?  She killed her own child not out of some strange my-child-is-a-demon-possessed-alien psychosis or a violent fit of menstrual rage, but because . . she didn't want to have a kid.  She researched, planned, and executed the murder with the cold clarity of Hannibal Lecter, just so she could restart her budding Girls Gone Wild career.  That's so horrifically creepy, it has to qualify as a mental disorder in and of itself.

Anthony Syndrome : an extreme form of dementia characterized by robot-like emotional detachment coupled with pedicidal tendencies (after the fucked-up, psychopathic bitch Casey Anthony, who killed her 2-year-old daughter, Caylee, so she could go back to drinking, partying, and presumably having more indiscriminate, unprotected sex.  Seriously.)


GOP Debates - Old white men don't like Obama

Even a flashy set pilfered from Deal or No Deal could not make the Howie Mandel-less Republican debate in New Hampshire more interesting than the average colonoscopy.  The Token Black Guy and Non-Palin Woman squared off with the Real Candidates on such issues as quotable sound-bytes and rocketing Hispanic children into the sun.

Can you spot the real Republican presidential nominee in this picture?  (*Hint: He doesn't have a  yellow tie or a vagina.)

As part of their overall Alienate-Everyone-But-Our-Diminishing-Base strategy, the candidates explained how they each have a quick, easy way to "resolve the housing crisis" that they have just been sitting on, waiting to be asked, and how much fun it will be to deny medical and educational services to dark children so that more of the numerically-superior, Republican-voting white trash, hillbillies, and other NASCAR-enthusiasts can leech off the system instead.  In the media, the debate was met with a resounding "meh."  You can check out a video clip below:

No, your computer isn't buffering, they're really just that stiff.

Lady Gaga - You're still here?

I don't care what the song says, nobody was born this way.

An Official Declaration of Holiday!

Screw the sun and its overhyped solstices, Memorial Day marks the unofficial beginning of summer for most Americans, or at least those who haven't chosen to live in the frigid, Palin-producing wastes of mythical Alaska or the fabled southern land of perpetual sunshine and gerontocracy, Florida (that's the word of the day, kids!).  But whenever Memorial Day approaches, I am also reminded of a very poignant fact: summertime has a distinct shortage of A-list holidays.  Memorial Day is kind of the last big one until Independence Day, and, while it is laudable and important, it is not exactly the happiest of holidays.  Because it's actually grounded in something indisputable and serious - many people have lived and died for our country - it hasn't been wrapped up in a furor of superfluous buildup, commercialized folklore, and cheesy theme songs.  The most we get are inexplicable furniture and vehicle sales.  And I'm betting Macy's has some deals, but, since I possess a penis, I cannot vouch for that.  Sure, we've got Fathers' Day, which is nice and all, but it's one of those holidays that, due to its specificity, cannot rank with Santa Claus' Birthday, Holy Rabbit Day, Indian Relocation Day, and Hot-Chicks-Dress-Up-As-Slutty-Versions-of-Every-Conceivable-Profession/Stereotype/Fairy-Tale-Heroine Day.  Everyone can get into those celebrations.

Yes, I am using pretty much any excuse to include a picture of a hot chick in every post now.  Who's complaining?

By their very masculine nature, men are required to gruffly brush off Fathers' Day, otherwise known as Just Leave Me Alone Day.  During the summer months, all we get is Grill and Blow Shit Up Day until Labor Day rolls around.  And that's pretty much all of summer anyway, isn't it?

What we need during the hottest season of the year is a hot celebration to rival the titans of the so-called "Holiday Season."  We could try to invent a new one, but many people have tried that over the years, leading to such classics as, I kid you not, Sewing Machine Day, Smile Power Day, Take Your Dog to Work Day, and Meteor Day.  When was the last time you celebrated Meteor Day?

Bet you didn't even know this was something to celebrate.

No, better we take an existing, long-established holiday that has been historically underplayed and inject it with some much-needed adrenaline to the heart, Pulp Fiction-style.  My proposal?  Flag Day.  Nobody remembers Flag Day.  Like a middle child or any adopted one, it's the overlooked member of the Patriotic Holiday Family.  Kind of weird when you consider a lot of Americans periodically try to pass goddamn constitutional amendments concerning treatment of the flag.  If you're really interested, and by "interested" I mean "bored as fuck," you can read all about the history of Flag Day in the U.S. here, but trimming your fingernails with needle-nosed pliers while watching Jersey Shore would be an equally effective form of sadomasochism.  In a nutshell, Flag Day celebrates just that: the creation of Old Glory, the Star-Spangled Banner, the Red-White-and-Blue, the Stars and Stripes, the Big Rectangle With Alternating Red and White Stripes and a Blue Canton Containing Fifty Five-Pointed Stars.  By extension, every June 14th is an opportunity to reflect on the ideals and meanings symbolized by our national standard.  You know, pretty much like all the other patriotic holidays.  So why is it forgotten?  Maybe there's just too much residual pot-smoke in the air from all the kids getting out of school for the summer, otherwise known as "summer magic."

But all that ends here, my fellow Americans.  Like King Arthur rising from the dead to defend England in her darkest hour or the HMS Titanic rising from the abysmal depths to carry on her bloody piratical legacy, Flag Day shall rise to take its rightful place as one of the chief holidays.  The only way to ensure this happens is to sear the notion of Flag Day in the hearts and minds of the younger generation, filling their heads with confusing-yet-patriotic imagery and avaricious anticipation.  Hence, I reveal to you the true history and tradition of Flag Day, as invented by me . . .

It's even sweeter than this, if you can wrap your mind around that concept.

After Betsy Ross, George Washington, and a then-unknown Vin Diesel presented the newly-sewn flag to the Continental Congress, a hasty Masonic ritual was performed on the banks of the Potomac River to invoke the Great Architect and receive His blessing.  It was successful, naturally, granting any nation that held the Stars and Stripes +1000 Hit-Points, a 75% Defensive Magic boost, the Kraken's Fury Power-Up, and Leader of the Free World status (with all the associated self-righteous dictates and pretensions entailed).  This was, of course, a vast improvement over such antiquated relics as the Ark of the Covenant, Excalibur, the Spear of Destiny, or the One Ring.  It ensured America's ascendancy to unrivaled awesomeness, while simultaneously generating a network of powerful ley-lines that would serve as the blueprint for Washington, D.C.

And an aardvark was there.

Yes, an aardvark.  No one knows precisely why.  That's just one of the mysteries of Flag Day.  Do not question it.  Whether by some reflected holy light or possibly eating the ant that happened to be crawling across the flag at its moment of sanctification, that lowly aardvark became a special creature, indelibly associated with Flag Day.  He still plays a vital role in the modern observation of this historic anniversary.

Why an aardvark?  Why not?  Did Jesus have a pet rabbit?  It doesn't have to make any sense, as long as it's marketable, and what could be more marketable than this?

Yes, this is a real animal.

Of course, we can't have kids envisioning this creature, God's only attempt to top Himself after the creation of the platypus.  But just hand this bat-shit crazy critter over to the advertising spin-doctors and you get . . .

Awww.

Presto, a new holiday mascot is born!  Meet Carson the Flag Day Aardvark, paragon of American virtues.  Each June 14th, he steals into homes across this great land via basement windows and coal chutes to shit chocolate-and-nougat bars throughout the house, transforming clumps of lint into novelty miniatures with the power of his steely gaze.  And he flies.  We celebrate his coming by dressing up as our favorite Founding Fathers - exempting, for obvious trademark reasons, John Jay - and exchanging white elephant gifts, reciting jingoistic poetry around the flagpole (that's the other word of the day, morons!).  What starry-eyed, corn-syrup-fattened child wouldn't look forward to that?

That's the kind of holiday June needs.  It's the kind of holiday our flag deserves.

Videots, Technophiles, & Leetspeakers

*Note: This is probably going to be the first in an ongoing series of posts concerning ads, particularly those on the Internet, and today's focus is on video game ones.

First of all, I am a geek.  I love Lord of the Rings, Star Wars, and Harry Potter.  I have seen porn themed after these franchises, for Stephen Hawking's sake.  No apologies.  However, I am not a gamer.  Have I played video games?  Yes.  Did I enjoy it?  Yes.  But an original PlayStation is the most advanced console I have ever owned, which I think had roughly the computing power of a really nice GE blender.  Current McDonald's Happy Meal toys are more high-tech than what I played in middle school.  

I believe this is what is known in tech parlance as an "Epic Fail."

Aside from dabbling in Prince of Persia, Assassin's Creed, and, most recently, God of War, I haven't played video games since I failed to hit my growth spurt.  But Facebook, it seems, is determined to assimilate me, Borg-style, because half of the advertisements that appear in my sidebar are gaming-related.  Why? Only Mark "the Messiah" Zuckerberg knows.  So, without further ado, let's get to the nergasm.

This one baffles me.  What are they implying?  That I am not a real man if I don't play?  That only by associating with the other butch ubermensch who play Dragon Raiders of Fantasmagoria can I prove that I have ironclad, grapefruit-sized testicles?  Or are they attempting desperately to reassure me that by playing this game I am not reducing myself to a sissified nerd who lives vicariously through the Internet because I lack social skills and navigating the digital domain is my only discernible talent?  Either way, how stupid do you think I am?  Don't they know geeks are smart?  This is the kind of marketing tactic that targets 8-year-olds and the mentally handicapped.

"You dare insult Ug's manhood?  Ug will crush you in gaming!"

Anyway, let's check out another sidebar ad from my Facebook homepage . . .

What's the binary translation of "schwing!"?

First off, I'm not even into joysticks [*insert obligatory phallic joke here*], and I would repeatedly mash her buttons, hard, so let's just move on from there.  If you look closely (torture, I know), you can see the spaghetti straps to her top, but at a glance, she appears to be naked, save for some high socks and a headset.  Wow.  Why is that so hot?  I don't know, it just is.  Seriously, let's move on.  Look at the text (you know, those funny symbols above and below her).  This is a gaming/dating service.  That's right, America, they have actually created a website/program/support group that combines the best of two worlds, the two things gamers thought they could never have at the same time: (1) a wicked-sweet gaming outlet and (2) a sex life.  Because, you know, those things are usually mutually exclusive.  Or at least that seems to be the perspective of the creators.  eHarmony meets World of Warcraft.  Hallelujah!  Like Neo being absorbed into the Matrix via a blinding flash of divine light, you have reached the Geekdom of Heaven.

But they know you're skeptical.  There's even an asterisk next to the phrase "Real Girls."  Ha!  She's not really a member, she's just a model, like all the other rejection-spewing pretty girls in the real world!  But wait . . . the footnote is assuring you that she is really a member!  It's not a disclaimer, it's a promise, and the Internet never lies.  They know that you know that no real female gamers (all 27 of them) are that attractive.

Another obvious case of Photoshop forgery.

But the chicks of Game Crush are!  Just check out that hot piece of ASCII.  She's just like your friends!  But with boobs!  That you can touch!  And admit to it later!  Rejoice, you blistered-thumbed, raw-palmed mingers!  I'm not sure who this is more offensive to, the male gamers who are implicitly being stereotyped as socially-awkward losers, or the female gamers who are implicitly being labeled as heinous ugos.  Good thing I don't care.

First RPG on Facebook!

Play the newest game on Facebook!

Seriously, do I need to comment?

The really funny part of all this, besides all the other parts, is that I do not know one person who plays any Facebook games.  Or at least all of my friends have the sensible shame not to admit it to me.  And, while I have overheard some pitiable Dungeonmasters (yes, I know that's a card game reference) describing with poetic fervor their Level 9 Chaotic-Neutral Super Orc Shaman online character, not once have I heard the phrase, "Dude, I totally powned this noob on Facebook in Samurai Dynasty today!"  I think that's because true gamers who take this shit seriously are maybe, oh, I don't know, playing real video games.  They aren't into half-assed knockoffs being churned out by MIT's custodial staff.  But what would a non-gaming geek know?

Reminiscence

As the seasons change, I look back on what might be considered my first blog post, which ironically existed before my blog . . .

I'm KP, and these are the things I hate right now. I hate that people can't drive, regardless of the weather conditions. I hate that Christmas music is playing everywhere I go. I hate that the custom of playing Christmas music ignores the fact that most people seem to hate Christmas music. I hate Sarah Palin/Glenn Beck/Bill O'Reilly/whoever-Fox-feels-needs-a-show. I hate that every other ad on the radio or my Facebook homepage is some huckster trying to sell me false promises. I hate that every other station I turn to on the radio is playing ads, not music. And if they are, it's fucking Christmas music. I hate drama. I hate people who think "buying American" means purchasing a mediocre car, all of the parts for which were fabricated overseas, while most "Japanese" automakers produce their superior models right here in the USA. I hate that our culture has become so materialistic that it treats Black Friday as an event to be not only embraced, but hotly anticipated. I hate people who argue that the Constitutional right to free speech means the right to erect religious displays on public property, at the expense of taxpayers, no less. I hate winter. I hate when people act like winter is something I should look forward to. That's not magic tingling in your toes and noses, it's frostbite. I hate that I still feel the need to bitch about the weather, even though I have lived in Michigan for most of my life. I hate that my car's doors and windows freeze solid. I hate that I always have to worry about money, tabulating the cost of my life day after day. I hate "Dancing With the Stars," "Jersey Shore," and most every other TV program the media tells me everyone is in love with, and covers accordingly. I hate that the media covers other television shows as if they are news. I hate TV. I hate Mac almost as much as I hate the cult of Mac. I hate "Elf." Yes, I said it. Screw you too. I hate that every entity under the sun has to have a Facebook page and a Twitter account. Why the hell would I want Tweets from Ace Hardware? For that matter, why would I want Tweets at all? Go Tweet yourself. I hate pretentious assholes who make lists, as if anyone should care what they think. I hate Christmas specials. "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" is an allegory for fascism, and if you don't believe me, I'll e-mail you my analysis. I hate that people are too distracted and self-absorbed by all this shit and a thousand other things to actually take the time to pause and observe the world around them and what is going on it. It's not that hard. I'm KP, and these are the things I hate right now. What do you hate?

Ah, my more innocent, carefree days . . .

Dancing with the 'Tards, Part 2

Women, you are no exception. While I will grant that a lot of females can get away with a hell of a lot more than most men in a club, some of your behavior is equally ridiculous and more than worthy of my scorn. 

I have already referred to one of the more common subtypes: the Weekend Whorrior. This is the girl who, during the workaday hours of sunlight, is respectable and perniciously judgmental, like most women. She'll criticize any other random girl's fashion sense and morality at the drop of a Prada, and by "random" I mean any and every other being with a vagina, including her best friends. But when the sun sets, like a B-movie trope, she transforms into that which she supposedly loathes: a slut. Donning the shortest shorts or skirt she can legally wear and a top that would be best described as "a paper towel with strings, and not a very big one at that," she will jump on the dance-floor, proceeding to shake whatever her momma (and McDonald's) gave her in a way that makes Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan appear reticently saintlike. 

Right up there with Mother Theresa. 

Even the questionable, sweaty foreign guy will not be exempt from the Weekend Whorrior's indiscriminate grinding. She's out for bodily fluids. In the process, she'll likely flash her thong, kiss another girl, and probably pantomime assorted sex-acts with varying degrees of accuracy. Whether or not she can actually dance, the message is clear: I am an object. A horny, wasted object that wants attention. Treat me as such. But, hey, they're chicks, so it's all good. Much like the guy whose mouth is writing checks that his ass can't cash, her mouth is writing . . . admission vouchers that her cootch won't honor? Doesn't have quite the same ring to it, I know, but you get the point: her gyrations are no guarantee of gratification (alliteration is fun, whee!). Or, alternately, if she does assent to doing inappropriate things to you, just consider how many guys she does this with every weekend. Sure, you were both drunk, but that doesn't make her any less pregnant in the morning or your urethra burn any less, does it?

And let us not forget MTV Girl. Again, I have already referred to her in Part 1, but let's take a closer look. MTV Girl takes her cues from, not surprisingly, music videos (perhaps I should call her MTV9 Girl, since that's where you may actually find videos). The problem? She lacks a number of things that people like Beyonce, Katy Perry, Rihanna, and Shakira have going for them, such as (1) a professional choreographer, (2) a team of GQ-ish backup dancers, (3) natural talent, (4) a body sculpted by the gods, presumably to masturbate to, (5) flattering cinematography and lighting, (6) Michael Bay directing, and (7) being famous, and thus able to get away with shit that just doesn't fly in the real world. Yes, somehow when those girls bend over and shake, it's not only sexy, but in some mind-numbingly back-asswards way cool.

What you think you look like. 

The reality. Yeah, sweet. 

I can't explain it, yet I know it when I see it. More to the point, I know when I don't see it. That's where you come in, MTV Girl. I have seen otherwise implausibly hot women vaporize their sex appeal faster than Superman staring down a doughnut with his heat vision simply by attempting some move they picked up from Britney Spears (you know, before she got prego, blown-out, and went certifiably nuckin-futs). Of course, this is because, deep down in the depths of their ovaries, most clubbing women suffer from Aryan Bro syndrome.

While we're on the subject of Caucasians, I cannot overlook the phenomenon of Super-White Groupthink. This is a curious occurrence that I'm sure you have all witnessed, yet I believe myself to be the first to diagnose it as a genetic disorder. 

It's not lupus. 

Simply put, Super-White Groupthink is a special (read: extra retarded) kind of mob mentality that arises only in white people, triggered by very specific stimuli. The most obvious ones are what I like to call, appropriately, "White People Songs." These are songs composed and performed by actual Negroes for the benefit of the Man, presumably as some sort of cross-cultural outreach program or act of pity. "The Cupid Shuffle" and "The Cha-Cha Slide" are two excellent examples, in that they explicitly tell you how to dance to them, because you, as a rhythmically-disadvantaged cracker, would be utterly lost otherwise. Seriously, Google "song that tells you" and see what pops up. For Christ's sake, Google even preempts you and takes you to the most-searched-for answer. Super-White Groupthink dictates that, the second the first note of these songs plays, every white person in the house will be overcome by the inexorable urge to leap to their clumsy feet and flock to the floor. There, they can prove to the world once and for all that they can dance, so long as a black person is giving them step-by-step instructions.

Don't believe Super-White Groupthink is real? Just try playing Journey's “Don't Stop Believing” and see if this doesn't happen.

That's what I thought.