It Came From My C Drive 2

Once again (read the first one here), the results of a leisurely stroll through my C Drive over coffee this morning.

Old Sci Fi Novels

Stupid Detective Mysteries

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Put My Blarney Stones In Your Mouth

Happy St. Patricks Day! How are you? I’m ridiculously hungover, It’s fucking cold out, and I’m going back to bed.

But first: a scathing holiday-themed piece of mine is up at Cracked called St. Patrick’s Day Exposed (it’s a shit title, I know), as well as another holiday-themed piece of mine from last year that one of the Cracked editors exhumed and reposted. It’s mostly just an excuse to tell a lot of filthy jokes about pooping and sexual assault. (Guess which article’s getting linked around more?)

Anyway, thats all I got. By the sound of it, two feral cats are clawing themselves to death in the alley outside my apartment. I might referee that for a while if they let me. Otherwise, some aspirin and a warm bed beckon.

Getting Angry About Things I’m Unqualified To Discuss

Like most superhero team-ups, when Peter Lynn and I get together to co-write something, it usually involves us beating up on each other for a while before channeling our powers towards the defeat of a common enemy. In this case, movie trailers. Be sure to check out our snap judgments and harsh condemnations of the world of film based only on a cursory viewing of a blurry YouTube clip in Trailer Trash: Cruel Reviews of Upcoming Movies over at Cracked.com.

Or, at least, as much as you’re able to check out before the sun sets. Frankly, it’s a touch long. We each took ten trailers to review, assuming they’d be about a paragraph in length apiece, somehow forgetting our respective longwinded prose styles. It now sits towering and blotting out the sun, an imposing War & Peace of catty film review.

If you do manage to get through it and, against all reason, decide it still wasn’t long enough, do yourself a favor and surf over to Pete’s blog link to the same article, where—Pete being Pete—he’s helpfully posted all the weaker bits I cut out of the damn article in the first place, this time as an introduction to the article proper: as the old maxim goes, put your club foot forward.

In Times Of Crisis, You Can Count On Me (To Be A Big Pussy)

I didn’t know it when I woke up Friday morning, but in less than an hour I would be tested.

Tested as a man. A real man. The kind with chest hair, muscles and an actual chin. The kind of man that women look at and think, “You better believe I’d let him drill me.” It was to be a morning where, in the space of a single split-second moment, my character would be called daringly into question. An “Oh my Christ look, a woman’s screaming from the top floor of a burning building, WHAT TO YOU DO, HOTSHOT?” moment. A “You’re walking home from a game of catch at the park when you notice a baby flying off the balcony of Eric Clapton’s house, WHAT DO YOU MOTHERFUCKING DO, SPORTS FAN?” moment. (And no, I’m not sure who specifically is yelling at you so angrily in either of these scenarios, or why they can’t get off your back and catch the damn baby themselves. Probably just some asshole.)

This was also to be a morning where, in addition to measuring my instinct for cool-headed bravery in the face of crisis, I would learn that I don’t have any. It turns out I’m sort of a huge pussy, and that if given one of the above scenarios, I’d stare blankly in confusion while women fell, burning and shrieking, from the windows of fire-engulfed condos, or look on with ineffectual concern while Eric Clapton’s baby picked up speed. Yes, surprising nobody but myself, it turns out I’m the sort of can-do hero who, when called to action, will immediately freeze like a tender-eyed fawn in terrified brain-lock. If placed in a highly metaphysical conundrum involving a collapsing bridge, a loved one hanging off of either side and the choice of saving only one, I would in all likelihood cause both to plummet, cursing me, to their deaths, having opted to “hang back a little and mull over my choices” until the time for action had long since sprinted past.

I am, it seems, incapable of reflexive bravery. This is never good news to hear. And it certainly doesn’t make the medicine go down any easier if you’re reaching this epiphany while an old man buries his face, deeply and lovingly, into your crotch. Let me explain that.
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“…And You Can Take That to the LAKE.”

Larry Holmes’ GrillMaster XL makes its advertorial debut over at Cracked.com. With acknowledgement to JP.com forum regular Scott Feenstra for the idea, since he actually talks like this in casual conversation.

Two-Fisted Tales of Fisting

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Tales Written With the Express Intent of Astonishment

Dogs Are Idiots

Whenever I try to leave my apartment, my dog will dart out of the closing door with alarming, Indiana Jonesesque speed. Nine times out of ten I won’t even notice it. I’ll be out in the hallway, fumbling through my pockets in the dark for my keys. (The hallway lights have been out in our building since September—I think our super is either dead or long since escaped to Tijuana with a suitcase full of lightbulbs.) At some point I’ll remember that I keep my keys in my jacket pocket, and have in fact done so for fifteen years. (It’s early, and I’m legally retarded before noon.) I’ll finally get the door locked and turn around, where I’ll find my dog sitting in the middle of the hallway with a pleased, curious look on his face—as if saying “Man, that took you some time, huh? Can we go now?”

My wife, who watched the dog escape when I left, will now be listening from the couch with (evil, small-minded) amusement as I try to re-find my keys in the dark (front jacket pocket again), unlock and open the door, then walk back in, grumbling and calling for the dog—who knows damn well that staying in the hallway equals Walk, and so sits motionless, staring at me like I’m some idiot who likes to stand in doorways shouting “Come!” for no reason.

“He’s so smart,” my wife will say, after my faux-enthusiastic shaking of a rubber dog toy eventually convinces him to pad his furry ass back into the apartment. To my mind, given the battle of wills that’s just taken place, this of course leaves hanging in the air the implied addendum He’s so much smarter than you.

“He’s not smart,” I’ll say. “He’s fast. Cars are fast. That doesn’t mean they understand algebra.” It’s not, in other words, like the dog has calculated his escape with flowcharts for when I open the front door. He has a brain the size of an under-ripe walnut. More likely he was just thinking OH BOY DOOR WALK GO POOP WALK DOOR OH BOY, his legs moving independently of his brain the second he heard the doorknob turn.

He’s a moron, is what I’m trying to say, because all dogs are morons. Sure, my wife and I enjoy swapping stories with other dog owners about how smart and observant our pets are, but all bullshit aside, of course they aren’t. In the context of pet ownership, having a smart dog means he can sit or poop when you tell him to. When you’re gauging the intelligence of a mammal on its ability to understand that it should walk towards you when you flail your arms and make noises, I’m sorry, but that’s a low-set bar. The buck-toothed Hispanic woman from the Subway near me with the horseshoe-shaped divot in her forehead can sit and poop on command, as well as punch up to five distinct sandwich-themed buttons on a cash register, but I don’t think anyone’s making any convincing arguments that she isn’t as fuck-dumb as a pile of sticks. The difference between the buck-toothed woman and a dog is that we’re disappointed when the woman forgets to shit in the right place, but astounded beyond belief when the dog manages to remember.

Compared to other dogs, sure, our dog is pretty sharp. But whatever. Compared to humans—meaning me—my dog is, I’m sorry, an idiot. I can poop in designated areas as well as he can or better. I’m also able to perform any number of simple tasks that, frankly, soar right over his tiny bullet head—and I don’t mean reading The Iliad or programming my VCR to tape 24 or what have you. I’m talking about basic survival instincts he should possess as a mammal but doesn’t, like how you shouldn’t decide to eat something based exclusively on the criteria that it’s directly in front of you and not on fire.

The Entirety of a Dog’s Thought Process

Shameless Hype #3

Hot on the heels of Shameless Hype #2 is Shameless Hype #3, detailing my involvement with Cracked #3, which hits newsstands officially next week (though it looks like most of the comic book stores are already stocking it). This officially catches me up on my self-congratulatory navel-gazing until Issue #4 in two months. What will I do in the meantime? Rape things, maybe. I don’t know. Maybe I’ll knit a pair of socks.

Click below for the Issue #3 rundown. As before, if you’re not interested, no hard feelings. Actual updates on their way.
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