Wide Open Lovely Lean

Since I haven't done this in a while, this website is very neglected and I watch Idol way too intensely, let's type up some game notes. Here are a few things you'd have heard me mutter if you were watching tonight's American Idol in my living room.

Please note - this is not one of those show recaps you'll find all over the internet. Those people get paid to do this. Consider this a one-sided conversation about a shitty TV show that you're allowed to participate in on some awkward level. Feel free to chat back to your computer screen all you' like. I'll pretend to hear you and everything.

• Crystal Bowersox is first and she's fresh out of the hospital. I learned one important thing from that whole ordeal. Chronic Ugliness is something that occasionally merits an emergency room visit. DJ Qualls had better pay up that Cobra account.
• Randy decided to wear a sweater from the Fred Rogers collection tonight. If he ends up having a conversation with Trolley later, this show will make my night.
• Kara Dioguardi is really ramping up the hetero factor this season. It's like she's afraid Ellen will gay the show down, so she spends half the show in Simon's lap giggling like a tart. I'm not into this, surprisingly.
• Crystal Bowersox has a twin? Somebody needs to put a "condemned" sign over her mother's crotch. You can't produce that much ugliness and stay in business.
• She sings a CCR song. Lovely and predictable. Meanwhile, I'd love it if Fox ran an online poll right now asking if people at home would rather wake up and see her in their bed or John Fogerty. This would give me the giggle.
• Song's over and I don't give a shit. We're on beer #2, FYI.
• Kara is a one person circle jerk. I couldn't like hearing her speak less.
• Haeley Vaughn - I like her. I really do. So much that I'm going to try and get through this without ragging on her massive upper lip. I'm gonna try, man.
• Aw... this is sweet. A Miley Cyrus song. And she and her lip are going to perform it as a duo.
• (Dammit.)
• This song is trite. Or do I mean tripe? Possibly triple?
  
• Hey, Simon properly used the word "irony" on TV. I'm impressed.
• Lacey Brown is the definition of non-descript. Hearing her talk reminds me of every failed converstion I've ever had with a nothing person in my life. "Oh, you like apples too? Yeah. I'm gonna go do something else for a while."
• She chose to sing the exact song they suggested? So, she actually has zero personality. Makes sense.
  
• If I was paying any less attention to this performance, you could confuse it with my 401k. I'd rather listen to someone talk about Lost for an hour.
• Simon is SHOCKED to hear people boo him and his opinion. Shocked!! I'm on beer #3.
• Alright, I'll say it. Katie Stevens is the whitest person in the state of Connecticut. If she chooses a Billy Joel song sometime this season, don't expect a lot of confusion on my part.
• I'm a racist.
• Ellen says "be younger" and "it sounds like something I'd hear in my dentist's office." Here's a translation for you, dear. "Maybe black it up a little? At least go for hispanic. Nobody outside of New England wants to hear your Perry Como standards."
• Didi Benami decides to sing Bill Withers. Alright... Katie Stevens? Take notes. I'm sure there's a Lou Rawls song out there with your name on it.
• I enjoyed this "Lean on Me" song. I don't always understand the judges. They're so judgemental.
• Seeing her tear up after the judges' pummeling made my daughter cry. Thanks, guys. I've got some hugging to do.
• Michelle decides to throw caution to the wind and sing a Creed song. Wow. Even Creed doesn't like singing Creed songs.
• This is mediocre. Scott Stapp is at home mumbling, "She should have covered something by Staind."
• I'm getting texts right now from all my friends who think I'm a dork for watching Idol. This performance justifies their disdain for the show. A disdain that, apparently, didn't keep them from watching it and texting me tonight.
• While the judges ream the performance, the guys from Creed are all calling each other to make sure nobody is secretly planning a reunion tour.
• Kara is redefining hyperbole tonight. Her self-congratulatory bullshit mumbo jumbo is making me hate music.
• Lily Scott.... I... er.... she's lucky this show doesn't drug test.
• She's singing something and, while I ignore it, I'm trying to decide whether she smells like patchouli, incense or both.
• Katelyn's up and I'm already bored before she even starts to sing.
• And she's singing Coldplay. I'm even boreder.
• The Scientist. Wow. I was pushing it with boreder. is boredest a word? Even Gwyneth Paltrow is at home flipping channels right now.
• Glad that's over. She makes Barbra Streisand seem metal by comparison.
• Paige says she likes to color. Wow, so do my daughters! Except my daughters and 2 and 4.... not 24. We may have identified the issue.
• This show has bored me into apathy. If this performance was first, I might have given a shit. Plus, y'know, beer.
• I believe that, if she could, Kara would grow a penis and learn to suck herself off. That's how into herself she is. Please muzzle this woman.
• Siobhan is a nerd. Let's not mince words here. A flat out nerd. Before this season is over, she's going to perform the theme to Golden Girls in perfect Kling'on. I'd be willing to place money on her having an Ant Man tattoo somewhere.
• And, easily, the best of the night. Viva nerds.
  

Bells Oh Bells Manic

So, I saw this thing on Facebook where people are joining a group called "I'll Bet This Pickle Can Get More Fans Than Nickelback" or something. 

I get it. It's very cute. We all think Nickelback sucks and we like to pick on them. But you know what?

How fair is this to Nickelback? You've never met them. How does anyone know whether or not they suck, really? Maybe they're fantastic musicians who got screwed into a shitty deal with their record company. Maybe every time they write a song, it's indie rock gold, but some lawyer says, "Right, this is a fun song and all, but according to clause 12c, you've got to change the lyrics to be far more trite. And when you sing them, do your best to sound like you've got a hernia. It does well with the 'southern dude with a goatee and no original thoughts' demographic. Oh, and you're not allowed to get a normal haircut. Put the weird wig back on, Chad, and let's go shoot a video where you come off really unlikeable. Next time, read before you sign."

Alright, that's unlikely.

But, still. They could be pretty cool guys and you'd never know it because you're too busy making friends with pickles out of spite. Nickelback probably has feelings. Collective group feelings. And your pickle friendship hurts them. Think about that next time you choose dill snack treats over your fellow humans with bad contracts.

In other news, I've noticed that, for some reason, there haven't been as many news stories about sexy teachers that sleep with their students recently. A little while back? Every week! Now? Not so much. So, one of a few things has happened:

1.) We caught them all. Turns out it was just a handful of teachers and our news media smoked 'em all out. Kids, enjoy math class with Mrs. Fennelfarber. Not only is she not sleeping with you, but it makes your penis hurt to think about it.

2.) Students who are currently getting it on with their teachers read blogs back then and learned from the comments left by older men that, no, it doesn't get any better than they've got it, so they ought to shut it up and dig on what they've got. As a result, no more whining to reporters and no more stories.

3.) Women who are in school learning to be teachers are specifically instructed to not sleep with their students. While this was likely not an explicit part of the curriculum before, due to the "uh, no shit" nature of the material, it's probably worked into every course now before the midterms. I feel this scenario is most likely.

So, if you're a sexy lady teacher to be - especially one that harbors desires for secret passionate trysts and the like - they're probably pouring water on your firey loins every day. In a way, this saddens me. Sexy lady teachers deserve to be happy too. Instead of beating the fires down, maybe they should just teach them how to keep it on the sly and not become so overwrought with guilt that they'd end up ruining it for everyone.

(Is it illegal to use a blog to advocate for a crime? Time for a disclaimer.)

The paragraphs above a pure satire. Sexy lady teachers should tooootally always do the right thing, keep fully dressed and not fantasize about making love to students on bear skin rugs by fireplaces.

Changing topics.

One thing I love about living in Phoenix is that it's never cold. One thing I hate about living in Phoenix is that, after a couple of years, your body's temperature adjusts and turns you into a big punk who feels like it's cold when it's 65 degrees outside. Another thing I love about living in Phoenix is that there's a lot of stuff here. Another thing I hate about Phoenix is that there's so much stuff here that it can take hours to drive from your house to a friend's house, even though you live in the same place. 

So, your friend can be like "Let's get together for coffee," and you'd be like "hell yes," and they'd be like, "cool, I've got to be someplace in 2 hours, so let's meet now," and you'd be like, "well, it takes me an hour to get there and then it takes you an hour to get to the other place, so we'd literally see each other for 18 seconds," and they'd be like, "why are we even friends - you're so inconvenient," and you'd be the asshole in the relationship because of where your house is. I fail to see how this is fair. 

Phoenix... seriously... do something about your sprawl. If I make a friend at work and they tell me they live in the wrong part of town, we immediately write off the idea of ever hanging out.

Changing topics again.

No... wait... I'm actually out of topics.

Consistency is King

And I'm just a serf. But it's Festivus, so I figured I'd do the right thing.

Get The Counters Nick Hand Time

Was It What Blown Weekends

There was a comment left on my last post regarding my assumed preference for wolves over bears.

So, you hate bears but you'd save a wolf? From quicksand, apparently. Bears, who we all know to stay away from for they are LARGE and, well, bears. But a wolf? Wolves are FAR more dangerous. Wolves pretend to be dogs. And you look at the wolf and you think "how bad can it be? It looks like my neighbor's husky!" And then you get close to the wolf to pet it and then IT RIPS OUT YOUR THROAT! Save the bears, hump on the wolves.

There you go. Left by a dear friend that I know for a fact doesn't always lock the front door to her house. Her expertise in the field of safety is questionable. I don't suppose I'll ever find a framed master's degree in the field of Not Being Savagely Murdered hanging from her wall. 

Wolves are far safer than bears. This is an inarguable fact. Despite the facts that bears are larger, stronger, faster and loyal to nothing but the relentless pursuit of hunny, you've got to consider things like... who do you think you could take in a fight? Bear Grylls or Wolf Blitzer?

Things like... what happens after you dance with wolves? You win the Oscar, typically. Then get a haircut. What happens after you dance with non-circus bears? Not much, unless you consider screaming bloody murder and decomposing slowly to be worthwhile activities. Dancing with bears is the sort of thing that you might have read about in the last chapter of "Into the Wild," had it been written.

You know what happens when someone comes to your house and sees a bear skin rug on your floor? They might think you have a lot of money to spend on frivolous things. They might consider you to be a captain of industry who smells of grapes. They may stare at your crotch while you strut and wonder if you're hurting people with your equipment. They might want to offer you a flagon of grog or mead. If they have an odd warrior name like Zula or April, they might want to have sex with someone on it. 

You know what happens when someone comes to your house and sees a wolf skin rug? Maybe they'd wonder why you're so poor that you're carpeting your floor with roadkill. Maybe they'd assume it was a dog and that you were a filthy person that didn't have time to clean up all of your carcasses before you invited them over to watch the game. Maybe they'd say, "Fuck, dude... you couldn't pick this up before anyone saw it? Good job, Michael Vick. Look - let me help you get it in a dumpster before the cops come over." Is that what you want? 

You're so backward.

Three Little Right Today Your

I think this will be the first year I can recall that I didn't help promote the Boobiethon. I guess that must mean I'm siding with cancer. Wow. I apologize for my carcinogenic behavior.

Am I such a lazy blogger than I couldn't get off my ass and write a few words that could potentially save some lives? Yes. This is indisputable. 

High school students, do not ask me to write you letters of recommendation to your favorite college admissions departments. A few months later, after I've decided that I couldn't be bothered to hook you up, you'll be cursing my name as you toil away at Safety School State. And your less enterprising friends with semi-reliable references will instead enjoy the scenery at prestigious Nepotism University. 

My bad.

__________

Completely unrelated aside to help me reach my unofficial minimum word requirement:

One of my lifelong aspirations has always been to own a bearskin rug. I'd grow a beard out, get a mug of something warm, sit on the rug and stare into a crackling fire while I talked to someone about the time I saved a wolf from quicksand and became its best friend. Maybe I'd have friends over and casually pet the bear on the head while saying, "Careful, old friend - we remember what happened last time you bared those teeth at me, don't we?" It'd be so bad ass*.

For whatever reason, every time I daydreamed about the rug (and, consequently, how much I really hate bears) I'd never be near a computer to look up what they cost. Then, I'd get near a computer and, before I remembered to price one, I'd get on Wikipedia and read about Unwound or something. 

This pattern went on for years. Literally, years. I would never think about my desire for rug ownership while I had the means to find out how to get one. I'm not sure what the issue was.

Then, the other day, I got on the google machine and remembered to price rugs. And, now, I'm thinking I should just focus on trying to save a wolf from quicksand someday. That'd still be bad ass, and it wouldn't require years of indentured service to Bank of America.

__________

* To be fair, for about 5 of those years, I just wanted a bearskin rug so I could be that guy that could say he'd had hooked up on a bearskin rug. That pretty much stopped when I realized that normal women who aren't named Sheena or Zula don't easily get turned on by the notion of having sex on a corpse. Live and learn.

Side On Changes Walk Tiny Birds

I just saw in the news that Tufts University no longer allows students to have sex in their dorms while their roommates are present, with, I assume, orgies and film shoots for various porn websites being the exceptions.

On one hand, I can see where you'd have to wonder how many of those ugly kids at Tufts were having sex with each other to merit the rule. On the other, I can completely understand. A story ensues...

Once upon a time, I was in college. I had just spent a long day studying, preparing for exams and preparing a paper* and I was very, very tired. I went to bed at around 10 PM and left a note for my roommate on the door saying I was tired and asked if he could be quiet when he got home later.

When he arrived, I could hear him outside the door saying, "fuuuuuuuuuuck," followed by feminine giggling. You see, while I was studying and preparing myself for an exam**, my roommate was spending the day romancing*** a really, really, really hot girl that he'd been after for a while. Apparently, he'd pretended to like enough bands that she liked and pretended to think she was smart and insightful long enough to get her to agree to go to bed with him. My note was, as the kids would say, a hard rock cockblock.

He opened the door and peeked in. I was laying on my bed with my eyes just barely open. He said, "How tired are you?"

Extremely, my friend.

"So, you're saying you could sleep through anything right now?"

I... I.... damn, she really is hot, isn't she?.... alright, yeah. I could sleep through anything.

"With your eyes closed?"

Probably? But definitely asleep enough for your purposes.

"So, I'm gonna walk out in this hallway and talk to her for a second. When I come back in - you're snoring?"

Sure. Camera phones haven't been invented yet. Knock yourself out.

"Nice."

So, twenty seconds later, my roommate stumbled into the door with his lady friend and ambled over to his bed with her. Cockblock averted. Since my eyes were closed, I can only assume that he also brought over a rabid polar bear, a jackhammer that needed oil and an unchained banshee on LSD, because the sounds that came from his half of the room for the rest of the night were inhuman at best. 

I'd like to sit here and say it was your standard meat and potatoes sexual encounter and that, on a good day, I could have done the same, but I'm pretty sure he spent an hour breaking her into little pieces and ended up having to rebuild her like Frankenstein before the sun came up and I'm not a demolition expert. If I wasn't pretending to be asleep, I'd have applauded and tossed bouquets of flowers onto his bed.

The next morning, the three of us went and had breakfast. He ate enough pancakes to refuel a Sherman tank and, surprisingly, she was able to keep food down after having her stomach imploded.  Me? I was considering changing my major to theater arts because my manhood was in question for about a year.

So, congratulations, nerds at Tufts University. Not only do you not have to worry about figuring out whether to upload your hidden camera footage to Redtube or to Youporn, but you're also spared the never ending nightmare that is being outsexed by your yeti of a roommate. Enjoy the peace of mind.

_____________________________________________

* I most certainly was not doing any of these things. Not by any stretch.

** Again.... not remotely possible. But whatever I was doing, I was definitely tired at the end.

*** I'm being very kind with this verb. 'Romancing' isn't the kind of thing that precedes dropping a cherry bomb in a woman's crotch. I probably should have said 'bullshitting' or something.