Tipping. It makes no cents. See what I did there?

In December ought-five, my family and I went “across the pond,” as they say, to the country from whence America flew the coop. I’m talkin’ bout the U.K. Great Britain. One nation under the Union Jack.

England.

I was legal to drink in England, despite the fact that I had nearly 3 years left to go in my home country. So silly. I bought a bottle of gin on the airplane because I thought it was hilarious that I could do that. My mom didn’t. The bottle would later be consumed at the now defunct Go Vertical, and thinking about it makes me a little misty-eyed.

But that’s not the point. The point is, at the bars in England, you don’t tip. Seriously. The bartenders won’t accept it. Many of them even find it insulting. Some people just think to themselves, “that’s cool, I saved a dollar!” Well, for one, you saved a pound, you dumbass. At the current exchange rate, you saved $1.64.

But furthermore, the experience makes one think. What the hell is it with tipping? What the English would say when refusing a tip is “all I’m doing is my job.” And it’s true. You ask for a beer. A bartender hands you a beer. You pay for it. So why don’t we tip at convenience stores? Why don’t we tip when we take out food? Why don’t we tip at clothing stores?

That cup of coffee was so good, I'll pay for it twice.

The services for which you tip are seemingly random. You tip cab drivers, barbers, waiters, caddies, beauticians…but why? Why don’t you tip your financial advisor, or your doctor, or some contractor you hired to fix up your house?

I worked as a waiter for a few summers, and I know, of course, that in certain industries, minimum wage is lowered because tips are expected. And being the charmer that I am, that worked out quite nicely for me. But wouldn’t it make an equal amount of sense if the restaurants just paid the damn waiters more?

Tips started out as a way to thank someone for doing an exceptional job, but now they’re expected to the point of tampering with minimum wage. What the hell happened? I’ll tell you one thing; the restaurants make out pretty damn nicely with the current setup. When you’re a waiter, the diners pay your salary. How’d restaurateurs get away with that one?

It makes no goddamn fucking sense - pardon my French - and I’m sure a lot of people feel the same way. But really, you can’t refuse to tip out of principle – you’d be completely screwing a lot of people who really don’t get paid otherwise. So there’s no room for being ideological and sticking to your guns on this one.

No, my friends, when that bartender twists off the cap of that Coors Light you just ordered, you’ll give him an extra dollar for his troubles. What a weird fucking country.

Come on Down! It's Rant Day at Denim Douche!

Today’s a first on Denim Douche: I’m taking a request. Friend of the Douche Logan Peters made a suggestion for a new entry, and this is me, happily obliging.

By the way, any of you can feel free to request a topic at any time. Most will be stupid. I know this. But you may just hit a homerun. Wow, what foreshadowing.

Today, we’re talking about baseball promotions. Logan had astutely noticed the sad, sorry promotional items being offered at Yankee stadium. You know these. Something along the lines of “Come on down to Yankee Stadium on September 4th, because it’s Yankee meat thermometer night! Get ‘em while they’re hot!”

And you say, “Michael Kay, fuck off. I don’t want a meat thermometer. If you’re going to give shit out, make it cool.”

First of all, stop talking to your television. But more importantly, you’re right. I invented the Yankees meat thermometer, but truly, it’s not that far off base. Fuck, the world is loaded with baseball phrases.

When it comes to shitty promotions, the Yankees are batting .1000. Check out some of these upcoming winners:

Soup Bowl Night
Luggage Tag Day
Plush Yankees Whistle Night
Hand Sanitizer Keychain (Unfortunately, I’m missing this by 6 hours)
Limited Edition Miniature Collectible Ford Taurus Night

And some past winners:

Passport holder night
G-force trading card day
Calculator Day

Soup Bowl night? What the hell? Why not just “bowl night?” Are you required to eat soup out of it at all times? Is cereal forbidden?

How does one make a plush whistle? Plush is the shit Beanie Babies were made out of, right? I fail to see the physics of a whistle here.

Limited Edition Miniature Collectible Ford Taurus Night? Or as me and my homies call it, LEMCFTN? If you were to compile a list of miniature car figurines in order of desirability, where would you place the Ford Taurus? Somewhere in between a Gremlin and a Geo Tracker? Sounds about right.

Listen, going to a baseball game is a hell of a good time, and you usually don’t need a whole lot of extra incentive. Who the hell has ever had this conversation?

Dude: Hey, want to go to the Yankee game?
Other Dude: God, I don’t know… maybe…
Dude: It’s Luggage Tag Day!
Other Dude: LET’S FUCKING GO!!!!

There’s no way that these promotions actually boost attendance. And if they do…*angrily shaking my fist at the tri-state area*

In keeping with my intentional overuse of baseball phrases, I’d say these promotions are a strikeout, but I think that’s too exciting. They’re either a sacrifice bunt or a Jamie Moyer fastball. I can’t decide which. A balk?

Come on, where’s the good stuff? Give me Derek Jeter black book night. How about “learn Japanese with Hideki Matsui educational CD night”? CC Sabathia cookbook night? Andy Pettite fake butt-chin night? Who the fuck is Cody Ransom day?

Yankees, you’re a kajillion dollar franchise with 26 championships. Quit having promotions that look suspiciously like they came to fruition after thoughts like “what the fuck are we going to do with all these calculators?” Jason Giambi mustache night was a good start. We want more of that.

Love, America.

Engagement Rings: In the Marketing Ploy Hall of Fame.

Depending on whom you ask, a man is supposed to spend 2-3 months salary on an engagement ring for his bride-to-be.

This is seriously one of the most brilliant marketing moves of all time. I don’t know exactly how they did it, but the jewelry companies managed to convince an entire world that you don’t love your girlfriend unless you spend a fortune on a stupid fucking shiny thing holding a shinier thing.

"OOOOH, SHINY... SOOOOO PRETTY... ME WANT ONE..."

Try telling a woman that it’s stupid though. It’s romantic. It shows you care. Bullshit: it’s an egregious waste of money that could be better spent a billion different ways. Think about it; if you’re proposing, there’s a damn good chance you’re at a place in your life where it’s time to make some major purchases. A house. Cars. Not to mention the litany of expenses related to having children. So what the hell sense does it make to waste a quarter of a year’s salary on a fucking finger-adornment?

How about the wedding itself? That costs a pretty penny, don’t it? How about the honeymoon? You could buy the woman a fucking Ring Pop and then have the most incredible, memorable honeymoon in the world. Or you can give her a rock and stay at a motel 6. It’s up to you.

What is so interesting about a diamond? It doesn’t do anything. It doesn’t shoot lasers. It doesn’t sing your favorite song. All it does it sit there and twinkle. Okay, it’s pretty. But it ain’t that pretty.

And what does the guy get? A metal band. And not even a cool metal band, like Megadeth. A stupid gold circle that you put on your finger. Maybe if the tables were turned and women had to shell out upwards of ten grand for a ring, you’d hear more objection to the convention. But the way things are now suits them just fine. Pay up, or you don’t love me. Right.

Maybe this stupid rule had its place back in the day when women didn’t have rights, but in this day and age, it’s a relic. The world would be a far better place if people weren’t so image-obsessed and grinning like idiots over pretty things.

Man, whoever marries me is going to be one lucky woman.

Fashion is stupid.

Welcome to America. Welcome to a country that can justify spending a thousand dollars on a handbag. Welcome to a place where homeless people lie in city streets while women with four hundred dollar sunglasses step over them.

Why do people choose to spend their money this way? I just can’t wrap my head around it. I’m told all the time that I just “don’t get it,” but what is there to get? Why would people willingly pay 500% price markups for a brand name? Why purposely spend far more money than you have to for the same shit from a different designer?

There’s the matter of what’s “in” this season. Now, who the fuck decides that? Clearly, for something to start being “in,” it at first has to be “out.” Is there a panel that sits around in a shadowy room deciding what styles are going to fucking blow everyone’s mind this fall? No matter how goofy or retarded clothes, bags, or accessories look, if they’re “in,” they’ll be bought.

Fashion people, I ask you this: How insecure are you in your life? Why do you feel you have to keep up with the latest fashions? So people will like you better? If you fall behind on the styles, will your friends start ignoring you? Will your significant others dump you? Why the constant outpour of money on useless bullshit?

Fashion is one of the most arrogant obsessions there is, as well. People who love fashion love nothing more than sitting around talking about people who don’t care about fashion. They get really excited about the one time they picked out this cute dress for so-and-so and now that person is fashionable as well.

Call it cheap. I call it economical. I’ll buy my clothes at fucking Target and be all the happier for it. I’ll have thousands of extra dollars to save for important things. You know: a house, a car. Things that aren’t stupid.

Hey, it’s your money. Do what you want with it, by all means. But I will never, as long as I walk the Earth, even begin to understand it. Clothing was invented to serve a utilitarian purpose. They keep us warm. They keep us dry. I don’t know exactly when clothing became a comically overblown means of determining social status and rank-and-file, but you’ll never be able to convince me.

Report: Texting While Driving Greatly Increases Risk of Typos

Washington, D.C. – A new Princeton University report released Tuesday has dozens of legislators pushing for a federal ban of driving while text messaging. The startling study shows that texting while operating a motor vehicle can result in an alarmingly high rate of typographical errors.

“The logic behind the results is fairly obvious,” said Hal Sutherland, the study’s lead researcher. “This type of multitasking makes it impossible for citizens to keep their eyes on the phone. The grammatical and syntactical results can be absolutely devastating.”

Sutherland

According to the study, driving has a substantial negative effect on a myriad of common texting typos. “You’re 31% more likely to hit “send” before finishing a message when behind the wheel,” says Sutherland, “and 28% more apt to mistakenly leave a number in the middle of a word.”

Other shocking observations include a 52% boost in sending messages to the wrong recipient, a dramatic rise in T9 users sending “in” instead of “go,” and a 100% increase of the word “flggbdaoaug.”

“If the practice of texting while driving goes unchecked, who knows what could happen?” lamented Sutherland. “People will get confused, messages will be misunderstood, wrong directions will be given - if texting and driving continues, people could get hurt.”

The scientific community is abuzz with news of the report. “It’s really shocking,” says Martha Vaughn, famed text-message researcher at Cornell. “It’s the most breakthrough research since our study last June, which showed that drinking while texting causes a 627% upswing in telling your ex-girlfriend you love her at 3 in the morning.”

Separate Church and State, for F-word’s sake.

So my mom is in Maine, and needed me to mail her something. I couldn’t do it before noon on Saturday, because I was hungover and enjoying the absolutely phenomenal Brunch menu at Bull’s Head Diner.

The brunch menu is a choice of breakfast or lunch food from a list of a dozen or so selections, served with coffee or tea AND a brunch cocktail (Mimosa, Bloody Mary or Pina Colada)…all for 12 bucks…Complete with the diner’s trademark absurd serving sizes. I am convinced they’re losing money on this deal. And wouldn’t you know it, it even helped my hangover. Thanks, more booze!

So Sunday rolls along…and as we all know, the post office is closed. This is where I began to think and experience one of my fits of rage that you’re all privy to at this point. How the hell, in 2009, are post offices, banks, liquor stores, and a whole host of other things that I’m surely forgetting, legally required to shut their doors on Sundays?

Of course, these outdated traditions date back to the day when America truly was a Christian nation and the Sabbath was the day of rest. But for a country that purports to be nondenominational, we sure do things with a distinctively Christian flare, don’t we?

For a country with no religious affiliation, isn’t it funny that gays can’t get civil unions? A totally political ceremony with no religious connotations attached, and yet it somehow ruins the sanctity of marriage. Isn’t it fun that everyone has to swear on a Bible in a court of law? What if they aren’t Christian? Doesn’t that give them spiritual license to lie like crazy? Again, this is a leftover from our God-fearing roots, in which the political consequences of perjury still weren’t quite as bad as the eternal damnation of hellfire that would surely follow.

I find this shit so silly, and yet politicians don’t want to touch it with a hundred foot pole. Too many crazies and fundamentalists still out there. To challenge the now-absurd remnants of religious piety, even in this day and age, is a pretty risky political move. Maybe even a death sentence, depending on which nutjob you offend.

Remember, kids. It says “In God We Trust” on your dollar bill… and that’s why you can’t take them out of the bank on Sundays.

ATMs don’t count, asshole.

The Great Mighty Ducks Debate

In the great Dorito debate, I consider myself captain of the Cool Ranch side, and archnemesis Dave is the head honcho over at team Nacho Cheese. This argument continues to rage on, as chronicled months ago here on the Douche (consult the archives if you don’t remember this). The poll results were inconclusive, which I find exciting. A definitive answer to such a burning question shouldn’t come so easily.

But last night, I found myself engaged in a debate nearly as pressing as Dorito Wars. I speak, of course, of the great Mighty Ducks debate. No, the debate isn’t which Mighty Ducks movie is the best. That’s D2 by a country mile. The debate is this:

The Ducks in D2 have two girls on the team. Julie "The Cat" Gaffney (left), and Connie (right).


Which one is hotter?

Now, it may be a weird question to compare two underage girls’ looks, but remember that we grew up with this movie and the debate rages on from the days in which it was appropriate to think these girls were cute.

I am the staunch leader of the Connie camp, and face strong resistance from rival Alex Romansky, an uncompromising “The Cat” man.

Julie “The Cat” Gaffney, all-world goalie from Bangor, Maine, is a much more pivotal character. When coach Bombay makes the insanely ballsy decision to put an ice cold Gaffney in the goal against scoring machine Gunner Staal, you break into a cold sweat.

Connie is a less interesting character, but a much more slammin’ hottie. Goldberg knew it, the Bash Brothers knew it, shit, Julie “The Cat” Gaffney knew it. But hey, that’s just one man’s opinion.

But this is a Democracy. Take a trip back to the mid 90s with me. A time in which Happy Meals reigned supreme and people listened to Ace of Base. An era in which Michael Jordan ruled the world and Pogs happened. Put yourself in 1994 and cast your vote. Because at Denim Douche, we ask the tough questions. The answers come from you.

DUCKS FLY TOGETHER!

P.S. Ladies, don't be shy to chime in. Everyone can appreciate foxy 12 year old hockey players.

CNN or the Onion? A Denim Douche game

I truly am sorry for the infrequency of my updates. I am ashamed.

But they say absence makes the heart grow fonder. And if that's the case, I assume you're all swooning over the prospect of a new entry.

Swooning... now that's something I'd like to see make a comeback. Imagine being so studly that girls just passed out at the sight of you. Come to think of it, I think this applies to a lot of frat guys. Except it's not quite so much the charm as it is the roofies.

Well, I presume by now you've awaken from your swooning, so let's preface the game. One thing I like to do at work is read CNN. Hey, fuck you, I do plenty there. I can take some time to go to CNN and subsequently change my mind about actually wanting to read the news.

Anyway, I began to notice that towards the bottom of the headlines, at any given time, will be a bunch of stupid, asinine stories that make me laugh out loud. Of course, these are the ones I read, because I'm not wired like the rest of you. But I began to copy and paste the headlines into a word document, which I've e-mailed to myself, and am now ready to unleash. But I figured just doing that was a little pedestrian, so I'm doing it with a twist.

I'm going to interject FIVE headlines from the Onion, one of my very favorite sites on the internet, into my list of CNN headlines. Quite simply, you'll try to figure out which five headlines are "fake" news. If you get them all right, I'll photoshop you into my picture at the top of the page. Isn't that thrilling? Imagine the chance to be featured on a webpage that gets literally dozens of hits a day! Fucking WHOA!

So, message your guess to me on facebook or IM it to hawaiianryan1234, because I think it's way more amusing if no one can see each other's replies. So without further ado, here is the list!

-Dog eats bag of pot, gets high
-Flying fish smack boater in head
-Rat rides a cat riding a dog
-Cat killings becoming more violent
-Badly injured man not done partying yet
-New York to kill 2,000 Canada geese
-Chihuahuas corner cougar in garage
-Wow factor added to corporate presentation
-Man gets stuck atop highway sign
-Fly bugs Obama, so he coolly smacks it
-F-bomb sneaked onto yearbook cover
-Gal offers herself on eBay for 99 cents
-Dog walker trampled to death by cows
-Kid with Tourette’s stands up to bullies
-Mix Tape expresses subtleties of long-term relationship
-Typo cuts drug offender’s prison term
-Singer confesses, “I smuggle avocados”
-Naked flight crew creates safety video
-Guy jumps from helicopter onto marlin?
-NAACP calls for more diversity in police lineups
-Squirrel pops out of cleavage
-Murder suspect’s grin spurs brawl in court
-Holocaust film appeals to believers and skeptics alike
-Woman zaps cheer coach, gets 5 years
-Gay penguins split after one goes straight
-Man has to pick between selling kidney or child
-A stop for doughnuts, then on to the moon
-Commentary: Gay is not the new black

Best of luck! Oh, and cheating on this would be the saddest thing I've ever heard of. Don't do it to yourself.

Where do these weird phrases come from?

So I was in my car, listening to Z-100.

Let's stop right there. You may be thinking to yourself, Ryan, you hate pop music, why were you listening to Z-100? Very good question. Glad you brought that up. There are several reasons.

A. I broke my tape adapter.

My tape adapter, to me, was my musical lifeline while in my car. That beautiful piece of equipment would respond to my every whim. Having nearly 4,000 songs at your disposal when you're already a picky music fan is certainly a bonus. Anyway, broke that. Haven't gotten a new one yet. Probably should.

B. My CDs are...problematic?

I haven't really gotten any new CDs in the past 4 or 5 years, as I'll either download off iTunes or pirate music like a real American. Thus, my CD collection represents the Ryan of 9th or 10th grade just a liiittlle too much. Plus, they all skip and piss me off.

C. What are my other options?

Classic Rock stations are insanely irritating in that there are several decades of rock music one may deem "classic," yet I don't think the playlist on these stations has changed in 10 or 12 years. It drives me crazy for some reason. KROQ, the old standby for rock music in this area, is now ANOTHER pop station. I'm not interested in country, salsa, or talk radio. So...

I was listening to Z100. Sean Kingston's latest assault on my earlobes comes on. I start punching inanimate objects left and right, uncontrollably. It's a reflex I have. But then, in the midst of my agony, my mind, being of an inquisitive nature, settled on something to overanalyze. "Shorty."

Just begging to be kicked in the face.

Kingston's busy blathering away about the club (can he even get in?) in his 13 year old overwrought Jamaican accent, but I can't help noticing every 3 or 4 words he drops "Shorty" again. That got me thinking. Why the hell do rappers and wannabe Jamaican R&B singers say "shorty?" What is the origin of this phrase? At what point does a word that sounds like a pejorative aimed at little people become slang for an attractive woman? Are these people trying to say that hot women are like midgets?

Be wary of this line of thought, because it'll only lead you down a slippery slope of mental anguish. Why do we say, "baby?" Isnt' that kind of creepy? How come in the 70's, rockers used to say "little girl?" Isn't that even creepier? What about rad? hip? dawg? da bomb? cool? phat (really???), foxy, money, AAAAAAAH. The list goes on and on.

That's when I realized you just can't question these things. Satisfied with giving up, I tuned back into reality, where Kingston continued to make a compelling argument as to why someone should take him out close range with a crossbow to the face. I changed the station.

Kelly Clarkson.

Oh well, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

MY LIFE! WOULD SUCK! WITHOUUUUUUTTT YOUUUUUUUU!!!

You could say that about my tape adapter.

Call Me Crazy, But I’m Starting to Think Lady GaGa is Using a Euphemism For Sex

Lately, I’ve been harboring a strange notion when I hear a certain little rousing electronic pop number on the radio. I know it’s hard to believe, but I can’t shake the feeling that Lady GaGa is dabbling in innuendo when she says that she wants to “take a ride on your disco stick.” Crazy, I know…but bear with me.

Now, you and I both know that there’s virtually no history of sexual euphemism in popular music, but I can’t escape the idea that this Lady GaGa character is not really talking about a disco stick. And it’s not even simply because there’s no such thing as a disco stick; but disco dancing doesn’t seem to fit with the song’s theme of frisky sexuality. Why would GaGa want to mount a fictional object pertaining to the 1970s dance craze in the middle of arousal?

So I’m thinking that either the song is poorly written or there’s something else going on here…she’s talking about sex. Just think about it…a disco stick, if it existed, would have lots of penis-like qualities. It would be long and phallic, just like an erect man. And she doesn’t simply say she wants to ride ANY disco stick…she wants to ride YOURS.

Subtle as this clever turn of phrase may be, a discerning mind such as my own sees something lying beneath the surface. Ah, the dexterity of the English language! It never ceases to amaze me the things we can “say,” without really saying anything.

Yet, if she’s saying what I THINK she’s saying, it’s certainly inappropriate. What ever happened to good, clean tunes like “Cherry Pie,” by Warrant? An innocent song about a classic American dessert; That’ll never go out of style, trust me. How about “Turning Japanese?” A playful number poking fun at the impossibility of changing races. Poignant and playful. They don’t make songs like they used to, that’s for sure!

GaGa is wading in dangerous waters…she could be starting a dangerous precedent. Before we know it, everyone could be throwing euphemisms in their music.

HA! Wouldn’t that be something?

Next order of business: what’s the deal with that “If You Seek Amy” song? Who’s Amy?

This weather sucks.

Conversation about weather is one of the greatest building blocks of small talk. It's a cliche of the highest order. But the recent shitstorm here in the lovely Constitution State has transcended the normal inane chatter about weather and brought about something more:

It's ruining the goddamn fucking summer! Today is Friday. I'm supposed to be antsy in my pantsy about today. I should be dreaming about frolicking on the beach and grilling in my backyard. But I look out the window at this dismal gray world and I can only muster sounds of supreme disappointment. Ugh. Sigh. Bleh. Fuck. I don't care that I'm at work. I should be bursting at the seams to backflip out the door and enjoy the weekend, but I'm lethargic and just don't care about anything.

I seriously can't remember any stretch of bullshit weather having lasted this long in my lifetime. I mean, it's depressing enough that Michael Jackson just bit it yesterday and the Knicks missed out on Rubio and Curry, but now I have to sit here and contemplate how much more it can rain before I'm driven to suicide. The answer? Let's say 4 days.

Already a pessimist about many things, I'm now forced to add sunshine to the list. Occasionally in this god-awful month-long marathon of misery, the sun would peek its shiny little stupid face out from behind the clouds. The people around me...family members, friends, co-workers...might feel some enthusiasm, but I know. I know what's coming. In twenty minutes it'll be darker and nastier than before and then it'll pour. It's cruel; it's unmerciful.

A few times in the beginning I fell for the sun's teasing bullshit. But now I'm like your dog when you overuse that fake-tennis-ball throw. Sure, I hauled ass to the other side of the yard the first time, but each time after that I reacted a little less to the point where now I just lie down and stare depressingly. Why tease me? Sure I pissed on the carpet a couple times...metaphorically and literally...but do I really deserve this? The weather has shackled and beaten my spirits like Kunta Kinte.

So hey: it might be cliche to talk about the weather, but this is different. I'm this close to building a fucking ark. God, if you're really up there, do something about this shit. Because it's summer, and it should feel like it. I want to lie in the yard and crave iced tea and have barbecues and be able to leave my windows open without it raining on my pillows.

Seattle, I don't know how you do it.

The RIAA is evil

Take a look at this.

It's a CNN article about a 32 year old mother who was taken to court by the RIAA. The court ordered her to pay 1.9 million dollars as punishment for the 24 songs she illegally downloaded.

Holy fucking shit. 24 songs, 1.9 MILLION dollars? There's a quote at the end from an RIAA spokesperson who's all chipper and pleased with the outcome. What the fuck ever happened to "may the punishment fit the crime?" How in the hell are the RIAA lawyers so good they convinced everyone that the cost of illegally downloading one song is eighty-fucking-thousand dollars? This shit is out of hand.

At the same time, Donte Stallworth, a wide receiver for the Cleveland Browns (former Patriot, but he sucked and was upstaged by Wes Welker) just received a thirty day jail sentence for a crime he recently committed. Ah, a month in jail; that's nothing. He must not have done much of anything. Ha. Or so you think. He drove drunk and killed a pedestrian. Now, that's the result from criminal court, I'm sure he'll be handing a nice chunk of change over to the victim's family in the end, but this to me is troubling.

A run-of-the-mill everyday woman downloads 24 songs and she now owes the RIAA more than a lot of people make in a lifetime. A pro football player gets hammered and ends a person's life, and we're talking about when he can play football again. What the fuck? The point really isn't to bitch about Stallworth's case, just show the juxtaposition between the two cases for shock/comedic value.

There really isn't much more to say...the inner anger you're rightly feeling should suffice. Let's go to the RIAA headquarters and burn that mother down. Stealing music is wrong, but so is extorting millions of dollars from laymen for 24 dollars worth of music. If a song is worth $80,000, then call me Bill fucking Gates' daddy. 3,401 songs on my iTunes at 80k a pop comes to $272,080,000. Who knew I was sitting on such a fucking cash cow? That's it, I'm taking early retirement. See y'all in the Hamptons.

Why do I spill everything I eat on my lap?

Moments ago, while enjoying a delicious lemonade popsicle (box calls it a Fruit Bar. That makes me feel better about myself) I shifted my gaze from the computer screen to my customary attire of sweatpants and a t-shirt. I just wrote about the emotional rewards of wearing this outfit. I swear. (Note: I'm not wearing slippers at the moment. The thing happened where I can plainly see one and the other one is God-knows-where, likely in some bizarre location like three feet under my bed, or outside).

My t-shirt was unscathed, at least according to my cursory glance. But it's a black shirt...something could have easily gone unnoticed. I quickly ran my hand over the surface to feel for a wet spot before refusing to examine this garment any further. Then, my focus shifted to the sweatpants.

Sigh. A veritable Jackson Pollock of rogue condiments and dripping Fruit Bars. It remains to be seen whether the Fruit Bar drippings will remain visible upon drying, but I think I like my odds on this one. The lemony drops of tongue-numbing goodness lack the viscosity of the usual suspects such as ketchup, hot sauce, salsa, and ranch dressing.


This picture of my washboard abs should shed some light on the issue.

But one question remains: What the fuck is wrong with me? Why can't I eat like a normal person? I feel like the last kid to learn to tie his shoes. Is there some big secret that everyone else knows besides me? This epidemic of food spillage is causing catastrophic results. They include, but are not limited to:

1. Public ridicule
2. Premature washing of the pants
3. Premature washing of the shirt
4. The great debate as to whether or not to eat the piece of food that I dropped on myself
5. Permanent stains

Putting a napkin on my lap helps, but only slows the onslaught. The shirt is still fully exposed. It's like carrying a shield in battle. It's nice when you're deflecting blows to your arms and torso, but then someone stabs you in the face. The napkin and shield are both so often victims of poor strategic placement.

Indeed, my friends, it is a problem, but I do believe, one day, I will persevere. The ability to change and adapt is one of the things that makes us human. A stained garment is but a temporary affliction, and one which I will rise above.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a slipper to find.

Why don't we have drinking songs?

It's been a while. I'm working now, and I'm spending 8 hours a day writing. Suffice to say, my current situation decreases the desirability of writing as an activity. You know, it's like being a chef and then coming home and deciding you're just going to whip up a souffle and some steak tartare just for the hell of it. Fuck that, you know that chef is headed right for the Stouffer's.

So, for a while at least, entries might be a little few and far between, but I promise I'll try super super hard when I write. Pinky swear.

Why don't we have drinking songs?

This is bullshit. Ireland has drinking songs, England has drinking songs, Germany has drinking songs (I think...), where are ours? Was this a Revolutionary War era thing? Did Americans, upon fleeing Europe, decide to drop drinking songs as a break from the homeland? Whatever the case, I motion to start some up. Drinking is jolly and social, you're bound to throw your arm around a pal or two. You're already in position. What's wrong with swinging a frothy mug full of beer back and forth in time with a frolicking song about drinking in the fuckin' U.S. of A?

Drinking songs are unique because they are the only songs in history besides Biz Markie's "Just a Friend" in which they have to be sung drastically out of tune to be sung properly. If you sound coherent, you need to consult your beer. Several times in a row. But that's the appeal of it all. It's all about having a good time. Just like Hungry Hungry Hippos.

The problem is, I think we've missed our window. The Irish and English drinking songs (obviously, the gold standard for drinking songs) are old fashioned and rustic. Americans wouldn't be able to come up with something comparable this late in the game. Any drinking song we came up with at this point would sound forced and embarrassingly bad. I'm sure it would involve synths and distorted pop vocals. Fuck this country.

I mean, imagine trying to write something like "Row, Row, Row your boat" these days. Dammit, a charming jingle like that wouldn't survive in this petulant musical climate. It's the fact that it's been around seemingly forever that gives it its charm. We know it's silly, we know it's bafflingly inane, but that's why it's great. Maybe we should all get drunk and sing that. Hmmm...

That's it. There is no resolution. Many of my complaining posts cover a possible solution to the problems of the world, but this is one in which I've pretty much got nothing. It's just unfortunate. I want a drinking song, and I'm not welcome in foreign ones because it's a national pride thing. So while the damn Europeans sway to and fro to the rousing anthems of their forefathers, I'll cringe as drunk girls screech "Don't Stop Believing" again, and again, and again.

Fuck you and the metric system, Europe!

How I know there is no God.

Calm down, this isn't an intense lesson in theology. This isn't a study of philosophical paradoxes. It isn't a denouncement of organized religion. Although, perhaps some day, I'll delve into that. Or maybe I already have. Check the archives.

I'm sitting here, at 8:19 pm, in familiar attire. In fact, on just about every weeknight, you'll find me in a similar manner: Wearing a t-shirt, sweatpants, and slippers. Oh yeah, I'm talking about the holy trinity of clothing comfort. These articles of clothing are the undisputed champions of my wardrobe, although I will occasionally don a robe as it strikes my fancy.

It's not that I wear these clothes all day. I go out into the world in more respectable attire. Jeans, sneakers, polos, occasionally a button-down if I'm feeling crazy. But let's be honest: I really want to be in a t-shirt, sweatpants, and slippers. There are no exceptions. It's just that I'm a giant pussy and I conform to the all-important societal norm. I wear my jeans...and then I put sweatpants on when I get home. Sneakers are unceremoniously kicked off in favor of their more slippery counterpart. Any and all cumbersome apparel is promptly discarded as I prepare for something I like to call "lounge time." The hours for lounge time are currently 12pm to Close (i.e. sleep), although starting work next week will certainly alter this routine.

But why? Why don't I optimize my satisfaction in life and slum it up 24/7? Why don't I dress like your dad on Christmas morning every day for the rest of my life? Well, for one, slippers couldn't withstand the beating that everyday wearing requires, but more importantly, because I unfortunately care too much. I'd like to think that I didn't, but alas, I do.

Ever heard of Hedonism? According to Wikipedia, our dear friend and comrade, "Hedonism is a school of philosophy which argues that pleasure has an ultimate importance and is the most important pursuit of humanity."

If only. If only I was quite brazen enough not to give a single solitary F-word what people thought about me to the point where I could dress like I was retrieving a newspaper from the front stoop day in and day out.

It was at this point in my soul-searching that I made my ultimate revelation: that there is no God. Hence the title. Why are the best things in life the most socially undesirable? The best foods are burgers, pizza and wings. This is, like all my other opinions, indisputable. But wouldn't you know, they're fucking terrible for you and they'll give you a coronary. Why can't salad taste like wings? Why? I would be the healthiest person you ever met. I would. Why are the most comfortable clothes also the ones that'll make people give you the stink-eye? Hell, I know I don't look that bad right now; I own a mirror. But if I went out like this, well, you know the drill. My greatest gift in life would be the ability not to care; then I could live out the rest of my life in Hedonistic fashion, the only tradeoff being that I'd look like the Comic Book Guy and I'd likely smell like a week-old dumpster.

But really, aren't our inhibitions just an extension of Hedonism? If we're fat and raggedy, we won't have friends, and we won't get laid. That's quite a blow to the pleasure-seeking lifestyle, isn't it? So perhaps we're all Hedonistic in our own little way, striving to keep that delicate balance between the Freudian id and societal expectations. Like hitting a ball in tennis, we're constantly aiming for that sweet spot. I'm just as much a victim of the system as anyone. So until the day that societal tastes change to the point where people Colin Mochrie to Colin Farrell, I suppose I'll just have to deal with the fact that there is a 1.0 Pearson R correlation between "Things I'd like to do" and "Things that would make me look shitty."

Up yours, society. Pass the salad.

The Rime of the Ancient Refrigerator

Having been in a Short Story class (which I ironically chose over a Poetry class) this past week and change, I've been feeling literary, and that of course led me back here. Lacking both the energy or the space to craft a 15 page short story, I thought I would write a short poem, about something close to my heart: The Refrigerator Debacle in which I've found myself entangled this path month. If you don't know what I'm talking about, don't worry. It'll all make sense soon enough. Here it is,


THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT REFRIGERATOR

One day, about a month ago,
I tried to rid my fridge of frost,
but when I used that screwdriver,
I did not know what it would cost:
My very mind would soon be lost.

With my sharp tool I poked a hole
into the freezer's metal base.
Then from the ice a Freon leak
Shot noisily towards my face
and started stinking up the place.

The Internet gave me bad news:
My fridge was broken, useless, shot.
I knew I could not tell the truth,
I must instead create a plot,
Or else this fridge would cost a lot.

"I used a hair dryer to defrost
The ceiling of that freezer.
But then an ice chunk dropped so hard,
The floor was gouged like Caesar."
Yeah, that oughtta please her.

The office sent for maintenance,
To come install a new machine,
But when I tried to tell my tale,
They looked as if I'd said the Queen
was secretly a wolverine.

They sent the bill for a new fridge,
I can't believe they had the gall.
The old one was so Goddamned old
It could have been in Annie Hall
or greeting shoppers at the mall.

'Cause why should I be forced to buy
these greedy bastards a new fridge?
I'll pay the price for the old one,
It wouldn't even cost a smidge,
Because it's older than Brad Lidge.

The dumb bitch at the office sucks,
She won't back down a single cent.
It's either this or small claims court,
So now at last I must relent,
And pay these assholes half my rent.

So if your freezer needs a clean
Don't you forget I had to pay
Five hundred bucks that fateful morn
I thought I'd try to chip away
Some space to fit an ice cube tray.

So now I sit here with my check
which I must place into the mail,
and though it had no happy end,
I hope all you I did regale,
With my refrigerator tale.

Ryan Prescott, 2009.

Useless Job #3

Hey everybody, it's my fiftieth post!

*Puts on a party hat, blows into a noisemaker, and in a sad, lonely display, contemplatively enjoys a slice of cake.*

To celebrate this reaching of the half-century mark, I shall do what you've all been dying for ever since my uncomfortably sincere Graduation entry: return to form. The Douche shall once again be Douchey. Graduation is an important and thought-provoking time, but I think we're all better served when I stick to hating things that are stupid; don't you? Exactly. So, in the words of my grandmother, let's get it crackalackin'.

USELESS JOB #3: STORE GREETER



I'm a social person. I like talking to people. I enjoy interaction. But one thing I don't like is interacting with people who are paid to interact with me (well, apart from hookers). That's why I hate dealing with Greeters. You know these people: they're the people in Walmart and Costco (I'm sure there are more, but I can't think of any right now) who stand 10 feet behind the door and say "hi" to you as you walk in. You avert your eyes and say "hi," or simply nod, and don't even break stride as you continue into the store. Your only thought is, "man, what a shitty job. I wonder what kind of life choices led that individual to becoming a professional Greeter."

The point, I presume, is to make these enormous meccas of retail seem more warm and inviting. I have so many problems with this baffling logic I don't even know where to begin. Do these companies really think that by having a 90-year-old man standing around in a vest, customers will think that they're in a mom-and-pop shop? With a chipper old man sweeping the old floorboards and his wife elbow-deep in dough baking apple pie? I think the minute you build a 3 mile parking lot and electronic sensor-operated doors that fling open as you approach the building, you've lost that quaint appeal you so badly desire. Sorry, but them's the breaks.

You know what's warm and inviting about small businesses? The fact that employees actually know you (e.g. Mo-Mo at Colony, Mama Emilia and her disappointingly Americanized son at Emilia's, the mafia-looking guy at the barbershop I go to) and a lot of time, you're being greeted by the owners themselves. No one going to Walmart has the illusion that the "SuperStore" is anything like the above mentioned establishments. Or that the CEO is going to swing by and give them a pat on the back just for coming to Walmart. They understand that they're dealing with a corporate giant and you're just adding to the bottom line.

You see, when the moms and pops of the world greet you, it's still for business reasons. They want you to feel good about being in their store so that you'll spend more money, come back more often, and all that other good stuff. But the difference is, that's something they're doing of their own volition. They don't HAVE to be congenial, they choose to be because it's probably a good idea. A greeter that doesn't greet you is no longer a greeter. He/She is, as of that moment, an ex-greeter. It's their job, it's totally disingenuous, and utterly transparent. I really dislike being pandered to, and I think the Greeter is a really feeble attempt to improve these corporations' public images. Sorry Walmart, but as long as you treat your employees like crap and crush union activity like Hitler's Blitzkrieg, your reputation's staying in the shitter.

You can see I've essentially left behind all the other companies with Greeters besides Walmart, but let's take Walmart as an example and extrapolate the lessons we learn from Walmart to all the other businesses, k?

Here's my question: Does Walmart really need a greeter? What the hell is the point? No one is going to Walmart for the greeter. Everyone ignores the greeter. No one is going to Walmart for the warm atmosphere. It's a cold, enormous warehouse full of shit. People are going to Walmart because their prices are unfathomably low, and that's the bottom line. We don't feel good about ripping the heart out of the American small business. We don't feel good about supporting a company with some super shady business practices; but we do it anyway. Hell, we already know Walmart is pretty fucked up, and that hasn't stopped us from going. Why not fire all the greeters all across the country and keep the revenue? With all the shit they've been accused of doing, some guy standing in the doorway saying "hi" to you is clearly not enough to change their image in the minds of the individual customer or the American people as a whole. We don't like what they do, but we still go, and that would remain true with or without the greeter. But hey, they're the richest company in the world; I guess they know what they're doing.

I'll close by saying this: Having greeters with Down Syndrome is possibly the single most underhanded move one of these companies can make. I spoke before about hating being pandered to, and this is about as blatant as it gets. They might as well put these people in T-shirts that say "See? We really do care!" There are people with Down Syndrome working in every dining hall on campus; they're capable of more than being sleazily used for political reasons like they are in these stores. Thank you, and that is all.

As we go on, we remember, all the times we, had together.

Familiar title, isn't it? Yep, it's "Graduation Song" by Vitamin C. No, I didn't have to look that up. Marvel in my endless supply of useless knowledge. Marvel hard. Indeed, I graduate from college on Sunday, and upon walking across that stage, it's the end of an era for me. "End of an era" moments need to be chronicled. They just do. Yeah, I have to take a 3 week summer class starting Monday, so I'm technically not done, but I feel done. I'm surrounded by people who are done. My family is taking me out to brunch on Sunday. That's right, I said it: Brunch. You can tell things are getting serious now.

For as long as I can remember, every year has worked the same. You start school in August or September, and you end school in May or June, depending on whether we're talking about high school or college. You enjoy a summer off, save up some cash for the next year, and start all over. BAM! Cycle over. It's work time. It's career o'clock. Never again will I be able to start my day at 11 am or wear sweatpants all day. Never again will I be able to take days off just because I feel like it. Because now, someone will be depending on me. That sounds a little scary, doesn't it?

It's a pretty big turning point, and that's why I feel the need to be somewhat solemn today in writing this. I still feel like a kid; I laugh at the same jokes I did five years ago, I eat at all the same restaurants, and I still get drunk and act silly, but now I'm stepping into grown-up land. How different will things be? How different will I have to be? Why do I have to move back in with my mom? Is there no God?

College is a means to an end. Now that I'm at the end, I long for the means. I will not quote that bullshit "I love College" song because it sucks, and it's a sad pile of self-glorification that comes off as a skinny Jewish kid making a song full of raging party experiences so that he looks cooler than he really is. But what's not to like about a bustling metropolis full of your peers, every one of them looking to get A. educated, and B. drunk, not necessarily in that order? But hey; it's my nostalgic nature. I felt the same way leaving high school.

So here I am, my 17 years of education at its end (not counting Pre-school, although I did learn some good fingerpainting fundamentals there). I don't often get down with my touchy-feely side, so go ahead, call me a pussy. But I'm sure you're feeling the same way. Cheers, UConn, it's been real. Oh, and fellow grads, stay in touch. It's called networking now.

And in regards to the title: come on, man. You didn't think I was that lame, did you? It's a joke! Lighten up!

News/updates/ramblings/sex offenders

You may be wondering what happened with the Challenger. It didn't happen. I was planning to go with a group of people, you see, and about an hour before the show was to go on, the people informed me that they had better things to do. I think doing an eating challenge with a group of friends cheering you on would be a lot of fun, but there's no real point doing it if there's no one there to see it. Thus, I cancelled. Names will not be named, and if you're one of the people and don't like that I'm anonymously referencing you, well I guess we're even.

According to my AdSense page, I've gone over a thousand hits (1,011 to be exact) since I put the ads on this son of a bitch. February 22nd to May 5th, not too bad. Let's do some math. March and April have 61 days combined. Add the last 6 in February and the first 5 in May, that's 72! 1,011 hits divided by 72 is....more than 14 hits per day (see, isn't math fun!?). Not bad, but we can do better. Yes, we can! Yes, we can! (That's what Obama says.) According to the AdSense page, "ad clicks must come from genuine user interest," thus I'm not allowed to encourage you to click them. So I'm NOT telling you to go ahead and just click the hell out of these things. I'm NOT telling you that whenever you need to make a Google search, why not head on over to Denim Douche and use my search, at the top or bottom of the page. Not telling you to do that.

Also, you may have noticed that my ads will often involve seemingly random topics triggered by words that I use in my posts. Repeated self-referencing has lead to a run of Douche related products, and even a slightly hilarious website called "Nomorefishysmell.com." Now, they're all related to recycling. Hmm. I think it's time to perform an experiment, if you'll allow me. I'm just going to fire out a whole list of random words to see if it affects the ads. Ready? *Deep breath...*

football cheese soda walnuts hairspray sea lions queens polio applesauce beetles cats desks lights killer whales samuel l jackson sigourney weaver tom hanks muppets the office zebras guitars buffalo wings drums pencils glue toilet paper shoes.

We'll see what happens, I guess. Maybe I'll get in trouble from AdSense.

One more thing, you've just got to do this;

National Sex Offender Registry

The national sex offender registry; the place where you can enter your street and your hometown and become frighteningly aware of just how many sex offenders there are around you. Sleep with one eye open, fish!

The best part is, the sex offenders look exactly like you'd expect them to. Be sure to use this for profiling purposes.

The Challenger: Tomorrow!

Ladies and Gentlemen, children of all ages (and Dave): I have an announcement for you! That's right, the long-awaited Challenger date has been decided upon, and it's tomorrow. Come down to Wooster St. Pizza around 7 pm or so and watch me and my roommate contemplate our lives whilst attempting to down a 22-inch topping-loaded monster of a pizza.

You have to pay for Cirque de Soleil. You have to pay for Siegfried and Roy. This, however, is a free show. That hasn't stopped me from hitting you up for donations, of course. Let me once again reiterate why I ask of you...so very little.

If we win, which I believe there's a good chance we will, the pizza is free. There will be much rejoicing. We will don swimming goggles and douse ourselves in champagne, and then possibly lighter fluid and turn ourselves into fiery Buddhist monks.

If we don't win, in the unlikely event I pull a hamstring or some other unfortunate roadblock occurs (I doubt it'll be fullness...we have a whole hour), the pizza is about 36 dollars plus tax and tip.

Now, while I'd like to guarantee victory, I ain't Broadway Joe Namath, and the Challenger ain't the Johnny Unitas Baltimore Colts. I'm confident, but I'm not psychotic. A lot of people get overconfident and blow their children's college funds in Las Vegas. And that's not what we want, is it? The point of asking for donations is that I need to be prepared to lose before I can win. I want to focus on beating that pizza like Rihanna and not what the hell I'm going to do if I can't. Like John, Paul, George, and Ringo, I'm hoping to get by with a little help from my friends, and beat that pizza with Maxwell's Silver Hammer. Yellow Submarine.

Mull it over. And be at Wooster St. Pizza, tomorrow (that's Friday), 7ish. It's what Jesus would have done.

Death to Tomra!

Before we get started on today's blog extraodinaire (well, to be honest, it'll really be no different than any other entry, but since all my entries are extraordinary, that makes them all extraordinaires, right?) I need to take a moment to pose a question to my loyal readers. Does anybody out there know what the fuck the deal is with those "enter the word you see above" boxes? Every time I spam all of your facebooks with my status indicating I've written a new Douche, they make me copy down two words. Yeah, that's right, two. As if one indecipherable, partially occluded, curvy word weren't enough. I've never gotten this; If they want you to copy down a word, why can't it just be a word in a normal font, not sideways and quadruple italicized? Why do I even need to copy down a word in the first place? I'm sure there must be some sort of security explanation behind it, but fuck, why two? It's like, before you post your status, write the words "DUCK MARMALADE" in the box. Uh, okay, sure. Just for fun, when I change my status to alert all of you of what random words I have to write, I'll copy them at the bottom of the post. Isn't that fun?

So you may be asking yourself, who/what the fuck is Tomra? Tomra is the only company I'm aware of that makes the bottle and can recycling machines at the grocery stores. I'm sure there are more, but this is Denim Douche, and I don't do research. Yeah, I recycle my bottles and cans, because I love the environment. Whoops, I meant because I get five cents apiece for everything I stick into one of these fantastic machines! But they're not fantastic, are they? I see you shaking your head, "no." And you're right. They suck.

Have you ever seen anything in the world more reliably unreliable than the recycling machines? Honestly, you walk into that bottle room knowing full well that half of the machines will be broken or full, and that's a conservative estimate. There's always someone in front of you with a goddamn mountain of cans moving as slowly as possible. Meanwhile, the machines are beeping away screaming "change me" like a crying baby, and no one's coming.

Oh, but in the rare occasion that someone does come, have you ever seen anybody more pissy about performing their job than this person? They come trudging in like they're inches away from pulling out an Uzi and wiping out the Deli section, sigh loudly, change the bins, and then walk around the corner of the building where I assume they finish the contents of their flask. These people look so goddamn miserable about performing this menial task, it's unbelievable. My theory is that the machines that are labeled as broken really aren't, it's just that the employees put the signs up because changing the bins more often would drive them to suicide.

If you do get a machine, good for you. Now you just have to soak your arms up to the elbow with stale beer and soda, a good portion of which still have some sludge at the bottom waiting to drip on your shoes. At this point you wonder which one of your dickhead fuckass friends is incapable of taking that last sip to ensure the dryness of the can. Oh, and the machines don't accept water bottles, Gatorade, Powerade, Snapple, Iced Tea, Red Bull, and God only knows what else. If you're returning some fancies you got for a nice change of pace from the grind of Keystone and Busch, there's about a 50% chance the machines won't take that either, despite CT being listed in plain English on the side of the bottle as accepting that brand. Christ.

But I endure this buffet of fecal matter for that all important 5 cents per unit. It really gives me this nice sense that I'm saving money, when really, the store already took out the bottle deposit when you bought that shit anyway. All you're getting back is the money you already unnecessarily spent. Might as well put a gun to my head and tell me to recycle. And what about this; 2-liter bottles of soda, gargantuan as they are, are worth the same as soda cans. What? Considering they have something like 10x the surface area, shouldn't they be worth more? If I can fit 10 cans or 1 bottle into a garbage bag, aren't I going for the cans every time? Fuck this system. God Damn you Tomra, with your virtual monopoly over recycling equipment! Someone slay this giant of the returnables industry before it's too late.

The words I had to enter in the box:

"astoria m"

Yeah, exactly.

The Demise of Hockey

Before I get started on the actual subject of this post, I feel I must show you this picture.



What the fuck? I already hated this guy enough, but then I came across that picture on ESPN. Yeah, Lil' Wayne writes a blog on ESPN. knock yourself out. I wonder if he actually WRITES something and ESPN has 40 or 50 copy editors working full-time to decipher his weed-addled, incoherent scribblings. The other alternative, of course, is that he just speaks his thoughts into a tape recorder, and 40 or 50 government forensic speech pathologists work full-time to decipher his weed-addled, incoherent blather. I don't think I've ever wanted to see someone fall from grace as badly as Lil' Wayne. I fall asleep every night praying to Jesus that next week I'll see him selling hot dogs and Snapple on a street corner somewhere. I wouldn't even buy from him, either, because I'd want him to fail at that, too. I can dream, can't I? Lil' Wayne can lick my ass. Like a lollipop. (OH, SNAP!)

I really could never say enough to fully express my disdain for the aforementioned douchebag of the above paragraph, so I'll just scream into a pillow for 10 or 15 minutes and we'll move on.

So I was watching SportsCenter yesterday (nice segue, huh? Ya know, ESPN!?) from the beginning. I watched the NBA playoff highlights of the Bulls-Celtics game, and the Mavs-Spurs game. Commercial. Okay, so when the show comes back I'll check out what happened in the playoff hockey games and then I'll head to campus. It comes back; baseball highlights. NFL draft talk. Heated debate about whether Tiger Woods has an innie or an outie. Okay, not that. It was THIRTY MINUTES into the show before they got to the hockey highlights. What?

Now, I'm really not a hockey fan. At all. There are probably a dozen or so NHL teams on which I wouldn't be able to name one player. But I at least like to follow what's happening in the playoffs; this is my chance to hop on the bandwagon and be a fairweather Rangers fan, in a most despicable and dastardly maneuver. Hockey is a great sport; it's different than the other 3 major sports, and I think it's cool that it has a sort of cult appeal. I'd really like to go to a game because I think it would be a hell of a good time and hockey fans are crazy. Plus, I hear it's easier to follow the puck in person than on TV.

So what the hell happened? When the Masters happened a few weeks back, SportsCenter would lead off with golf highlights. When Wimbledon or another major tennis tournament is going on, it's not uncommon to see them lead with tennis highlights. Is hockey that insignificant these days? I know it's rare to see hockey games on major networks, and you basically have to have some sort of regional sports network like NESN or MSG to catch whatever team you follow (or Versus...whatever the fuck that is)... when did all this happen? Did Gretzky take all the ratings with him?

I have no problem with the NBA playoffs being the lead story; it's a more popular sport. But shit, what a slap in the face to hockey that the 14th or whatever baseball game of the season between the Marlins and Pirates takes precedence over the Stanley Cup playoffs. It's a sad state of affairs for hockey when they get treated like a women's sport. In fact, I'll bet for damn sure the women's basketball tournament highlights made it into SC earlier than these hockey highlights did.

Maybe I'm overreacting. Maybe it's not as bad as it seems and I'm taking ESPN's bitch-slap of hockey as representative of its dwindling popularity, when really it's not. After all, this is the network that gave Lil' Wayne a blog. (Fucking ass bitch crap shit). All I know is, hockey deserves better. Perhaps someday soon we'll see its resurrection. I hope so, because I heard on the news that Russia is the worldwide leader in computer hacking, and anything that keeps those crazy pinko commie bastards away from my bank account is fine by me.

Now Watching: D2 - Mighty Ducks (I wish). Connie is hotter than Julie "The Cat" Gaffney.

Useless Job #2

Just now, on my way back to my apartment from campus, I came across a scene which can only be described as baffling. I was stuck at a red light behind an ugly blue Kia with obnoxious liberal bumper stickers; you know, Obama, Make love not war... the usual. Funny, I voted for Obama and I'm in favor of withdrawal, but there's something about seeing people's views on the back of their car that makes me immediately want to do the opposite out of spite. Sorry troops, you'll just have to sweat it out a little while longer; some dickhead changed my mind. (I kid, I kid. Get home safe, boys (and girls!) Anyway, I came across the creme de la creme of obnoxious bumper stickers:

"Meat is Gross."

Well, excuse me, fucknut, I had it for lunch and found it to be quite exquisite. The real kicker was that obnoxious-liberal boy and his companions were all smoking. Now how's that for ironic? Delicious, life-sustaining, protein-packed food is gross, and sucking on cancer sticks is just peachy keen? It's almost like this guy wanted me to rear-end him. I suppose being trendy interferes with any semblance of logic. I shook it off and kept driving, and he pulls INTO MY APARTMENT COMPLEX! After briefly considering tailing him and then Tonya Harding-ing his kneecaps with my ice scraper, I took note of where his car was heading and came back here. It's cool: now I know where he lives, so if I ever have a particularly shitty day (or a particularly drunk night), I can slash his tires or something. Maybe take a dump on his windshield, if there's time. Perhaps I can use that as a sociological experiment; what if someone caught me taking a dump on that guy's car? Could I shake off a passerby's disdain by laughing and giving the thumbs up, as with peeing? I could, in theory, revisit both this post and the Poop one in one deft maneuver.

Clearly I'm passionate about meat. Kia guy, if you're reading this, take the sticker off and we're all square. At least I think it was a Kia. I was too irritated to pay closer attention. Now, onto today's business:

USELESS JOB #2

Bathroom Attendants.



What is with this fucking bizarre job? I don't know how it is in lady-land, but with men's rooms, the scene goes something like this. Walk into the bathroom, avoid eye contact, try to find an open urinal that's not next to one that's being occupied. If the only pissers available happen to be right next to other dudes, you do a quick inventory.

A. How badly do you have to go?
B. How much space is there between each urinal?
C. Are there dividers, so the guy next to you won't look at your package? (always a concern)

You weigh these criteria and make a decision. Or, you just go to the stall. Afterwards, you quickly wash your hands, and leave. Why would you ever want to spend more time in a public restroom?

Bathroom attendants are insanely useless. Now, I've never come across one personally, thank God, but after I graduate and start going to nicer restaurants, I have a feeling I'm going to come across this problem. From what I gather in movies and TV shows and what not, these people pretty much just do shit for you that you could easily do yourself. Turn on the water for you. Hand you a towel. What the fuck? I suppose dumbass rich people like being pampered to, but fuck, there's certain things I can handle myself. Is he going to wipe my ass, too? Hold my penis while I pee?

Something seems so backwards about this. Like I said, men don't even LOOK at people in the bathroom. Why the hell station someone who's going to talk to you and make you uncomfortable in the one place you go for a little privacy? If that's luxury, bring on the Spam and Cheez Whiz. I can't imagine the business sense behind it, either. "Wow, this restaurant cares about customers so much that instead of putting my hand in front of a sensor to get a paper towel, some guy in a vest gives me one. I'm going to spend way more money now and recommend this restaurant to everyone I know." Uh, yeah. I'd say save the salary and put it towards running the business.

Oh yeah, one more thing. You're supposed to tip these guys. Yeah, that's right. They hold the door and turn the faucet on, and you're supposed to tip. There simply are no more words. It's like Valet Parking except that occasionally it can be a pain in the ass finding a parking spot. I have never had trouble washing my hands in my life. And that's why the Bathroom Attendant would be the second job to go in Ryan's America, behind our other useless friend, the Courtroom Sketch artist.

Over and out.

Musings.

Given that I have made the Douche's mission statement something along the lines of "don't write about yourself, write about universals," I find myself occasionally struggling to come up with worthy topics for this baby. I mean come on, let's be honest, there aren't a whole lot of "Have ever noticed that..."s left. Seinfeld took about half of them, and imitators followed and vultured the other half. So to come up with a real champion of inane observation, like my shocking discovery that the Push To Cross button does nothing, it requires a little luck, a little brainstorming, and a fair amount of discipline. In other words, my brain's got to be at the right place at the right time. Otherwise, you get nights like tonight, where I want to update the Douche, but a quality topic eludes me.

I've got a little something for you next time, but tonight's post is going to serve as a multiple previous-post follow up. Yeah, that's right, I'm addressing topics previously discussed in past entries. I feel I would be doing you a disservice if I neglected to catch you up to date on some of these important subjects. So without further ado, MUSINGS!

1. I did go on to view Blood Diner and Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo. Although phenomenally bad movies, I'd have to say that as far as bad movies go, they were simply too bad. Now, anyone who knows anything about me knows I have an ungodly amount of patience for pure and utter crap (Note: there is a distinction...it has to be non-mainstream crap. Obscure crap. Soulja Boy is crap, but the fact that people actually enjoy it brings my piss to a boil and causes me to self-mutilate).

Unlike our friend Soulja Boy, however, these bad movies are terrible, but they're also totally unheard of*, which allows me to laugh at them objectively without picturing the smiling faces of all my peers who I'd like to kill. God I hate pop music. Whoops, got sidetracked. Anyway, even I, Ryan, crap connoisseur, had a tough time with these two. Unbearably bad. You can't believe they were ever even made. If you're looking for a bad movie that'll keep you entertained without causing you to question God, watch "Shark Attack 3: Megalodon." Enter that phrase into YouTube if you want to see the clip I mentioned in the last post...it up and vanished for no reason.

Of course, as my esteemed colleague Dave pointed out, every shitty movie is funny for a while. That was indeed the case with both of these unfortunate pictures. But yes, even I grew weary of the shit-fest as time went on. Still, I finished them. I mean, you might ask, what's the point? Well, why did the four Jamaicans carry their sled across the finish line in Cool Runnings, despite the fact that they had obviously lost and it was a total waste of time? Pride. I had to be able to tell you that I sat through both Blood Diner and Breakin' 2 in one single weekend. Oh, and I watched another movie in between the two of them. The Godfather. Damn, what a sequence. It's like eating Filet Mignon between two pieces of moldy, slimy, maggot infested limburger cheese.

(By the way, they just don't dress like they used to these days... check out this screenshot from Breakin' 2.)


One other announcement, regarding the Challenger. It's been put off for a few weeks, but it's still happening. The Challenger will be annihilated by Mike Ho and myself on the weekend before finals. That's the weekend after Spring Weekend, kids. I really thought better of you in regards to pledges, though. I mean, you've got the chance to witness live theatre; a grotesque display of gastrointestinal fortitude, for just a few dollars. Hell, I'd be jumping at the chance. Make it right. Pledge a few dollars to the Challenger Fund today. Remember, if we win, you keep your money. If not, hey, you had a killer time, and you can taunt me without mercy. I'm not trying to rip you off, I just need help financing a 40 dollar pizza. Plus, the place is B.Y.O.B. What more could you ask for?

Anyway, that's it for this time, but I'll be back soon with a new Douche for your trembling nipples.

(*aside from a small Family Guy reference to Breakin' 2 in the episode where Peter and Lois run against each other for school board president. I can't let the Cronies think I'm not versed in my Family Guy.)

Bad Movies: A Comprehensive Study

Hi, kids. As you may have noticed, the title has been restored to Denim Douche, and I am sadly not starting a born-again Christian website. If your head is completely lodged up your ass and you hadn't figured it out by now, April Fool's. I think I'm going to hang on to the "Who's the biggest meanie" poll for a while though, for my own amusement, and as a lingering memory of The Day the Douche Changed. This day is capitalized because of its signifigance. May I point out that Satan was a douchebag all along whereas Judas betrayed J.C. in a most cowardly fashion. Carry on.

One of the great tragedies of my life is having a completely different set of interests from the rest of the world. Every time I go out to somewhere public; a bar, the bus, a party, I'm exposed to a nauseating pile of filth that today's college student refers to as "Music." (See: Spring Weekend Concerts, past 2 years). I don't care about fashion, I eat whatever I want, I swear and fart in public, you get the point. Sometimes I feel like I wasn't cut out for this world, like that kid in the movie "Powder." Great movie. Alright, okay movie. Not nearly bad enough to coincide with my point.

Ah, my point. It always peeks its slimy little head out of the ground like a prairie dog. You're thinking what the fuck, there's no point to any of this, and bam! Point-prairie dog. See how analogies work?

I love bad movies. LOVE them. I might even love bad movies more than good movies. But I've found that at least in my group of friends, that's not the consensus. Here I'll be, basking in the shittiness of an ineptly thought out, wildly inconceivable, train wreck pile of trash of a film, and I look around and everyone else is disinterested. At that point in time, I am Powder. I am pale and psychic and no one understands me. Oh yeah, Jeff Goldblum is in that movie. It just got 10 times better.

The problem, of course, is that of course I don't love all bad movies. There are a lot of bad movies which are just fucking bad. Uninteresting, boring, crap. But the bad movies I love are the MEMORABLE bad movies. REAL shitbombs. The cinematic equivalent of watching the Hindenburg disaster. Oh the humanity, what a horrific movie.

There are two horrible movies on my Comcast Free Movies on Demand (and just why do you think they're free? Free Movies on Demand is an absolute goldmine for unforgivably bad films) that I'd like to discuss with you at this point. Drive Thru and Blood Diner.

I like to read the synopses of these free movies once in a while; see if anything strikes my fancy. Hell, a lot of time there's actually good movies in here (Memento, Back to the Future trilogy, Spaceballs), so it's not just the crap that keeps me coming back. Anyway, as I'm perusing the selection, I come across these two movies. The following synopses are straight off of my TV, I'm literally going to write them down right now. Back in a second.

K here I am.

DRIVE THRU: "Fast food will kill you. Especially when it's delivered by Horny the Clown, a sadistic mascot armed with a meat cleaver, an axe, and a skin sizzling deep fryer. Can anyone stop Horny before the entire town is turned into ground chuck?"

BLOOD DINER: "Today's menu: Hot young women. An ancient Sumerian goddess. Naked karate. And a few extra portions of downright silliness. It's a tongue-in-cheek tribute to Herschell Gordon Lewis' 1963 splatter classic, "Blood Feast." Dig in!

How the fuck could anyone ever read these without watching them? I mean, come on. It's like going to see a hanging. I can attest that Drive Thru was fantastically bad, and I should know, I've watched it 2 and a half times already (I had to rewatch it with different groups of people...how could I deprive them of such beautiful crap?)

I've seen about 30 minutes of Blood Diner before my viewing companion, who shall not be named, could not go on. I seriously want to finish this movie. You have to! In a good movie, you have to finish it because you just now the end will make you say "wow." In "Blood Diner," I've just got to finish it because I know the end will make me say "WHAT IN THE HOLY FUCK?" Oh, and don't let the whole "tongue-in-cheek" thing fool you into thinking it's satirical and thus forgivable. This movie is a crime against humanity. And I just can't fucking wait.

Well, I've prattled on for just about long enough, but I want to leave you with some other quick hitters. I watched the movie "Shark Attack 3: Megalodon" recently and my god, was it everything I hoped it would be. Just a disaster. Please, PLEASE click the link below and watch this 1 minute scene of the climactic Megalodon attack scene. I promise you won't regret it.


Next up for me might just have to be "Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo," because as Comcast puts it, "Those irrepresible, breakdancing guys are back!" Again, how could you go wrong? I'd be happy to hear from you about fantastic bad movie experiences, or any clips comparable to the Megalodon fiasco. I'm all ears, baby!

American Idol... Just who are we Idolizing, Anyway?????

Hey Brothers and Sisters!! What a great day! The sun is shining and I praise the Lord for this glorious weather! Furthermore, I'm in good health...WHAT MORE COULD YOU ASK FOR!??

So I was flipping around the channels on the T.V. last night looking for "700 Club" when I saw that rambunctious show, American Idol! I must admit that I succumbed to the temptation and decided to give it a chance, even though my mother had strictly forbidden me from watching secular television. WHOA! What I saw was just appalling! I need to go on a little "rant" here about this so called television program!


For J.C. aka The Man Upstairs (LOL) text "Hallelujah" to 1-800-HEAVEN! HAHA!

Let's start with the name. Uh, hello??? Haven't you ever heard of the TEN COMMANDMENTS??! "Thou Shalt Not Worship False Idols??" What the heck are these people thinking, anyway! There's only one true American Idol, and that's Jesus. Amen. Anywho, these people get up on stage and waste their time singing about sex, drugs, and rock and roll, and not once do they glorify Him through song. TIME OUT!!!

What a bunch of poppycock! Where's the REAL music? Where's "Our God is an Awesome God?" At least Carrie Underwood sang "Jesus Take the Wheel" before she fell to the temptation of Satan and put out "Before he Cheats." Come on Carrie, haven't you ever heard of TURNING THE OTHER CHEEK!! Don't you know that Wrath is one of the seven deadly sins? LOL! Sounds like Jesus really does need to take the wheel before old Carrie here crashes into the median of premarital sex, or even worse, the Cocaine!!

If you ask me, this little "show" is a real waste of time, glorifying false idols, and simply being overly prideful. Where's the modesty? Where's the humility? And why even bother to text in your vote, when Jesus picks the winner anyway? Pah, cell phones. Jesus has the best coverage...his reception is always clear, and he will always call you back! And you don't even have to worry about that darn antennae snapping off, LOL! Hey Jesus, can you hear me now? Good! Hahahaha!! (That's a commercial... for Verizon.)

Anyway, I gotta make my Exodus outta here (LOL) but I just wanted to close with a prayer. Read aloud with me now.

"Our Father, who art in Heaven, Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass. And lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil, for thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory forever. Amen."

Now that's something even SIMON would appreciate, LOL!!

See you next time for more contemporary Christian chat! Stay cool, and stay pious!

-Radical Razzin' Reverend Ryan

Useless Jobs: A New Denim Douche staple

Hi, kids. Ryan here. I should be studying. At two, I have a quiz. At 3:30, I have a test. It's now noon. I have chosen to replace showering with blogging today, and so I don't feel guilty about supposedly wasting valuable study time writing this. Besides, we all know I'll do fine.

Now, you may have noticed the title of this entry. Useless Jobs: A New Denim Douche Staple. I'd like for it to become a new staple. I fully intend for that to happen at this time. I also hoped I might incorporate more photoshops into the blog, but the well's been dry since "Pontius Pilates." Anyway, I thought of the subject of the blog, then decided it would make for a charming series. So, without further ado,

USELESS JOB #1: The Courtroom Sketch Artist



Who is this person? Care to venture a guess? I want you to struggle a little with it, so I wrote who it is at the bottom of the post if you're really looking for closure.

Courtroom Sketch Artists are absurd. They came into being because courts would not allow cameras into their proceedings (real courts, not Judge Judy), but for some reason, decided to allow amateurish drawings of all parties involved. The picture above looks like a caricature you'd get of yourself at Disneyland. Why aren't her eyes boggling out of her head a little more and why doesn't she have a 3-foot neck? I guess the artist was just lazy.

I understand the Stenographer. This person types out everything that's said in the courtroom so that it's accessible on the record. That's important. We're dealing with the law. But why in God's name do we need the art-school dropout present in court? (Becca, I'm calling you out. Does your judge have to deal with these Bob Ross wannabes? Do you agree that any full-time courtroom position that involves colored pencils is slightly unnecessary?)

Who actually wants to be a courtroom sketch artist? How low in the artist spectrum is that position? I think I'd rather teach kindergarteners to fingerpaint. There are police sketch artists, but those are useful. Some of them are frighteningly good at their job and help catch criminals. But courtroom sketch artists are a mockery and make way too much for being marginally talented with Crayola products.

The picture I posted is from TMZ. It's someone you all know, which is why I asked you who you think it is. Since TMZ can't get in there themselves with their terroristic cameramen, they buy these shitty sketches so they have something visual for their articles. What we get is a ridiculous juxtaposition between (usually) serious criminal charges and silly political-cartoon drawings.

"The defendant recounted his ghastly murders in graphic detail"



Anyway, it's now 12:20 and I'd better get back to studying. But fuck me sideways, Courtroom Sketch Artist is one USELESS JOB!

If that's not a real HTML function, it should be.






Oh, and it's Paris Hilton.

Poop: Why can't it be number one?

Yeah, that's right. I'm talking about Poop. Doo-doo. Fecal Matter. But don't worry, because I'm twenty-one and mature, I'm going to handle this with class and dignity. I consider that my duty. Heh. Doodie.

Human beings, unlike our feathered friends and their leavings-of-questionable-substance, have two types of waste. Liquid waste is known by the scientific name of "Pee-Pee." Pee-Pee is entirely socially acceptable. People announce to their friends that they intend to urinate. Men say, "Right back, gotta take a piss." Women say to their girlfriends, "Hey I need to pee, want to come with me?", and god damn me straight to hell if the other girl doesn't follow her into the bathroom. Women are like wolves (whose asses we all know I'd like to kick) when they pee. They are pack animals. I'm not sure of the reasoning behind this.

Men are given the permanent green light to pee outside at any given time. You might think we would be embarrassed if ever we were to be noticed by a disgruntled passerby. However, men know that the secret is to laugh and give the thumbs-up sign with your back completely turned to the person. At this point, the passerby's proper response is to laugh back and cheer the peeer (not a typo, but PEE-er: one who pees) on with words of encouragement, such as "good man," or "let it flow, buddy!" Comments on the peeer's penis are strictly forbidden. Actually, this rarely works if the passerby is a woman. If you're a woman, quit being a passerby. It'll make things easier.

(Author's note: All of this rings true for my current walk of life. I could [and probably should] walk outside my apartment right now and just start peeing all over the parking lot. I've got my aforementioned bailout at the ready. It is yet to be seen if the "anything flows" motto holds true later in life. I like to think that I won't let my my urination methods be altered in any way by any sort of societal pressure. Because isn't that what America's about?)

Now I know what you're thinking. "Ryan, I thought you said this article is about poop. Here you go, prattling on about pee. You liar." Don't call me a liar on my own fucking blog. That's just rude. Anyway, one can't get a proper perspective on poop's place in society without first examining the carefree nature of pee. Poop, pee's retarded cousin, is an entirely different animal. Poop is taboo. You can't announce poop. (Unless you're with only guys, or family members, and you're not out somewhere). It's shameful. If you let out a real bomb at some sort of group function, you're required to sink back into the crowd and pretend you know nothing about it. If you're finishing up in a public restroom, you'd like to wait for the other person in the bathroom to leave so they don't look you in the eye with that "My God, what have you done" look.

We live in a world where everyone you meet would love for you to believe they've never taken a shit in their life. Now isn't that insane? You have a dog, don't you? No? Cat? Snake? Whatever. Your pet just bends over and shits whenever he wants to. Not only that, he's pretty happy about it, too. It probably just made his day. He sees no difference between Nos. 1 and 2. He is responding properly to a physiological sign, and more power to him. That's what early humans did, back when we were still figuring out the world. (I reference early humans a lot...I suppose you've got to love any group of people who defecate freely, hunt the elusive porcine and eat like there's no tomorrow).

Well, I suppose living in a society means stigmatizing natural and essential human functions.

But I have a dream. A dream that one day, pee-pee and poo-poo will be treated with equal regard, as they are equally important to the human equation. If you can't help it, you shouldn't have to. You pee with pride. Now go, my loyal Cronies, and crap with courage.

Remember, there's no shame in shitting. Unless it smells. That's gross.

Now click my ads.

Octo-mom and Rod Blagojevich: America's biggest douchebags?

As a guy whose blog is called "Denim Douche," I know a douchebag when I see one, and believe me, they're everywhere. However, there is normal douchebaggery, like some guy in ultra-tight emo pants that take 15 minutes to squeeze into, and then there are the subjects of today's rant. Ultra-douchebags. The kind of people you just WISH you could run into in a soundproof room (Yeah, I'd punch Octo-mom. Try me). That said, the two assholes I feel like discussing today are Octo-mom and Rod Blagojevich. (Warning: Post may contain a greater volume of swearing than usual.)

At the end of my last post, I said that I'd keep my eye open for news that brings my piss to a boil. Well, the kettle's fucking whistling. Are Octo-mom and Blago new news? No. Are they related in any way? Not outwardly. But it was when I read an article about each one of these fuckwads in the same day that I snapped and decided The Douche had to get involed. It's just too much bullshit in the same day.


Let's start with that piece of shit, the Octo-mom. Her name is Nadya Suleman, but who fucking cares. I hate this person. Really, the picture I posted says it all. For anyone who has the good fortune of being more out of the loop than me, this crazed psychopath already had SIX children, living in a 3 bedroom apartment with Octo-bitch and her parents. Then, she decides to have SIX more, only two of the embryos split, and woudln't you know it, she's got eight on the way. Yeah, that's right, this unemployed single mother who lives with her parents now has fourteen children.

But that's not the bad part. The bad part is that we know about it. Why? Because of the fact that we know about it, everybody knows about it. Because of the fact that everybody knows about it, bleeding-heart carefree assholes know about it. Because of the fact that they know about it, they're throwing Octo-mom money every which way, for new living arrangements, furniture, clothes, diapers, blah blah blah. This horrid woman is our country's latest charity case. Instead of the satisfying feeling you might get from seeing Social Services haul her Brady-Bunch-Ain't-Got-Shit-On-This zoo full of kids out the door while she sobs her silicone lips off, it appears that Octo-mom will be just fine. Hell, even better. Of course she'll have plenty more talk show appearances, follow-up news stories, probably an action figure and a clothing line. We've handed this woman a fortune on a silver platter as a direct result of some of the most recklessly irresponsible behavior this country has ever seen.

What a career, huh? I imagine most of you reading this are in college, working your ass off to maybe end up with a good job after graduation. How much does it chap your ass that this freak is soaking it all in: donations, taxpayer money, while she's essentially a professional uterus? Hey ladies, whatever you're trying to do after college, clearly it's not as profitable as squirting a few dozen babies out eight at a time and allowing the country to rally around you. Fucking America. Octo-mom should be shot. Give the kids to Brangelina; at least one enormous-lipped woman has the means to care for them.



Blagojevich, the other asshole in the festering cesspool of shit I'm a'cookin tonight, is really no better. You all know the story, he was impeached and stripped of his Gubernatorial (that's Governor, to you) duties for conspiracy to commit fraud, and even more fun, for trying to sell Obama's empty Senate seat to the highest bidder. The media likes to call Blagojevich "Blago..." I much prefer "Fagojebitch." Eh? Nice ring to it, huh? It will be abbreviated henceforth as Fago.

Corruption in government, it's nothing new, right? I mean, Spitzer got caught banging that hooker, this is no worse. Wrong. It's worse, because Fago just signed a book deal worth somewhere between 400-500 thousand dollars. America, land of the free, home of the brave, and country where you can bastardize and piss all over the people of Illinois, get impeached, and instead of living out your days in shame, some sleazy publisher hands you a check for half a million to tell your story. You know, I don't recall reading the "Charlie Manson Story," or "Timothy McVeigh: The Man, the Myth, the OKC Bomber." Oh, because they're VIOLENT offenders. Fago is just a white collar criminal, and really, making a total mockery of an important government position is no big deal, I mean, who cares? Apparently some legislators are trying to get this stopped, seeing the same infuriating problem with the whole thing as I do. Thank God I'm not the only one.

The overarching theme in all this, of course, is unjust reward. Both Fago and Octo-whore did despicable things: Fraud, corruption, and eventual impeachment, and bringing 8 children into an insufficient-sized house with no income and requiring help from your aging parents who have already admitted being worn out simply taking care of the FIRST six kids. People do despicable things all the time. The problem is that they are, in a sense, being rewarded. Octo-mom is all set now that morons across the country feel bad for her instead of angry, and are setting a fine example in rewarding her selfishness and irresponsibility. If Fago's book deal goes through, he's sitting on half a million for admitting his wrongdoing. Wow, what a deal! Too bad I'm not significant enough to commit a horrid white-collar crime so that I could later profit off of it. I can see it now:

"Whoops! I stole all of your retirement money and got caught,

by Ryan Prescott, ex-CEO"

God bless America.