'Tis the season for obligatory spending.

Over two-thousand years ago, the Messiah walked the Earth. The King and Redeemer of the Jews, the man who would be betrayed by the very people he had come to enlighten...so the story goes. I talk, of course, of the man upstairs, the big JC.

Two-thousand years later, this conversation takes place.

My sister Meagan: "Hey, what do you want for Christmas?"
Me: "I don't know, what do you want?"
Meagan: "I want Across the Universe. Is there any movie you want?"
Me: "Uhhhh.. Ooh! The Dark Knight."
Meagan: "Okay. I'll get you that. See you later."

(Disclaimer: The Dark Knight is a phenomenal movie and my slight Christmas griping in no way affects how stoked I am to be a proud owner of said film.)

Ah, yes. Christmas. The Granddaddy of them all. The King of all holidays. The McDonald's to Hanukkah's Hardees. But how did we get here?

How has the celebration of the birth of the Messiah been bastardized so severely? Even the most outlandish games of Telephone never ended up this bizarre. How has the celebration of the birth of the martyr of the Christian faith turned into a day in which everybody goes and buys each other stuff?

The sense of obligation is the thing that gets me the most. I don't know if it's because I'm a selfish bastard, or because I just need to save money, but I don't really get into the spirit of giving. I give gifts out of a sense of reciprocity. If people are giving me stuff, I guess I had better give them stuff too, lest I be a huge douchebag. I narrowly avoided having to take from my savings account to finance this Christmas, and I'm trying to reserve said funds for something important in the future, like initial payments on an apartment.

Christmas...the holiday in which you contemplate dipping into your account for the future in order to buy your mom's boyfriend a waffle maker, for the sole reason that you've noticed a To/From involving the two of you already under the tree. What a kick in the pants.

In the olden days, Christmas was a magical holiday when Santa came in the middle of the night and gave you everything you wanted. Now it's the holiday in which you run presents by your whole family beforehand, because if you're going to spend X dollars, they'd better like it.

Until we can find a happy medium between rampant consumerism and religious fanaticism, Christmas will continue to be a major headache. But hey. At least I got a bunch of cool stuff.

Okay Publicists, come up with something else.

Why is it that every time some young Hollywood punk like Lindsay Lohan goes out and gets a DUI, the country doesn't burn her at the stake? I mean, that's a pretty dick move, and as a public figure and role model to an unfortunate few, she should certainly be castigated. But she usually does just fine. Why??



Rehab! Yay!!! I love this time-honored strategy of douchebag pampered California kids evading responsibility for their actions by blaming a nonexistent addiction. Half the time these people are like 18, 19, 21 years old. They're not alcoholics. They're just idiots. But this way, they get to blame the booze, total lack of control, and it wasn't really their fault to begin with! YAYYY!!

I imagine the conversation must go something like this.

Publicist (P): Man, Young Hollywood Douchebag, you've really done it this time. I can't believe you flipped your Hummer on Rodeo Drive, rolling over a crowd of Japanese tourists and right into an expensive boutique. How are we going to clean this up?

Young Hollywood Douchebag: I know right??? It's like, crazy though! *Texts on Blackberry*

P: I've got it. You're an addict. You'll go into a cushy Beverly Hills rehab for a week, sit in a spa and exfoliate, and text on your Blackberry. Instead of being completely lambasted by the media and never working again, people will feel bad for you. Then, if you ever do clean up your act, whether superficially or actually, everyone will be very excited and you'll officially be making a "Comeback." How's that sound?

YHD: *Texts on Blackberry*

P: Alright! Well I'll alert the newspapers.

How does this work? It's so see-through, it's insane. The celebrity-rehab defense is akin to chasing some sort of criminal around... you've almost got them, BAM! They're in a church. They've got Sanctuary. Well, you can't do anything now, right? Rehab is celebrity Sanctuary. Fuck that. I hate these people. I guess anything to keep TMZ on the air, right?

...Stop it.

"Push to Cross" buttons...the Placebo effect?

Here at the Denim Douche, I, your humble friend and narrator, like to steer clear of the esoteric. That's right, we're all about universals here. And by we, I mean me. The other day I had a post half typed up about a strange new trend in my music listening patterns whereupon my iTunes top 25 consists of 18 instrumentals and 7 songs with vocals. But then, I realized that nobody really cares. I realized that I was drifting towards the cardinal sin of all Blogdom...chronicling boring crap about my life that really could be best kept in a Hello Kitty diary under my pillow.

However, amusing anecdotes about the minutiae of day to day life, in the Jerry Seinfeld vein, are a clever way to sidestep this problem. Everyone has a special place in their hearts for "I can relate to that!!!" common observations and potentially crackpot theories. So without any further ado, I present...


"Push to Cross" buttons actually do nothing.

You know, I've been alive a while. It's been more than 21 years now, but who's counting? I've stood at my share of crosswalks. I've waited for my share of white-silhouetted men to replace that foreboding red hand. In all of my life, I think I have been to approximately three million crosswalks. I'll have to check with my statisticians. Anyway, there are times when I stand and do nothing, and there I times when I tap the button like I'm winding my Shy Guy in Mario Party 2, and there is no difference.

Why is this button here? Is it even connected to anything? Pressing questions to say the least. But invalid? I think not. When I was a naive young child, much like the girl in that photo up there (internet photo...my days of following young children around with cameras are over), I had my theories.

1. The cross sign wouldn't appear unless I pressed the button. Wrong. It comes up anyway.
2. Pressing the button will make the light change sooner Nope. It's on a timer.
3. (Approx. 1995-Present) The button doesn't do a goddamn thing.

Now, of course, this theory is based solely on observation. But like I said...I've spent a lot of time observing, and I'm pretty sure something like this couldn't just slip by me. Not if lab rats can learn to collect food on a fixed ratio system! Whoops, too much Learning Psych.

One day I'll have to do some real data collection...hit the button 10 times, not hit the button 10 times, note the differences. I doubt it'll be as easy as the back cover of Highlights, though. In the meantime, I suggest that those of you with any knowledge of the inner workings of electronics re-wire these useless buttons to at least frighten the elderly. Set off some explosions, administer an electric shock... buttons weren't made to do nothing, god dammit! It's time for a revolution in intersection-navigating technology, and I want all of you to be at the forefront. Ready...go.

Competitive Eating.... What have I done with my life?

On some Thursdays, I like to wander over to the Hooters in Manchester for the glorious man-ritual known as all-you-can-eat Buffalo wing night. I bask in the sights, the sounds, the glory. You may not be able to see it through the flat-screen TV's, and walls covered with vintage 80's photos of Hooters girls posing next to the likes of Woody Harrelson and Jay Leno, but all-you-can-eat wing night is a primal, guttural throwback to my favorite time...the time of the hunter-gatherer.

You see, back in the good ole' days, before bullshit like portion control and vegetables came into play, people ate as much as they could in one sitting. Hey, you don't know where your next meal is coming from... eat up! So, here I am. Hooters is my tribe. I'm being served copious amounts of poultry from my squaw. I prefer the squaw that's sitting at the stool next to that lonely guy over there, but mine will do. I'm being served plate after plate of steaming tasties, when all the sudden my thirst for flesh is quenched. After about 35 wings, I call it quits.

(Aside: Those well versed in early human evolution might be noticing at this time that my idyllic vision of a hunter-gather Hooters features neither hunting nor gathering. In fact, it more closely resembles early human agriculture, in which humans started raising livestock as a community so as to largely eliminate the need for dangerous/strenuous hunting. While that is true, and certainly relevant, the point I am trying to make is one regarding the pure voracity of the hunter-gatherer appetite. Agricultural humans, having a much more stable source of food, were able to portion control and eat vegetables, both of which have no place at all-you-can-eat Wing night. I'm talking pure indulgence. Like Michael Phelps without all that pesky swimming.)

After this man-sized meal of nothing but meat, I am quite pleased with myself. After coming home, I become curious... I probably ate for a solid 30 minutes (with breaks in between plates of wings, but the fact of the matter is, I was full)... what's the record? What man has eaten the most wings in that span?



Joey Chestnut. And that's where the fascination began. Chestnut ate ONE HUNDRED NINETY EIGHT wings in 30 minutes. Oh my Chestnut. That man is truly the second coming. I delved deeper. Chestnut, of course, was the man who shattered Kobayashi's hot-dog record...he now holds it at 66 hot dogs and buns in 12 minutes. WHAT???

I had heard of Kobayashi, and known that someone had beaten him a while back, but it wasn't until I stumbled upon http://www.ifoce.com/records.php
that I started to realize the enormity of some of these feats.

Why the hell isn't competitive eating more popular? Mary-Kate Olsen aside, everybody eats. That is to say, everyone can realize the craziness of competitive eating accomplishments. If Kobe averages 35 points a game, half the country will say, "Is that good?" But nobody can tell me that they're not blown away by the 198 wing count. And if you define athletics as a competition between people pushing the limits of the human body, competitive eating certainly applies.

I hereby start a committee. Let's do away with NASCAR, because it's stupid, and appoint Competitive Eating as the heir apparent. You can't tell me the Southerners will notice. We're the fattest country in the world. You'd think we'd all be able to appreciate something like this! And with the amount of gluttony going down in our country, you've got to think some of our best eaters are hiding in plain sight. Maybe Joey Chestnut is the man right now, but I'd be willing to bet his successor has simply yet to realize his calling.

Step 1: The Challenger...

Uggztravaganza

Why is it that every girl in America wears or wants Uggz? This is yet another phenomenon in contemporary society that I just don't understand. It seems so against everything I understand about fashion that the whole of young females want to look like stocky Inuit women.



One funny thing about Uggz is even though every girl in America has them, every girl in America also makes fun of other people wearing them. If they wear them under their jeans, they're probably whores. If they wear them over their jeans, they're idiots. If they wear them too early or late in the season, they should have a government-subsidized hysterectomy. And how dare they wear them with a North Face. Everybody does that. You, with your EMS fleece, are much more independent.

Somehow, that entire previous paragraph had a distinct Mean Girls feel to it. But I've never seen that movie. Never.

When you ask a girl why she wears Uggz just like everybody else, they say that it has nothing to do with them being popular...it's because they're comfortable. Maybe true, but they were just as comfortable before 50% of the population went and got themselves a pair. Hell, I'm sure it'd be comfortable to shove your feet into 2 bags of cotton balls and walk around in those all day. But that doesn't cost 100 dollars and it's not cool (yet...)

You see, as a general rule, I like to blatantly avoid what the masses do. Because the majority of America is stupid, I find it quite convenient to wait and see what the majority of America does, and then not do that thing. I find it saves me lots of aggravation in the future. Ladies, I think you will find that it is quite rewarding to be so discerning.

I have a theory that people will literally buy ANYTHING if it's perceived to be cool. I mean, the Pet Rock? Say no more. Uggz may be more practical, but the same basic theory is at play here. I only wish I knew how to get the ball rolling on an avalanche-like idea such as Uggz. Once the perception is out, it's only a matter of time before the lemmings do the rest of the work for you. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a date with 2 bags of cotton balls.

Vegetarianism: More meat for me!

You know something, vegetarianism is something I used to speak out against rather vehemently. I mean, human beings are at the top of the food chain. We're apex predators. We've been afforded, no, cherished with the evolutionary gift of not being in any other animal's regular diet.

Of course there are exceptions. Sometimes a bear, a crocodile, or a shark might go ahead and eat one of us. You know something? We probably shouldn't have been fucking around with them. If you don't want to be eaten by a bear, don't go frolicking in the Alaskan wilderness reserve. Catch my drift?

But barring these extenuating circumstances where dumbshits like Timothy Treadwell think they're Dr. fucking Dolittle and wind up the main course, human beings are in a priveleged position. We have our pick of the litter. We do the hunting (note: see "I want to hunt a pig"). We don't have to watch our asses. Vegetarianism is arrogant and selfish because vegetarians choose to disregard this wonderful gift of immunity from being eaten. You're given the throne and you choose to live among the rodents. We all know it's rude not to accept a gift. It's about counting your blessings, people.

Not to mention, once someone makes the decision to become a vegetarian, good luck knocking them off their high horse. Eating meat is cruel! How could we be such meanies? Let's just forget about the millions of years of human life where our ancestors' ancestors had to eat meat or die. Let's forget about how a huge proportion of animals eat other animals, and it's just a part of life.

And if that weren't enough, vegetables taste like a pile of shit, whereas meat is the greatest thing in the world.

And that, my friends, is when I had an epiphany. If you're like me, when you meet a vegetarian, your first instinct is probably to kick them in the face. You want to prod at them, test their resolve, inquire as to the extent of their commitment (i.e. find out if they're one of those "I'm a vegetarian but I eat chicken and fish" people), and pose all sorts of ethical dilemmas to them involving the slaughter of animals. Don't worry. I understand.

It hit me that the planet is overpopulating rather quickly. Resources becoming more and more scarce. Why am I wasting my breath trying to convert these silly vegetarians away from the dark side? If I succeed, all I'm doing is putting another meat eater in place to compete with me for the precious flesh that I crave. Meat is a precious commodity. Who knows how long we'll be able to enjoy it with impunity?

In that spirit, become vegetarians, readers! More for me...I mean, meat is cruel! Why kill animals when we don't have to!? In fact, let's all go visit them! Let's camp out in the Alaskan wilderness! Let's swim down the Nile river! Let's go swimming on the Australian gold coast! It's motherfucking SALAD TIME!!!

The Douche is gaining momentum...

Quick hitter here...I just rediscovered a stupid commercial. Not a new commercial, just stupid. While I instantly remembered this commercial, it became clear that I never watched it all the way through before. This commercial was for Sylvania Silverlight car headlights.

In it, a smug-looking man in a stupid tweed jacket keeps saying "now you see me, now you don't" in varying shades of light. If you're not following the gist here, Silverlight headlights are better, shine farther, and will probably cook you breakfast.

That's nothing new. A typical commercial angle. I even like the little hitch of the guy walking back and forth into the different headlights. I'm looking at you, visual learners. But here's where the commercial just takes a spinning nosedive into stupid.

The guy, smug as ever, says something like "better use Silverlights, because next time you see me... I might not be alone." At this point, the camera pans out and there's a 12 year old boy standing in front of the guy. I might add that the guy has his hands on the boy's shoulder in a very creepy, very "mommy I think I want to go home" fashion.

How fucking cheap. You were doing so well, Sylvania. Then you had to go and pick one of the 3 or 4 most cliched sensitivities to prey on? Oh, save our children! Give me a break. This is a worse cheap shot than all those goddamn truck companies wrestling for the title of "America's truck," the granddaddy of them all being John "No I won't just die already" Mellencamp and his "This is Our Country" abomination. It's worse than Catherine Zeta-Jones pitching T-Mobile.

Okay, so preying on sensitivities is deplorable, but did they make the commercial just hoping that people would never take more than 3 seconds to think about it? (Ed. Note: clearly it worked for a while on me, because as I mentioned, this is not a new commercial) Is the message that it's okay to run over adults, but not kids?

While I'll agree that it would be fun for all of us to see Sergeant Smug get run down by an old war vet with shitty headlights, is that something we're to extrapolate and apply to all adults? Don't worry about that lady you just decapitated in the crosswalk, she was over 18.

This commercial pisses me off, and I will now drive my car, headlights off, right into a group of small children playing hopscotch. I hope you're happy, Sylvania.

I could kick a wolf's ass.

In a lot of bad movies, there will be a scene in which the protagonist is lost in the woods. (Editor's note: it is Wintertime. There are no exceptions.) During this frenzied search for their car, their log cabin, town, or something similar, they will come across a wolf. This sends the character into a full-fledged hysteria.

Stop the tape. This is stupid! Now, a pack of wolves, I get. You're surrounded, they have sharp things, they have a lot of practice laying the smack-down on unsuspecting forest-dwellers...that's a scary situation. A bear, forget about it. Those things weigh a ton and have paws the size of my thigh. You're toast. Any of the big cats (Lions, Tigers, Cheetahs, Mountain Lions, Panthers, Jaguars, etc) will rip your throat out and use it for wiffle ball. Don't fuck around with these bad boys. But a wolf?!?! A wolf is a yellow lab with a bad attitude. Stop it.

In the movie, the character will freeze (as in stop moving...has nothing to do with the inevitable winter.) They will slowly backtrack as the wolf makes a menacing face and probably slobbers everywhere. Then they will run. This is stupid. Wolves are fast as shit and now you're invoking their predatory response.

According to the highest pillar of academia, Wikipedia, wolves generally range from 44 to 150 pounds. That's nearly a range of 100, so for our purposes we'll call it 95. So I'm face to face with this 95 pound wolf. I'm closing in on 190. I like my odds. First of all, if I can grab a tree branch or something (there will always be one available in the movie...real life could possibly be different), I could poke and jab this surly beast and maintain a safe distance.

In the event there's no stick, I'm still cool. I'd probably charge the motherfucker to let him know that his snarling drool totally isn't working on me. At this point, I would probably entertain the thought that the wolf was rabid, before continuing on unfazed. Taking special notice to protect my throat, stomach, and man-tools, I am now heading in for the Shawn Michaels' Sweet Chin Music face-kick.

Any wolf with half a brain is now running for the hills, knowing that I could eat its bitch-ass with some hot sauce and ask for seconds. But if it was particularly brazen, I'd have to finish it off. Riding an adrenaline rush, I'd keep kicking the savage bastard like Jackie Chan, while eyeing the opportunity for the pin. Once I pounce on the wolf, it's game over. I deflect its desperate attempts to bite/claw at me, and either snap its neck, or crack its skull with my fists of fury. It's game over. I stand over my victim briefly, possibly engaging in some sort of moral dilemma, and then move on.

It's a failsafe plan. Please. Don't be afraid of a wolf. That's just what Hollywood wants from you. Commie bastards.


Who could be afwaid of a wittle face wike that? Awwwww.

Reflection on election defections

Today, I have partaken in a time honored democratic tradition, known locally as "voting." As enlightening as it is to stand on the doorstep of a monumental election, staring proudly into the future with misty eyes and an open heart, I've got to say, one thing just rattled my cage.

The new ballots suck!

When I was a young lad, my mom took me with her to vote. I frolicked joyfully up the hill to our voting center, into the gym, and gazed upon a marvelous sight. A mystical booth, shrouded in the secrecy of what looked like someone's grandmother's tablecloth. What miraculous things could take place behind this glorious veil of democratic anonymity? I went into the booth with her, she closed the curtain, and I laid my eyes upon something to this extent:



This incredible contraption is a whimsical cross between being a mad scientist, a fighter pilot, and the guy who generates power to the electric chair. The bevy of buttons! The symphony of switches! And to top it all off, a huge, authoritative lever that cleared your ballot and took shit from nobody. No wonder people got so excited for election day!

Somewhere in the neighborhood of a decade later, I, Ryan Prescott, took my first journey to the polling place. My heart raced with anticipation as I entered the gym, dreaming of levers and buttons, buttons and levers. What would modern technology add to this enchanting booth? Would I be able to pick up a Duck Hunt gun and shoot my choice? Would I get to play with a touch screen? Surely there would be something there to read my fingerprint or scan my retina.



That's it. I'm handed a ballot, and I'm directed to this. The cold, hard, stiff piece of paper laughing at me as I die inside. No magical box. No buttons and levers. Just paper, marker, and desk. A Democratic Scantron. Where do I enter my PeopleSoft number?

Please also note that the picture of the voting desk is from a site called "election-equipment.com." First of all, silly site. Second of all, election equipment? Really? A desk with a C-shaped piece of posterboard on it? Replace the section directly in front of the voter with glass, and that picture could have come from "Prison-visitation-equipment.com." I come to the gym thinking Night at the Arcade, and I leave thinking CAPT Test. And while I will admit the machine that sucked up my ballot was a little fun, it was still even less amusing than a paper shredder.

We can't let them take the fun out of voting. Not on my watch. Bring back the unnecessary elaborate voting mechanisms, for god's sake. We're a society with a short attention span. Let's try to make voting less like a trip to the DMV.

Oh yeah, and I voted for Obama. Over and out, kiddies!

Tattoos are stupid.

I have longed for the downfall of society.

I have pined for rainbow parties.

I have ripped off The Onion so badly I'm waiting to hear from their lawyers.

But somehow I get the feeling that this is going to piss more people off.

Tattoos, my dear readers, are stupid. There. I said it. I like to think of myself as an astute observer of the human race, and as such, I have made some observations regarding people getting tattoos. They are quite fascinating.

1. The real reason people get tattoos is because they just want a damn tattoo. 99% of tattoo back stories are A. bullshit, or B. totally half-assed. The guy who came up with "my dog ate my homework" put more thought into his story than most tattoo recipients.

Who hasn't seen this scenario played out a million times...

Person with strange triangular pattern on his arm: Yeah, I got this because it's the Norse symbol of strength, and after my hamster Eggbert died I just felt like I wanted him to always be a part of me.

Right. That guy just wanted a tattoo of a funky triangular pattern. But he sounds like a jackass if he comes right out with it. I, keen detector of bullshit, see through this subterfuge. I would probably have more respect for people if they just came right out with it. "I just wanted this butterfly on my pelvis. That's it." Okay, you're a straight shooter. It's still stupid, but at least you didn't feed me some inane nonsense about it being for the children in Darfur.

2. Sometimes, when a person has made up their mind to get a tattoo but just can't figure out what to get, they'll get a phrase in a different language. Why is this supposed to be cool? I don't care if you've got "A tout le monde" tattooed across your buttcheek or "yo quiero taco bell" on your ribcage, this is not clever. Especially when the reasoning behind it is something to the extent of "I'm 1/16th Chinese... that's why it's written in Mandarin." If you really want to be clever, get your next stupid phrase in Wingdings. Now that's breakthrough.

3. I've even seen phrases in English. Now, what's the reasoning behind this? Unless you're Guy Pearce in Memento, why write a phrase on yourself? Of course, they're all stoic, with a touch of noble. Courage. Honesty. Independence. Why can't you just internalize that? It's like these people are wearing political yard signs. "Jim Martin. Integrity." Oh, so that's what you stand for! Can people not internally motivate themselves anymore? They need a reminder written on themselves? "Well, I was going to wilt under the pressure, break down and cry today, but then I noticed that my left breast reads 'Endurance.' Guess I better stick it out."

Bottom line: People think their tattoo is special. Everyone with a symbol, a foreign phrase, a pattern, a fairy, a heart, et cetera, believes they got their tattoo for the right reason, and everyone else gets tattoos for the mind-numbing reasons I've described above. Hey, who am I to kill a good rationalization?

Footnote/Caveat: It is acceptable to get a tattoo to commemorate a lost loved one. That is, if you really got the tattoo to commemorate said lost loved one. If you got an eagle because it's rad, and then randomly assigned your great aunt whom you never met to said tattoo, that does not apply. You still fail.

How come all of the troubling, eye-opening tales of unbridled teen sex that Oprah talks about never happened to me?

When I close my eyes to ponder, I ponder many things. I ponder about social inequality in this country. I ponder why the grass is green, the sky blue. I ponder why the word "ponder" fails to rhyme with the word "wonder." But of all my pondrances, there is one practically perpetual pondrance that plagues my pondrance-packed pallette.

When the hell did rainbow parties happen?

For those of you who aren't quite hip, rainbow parties are parties in which a bunch of girls wearing different colored lipstick take turns blowing some dude, after which his man-cannon resembles patterned refracted light.

Concerned news anchors and talk show hosts across the country ran specials on these parties, expressing sadness and concern. Meanwhile, I sat in my room, expressing sadness and concern. Some people just have all the luck. I never got invited to any gosh darned rainbow parties! What, was my invitation lost in the mail?

In fact, no one I ever spoke with actually knew about one of these parties happening. I'm starting to believe it was just an amusing concept...an early UrbanDictionary type term, that was taken seriously by an uptight mother or something, and made its way to the forefront. Yeah. That's my rationalization.

But as I sit in my thinking chair (the toilet, obviously) and ponder, I can't help think about that rainbow party that got away. Maybe it was out there. Maybe...

What a pile of bovine excrement!

I'm no stranger to ranting about political correctness. What a stupid, brain-numbing, world-pussifying waste of time. Of course, for the most part, our beloved first amendment reigns supreme, but oh boy, will you ever open a can of worms if you go so far as to refer to somebody as "fat" or "black."

Why is it that the politically correct form of a term is always about 200% longer?

Fat->Overweight
Black->African-American
Gay->Homosexual
Straight->Heterosexual
Retarded->Developmentally Disabled

What's the point in wasting all those extra syllables on PC terms when everyone knows what I mean when I use the shorter one? I only have so many breaths in this life, I don't want to waste them spewing out the likes of "Italian-American."

The problem is stigma. Wrap your head around this: back in the day, "retarded" wasn't an insult. It's just what they called retarded people. An accepted, legitimate word. At some point, it became stigmatized, and then it became totally insulting. Boo-fucking-hoo. The word itself is no different than back when it was socially accepted. The meaning should be no different. Besides, the people for whom the word was coined aren't going to know the difference. It's only stuck-up, uptight white people from California who get offended with this bullshit.

Also, say you're looking for a friend of a friend, who happens to be black, in a big crowd...one that you've never met. Ask what they look like and watch your friend dance around the fact like hell. "Oh, he's about 6 feet tall, pretty built, umm... dark eyes?" Do people think it's insulting to say that someone is black? I sure as hell am not insulted to be referred to as "white." In fact, if someone called me "Caucasian," I might just beat them in the face.

The PC term is African-American, but it's bullshit. That's not what it means. It means black. You'll see Hatians and dozens of other ethnicities lumped into that category in error, while white South Africans are not. Because it doesn't mean African-American. I feel like less than .5% of the population cares about this stupid term discrepancy, and the rest of us have to deal with its mind-numbing idiocy on a daily basis.

I guess I'm pretty much running out of steam in regards to my hatred for this obnoxious convention, but I hope I've touched you all. Don't waste your syllables. Say what you mean.

UNA to Shut Down Illegal Subterranean Torture Center

This afternoon, the United Nations of the Afterlife have successfully lobbied to discontinue a series of appalling torture chambers in a subterranean fortress known only as Hell. According to sources, these chambers have been the scene of hundreds of blatant violations of the Geneva Convention. Violations include, but are not limited to; prodding prisoners with hot fire-pokers, beatings with whips and chains, and the forcible insertion of foreign items into victims' rectums.

"We are thrilled to have finally stopped the perpetrators of these horrendous crimes," said floating apparition Henry Wilcox, UNA Spokesman. "It's 2008, for pete's sake. Who would have ever believed such ruthless and vicious illegal behavior could occur right under our noses on such a large scale? We believe that every disembodied spectre has certain inalienable rights, and we have made huge strides towards our goal today."

The ghouls responsible for the violations have been taken into UNA custody and are preparing for deposition. The leader of the criminal ring, a ten foot tall red monster with irises aflame and a biforcated tail, declined comment. Investigators have learned that its name is Satan; however, it goes by the aliases The Dark Lord, The Fallen Angel, Lucifer, The Devil, and Steve.

Despite a mountain of evidence against Satan and his minions, undead legal analysts working the case are not so sure the UNA will be able to successfully prosecute. Says Wilcox, "Evidently, His Most Unholy has thousands of lawyers at his disposal, and has put together a frightening defense team led by Johnny Cochran. If that son of a bitch kept O.J. off the hook, Lord knows he can do it again."

I want to hunt a pig

Society has a lot of benefits. Government, the interstate highway system, the aqueducts, and so on and so forth. But don't you ever just wish that maybe, just maybe, society will crumble from the inside and we'll be forced to live in a postapocalyptic world, like Will Smith in I Am Legend minus the dark seekers and plus more people? I know I sure do.

I think that living in society dulls down our natural evolutionary traits. Did you know that I am genetically adapted to be able to hunt down a vicious, snarling warthog and roast it on a spittle? YEAH! What a thrill! What's so exciting about going to the grocery store and selecting the finest crop of chicken gizzards from the bunch! Hogswallop, I say.

Haven't you ever wanted to fashion a blade out of limestone? Maybe take on a mammoth in an effort to feed your whole tribe?

It doesn't hurt that back then, the chicks were like totally all about mating. Hey baby, it's for the good of our species. Bow chicka bow wow. Those were the days. Society has watered down our evolutionary instincts and this is my call for anarchy. Burn this mother down! To hell with institutions! SIC SEMPER TYRANNIS!!!

Garfield, Minus Garfield.

Howdy, partners. Got another link for you.

Garfield minus Garfield.

From the site's heading/synopsis:
"Garfield Minus Garfield is a site dedicated to removing Garfield from the Garfield comic strips in order to reveal the existential angst of a certain young Mr. Jon Arbuckle. It is a journey deep into the mind of an isolated young everyman as he fights a losing battle against loneliness and depression in a quiet American suburb."

Great Idea. Who would have known that Jon was such a sad, lonely man.

Cowbell

When Al Gore invented the internet, he opened the door to vast potential. Here was an invention capable of great things; it seemed the sky was truly the limit. However, in years that followed, practical applications worthy of the internet's upside were few and far between. For every YouTube, alas, there were thirty GeoCities sites devoted to Hillary Duff.

Indeed, as we float along the endless river of virtual fecal matter, we are occasionally able to pull ourselves up from the cesspool, clinging onto the hope that one day, the internet will be used as it rightly should. This blog, of course, is one of those glimmers of hope. But today, my friends, I have been shown another.

	Make your own at MoreCowbell.dj

What you see here embedded in this blog is a little miracle I have assembled using the site www.morecowbell.dj. Let it sink in. That's right. It's the Doug theme song with copious amounts of cowbell and Christopher Walken clips added to it. This website lets you upload any song from your computer, and gives it the Cowbell/Walken treatment. If you don't think that's the greatest idea of all time, you're reading the wrong blog. Play with it for a while. I think you'll agree with me.

Thank you Alex Romansky for showing me the light.

Letter to the Editor I sent the Daily Campus

On the surface, the 2008 school year started like the other three I have been privy to in my tenure here at UConn: Moving back in, seeing old friends, and readjusting to the grind of an academic workload. However, three things in particular have left me quite agitated. What am I talking about?

Let's address grievance number one in mystery novel fashion. I am sending this letter to the editor via Gmail. Why would I, a UConn student, disregard my Huskymail so? Maybe because it's terrible. It's so slow, in fact, that I have been interjecting tasks in between perusing my e-mail, so as to reduce down time. For example: Open inbox, make breakfast. Click on an e-mail, take a shower. Send a reply, solve the Riemann zeta-hypothesis. Huskymail is so slow, if I sent this e-mail from my student account, I could beat it to campus in a footrace. The whole new Students page is the same way. Slow, faulty, won't work in Bookworms, (haven't tried elsewhere on campus, but I'm not hopeful), you get the point.

Agitated by the futility of the Students page, I head to campus for my classes. I turn into W Lot, just as I have for the past two years. Only this year, I pull into the lot to find a scene reminiscent of all the cars trying to leave New York City in Independence Day. My bus comes and goes as I drive around in circles looking for a spot. I bite the bullet and park in the employee lot in the very back of W, operating under the assumption that being on time to class is somewhat important. Thus far, I have not been ticketed (thank you, UConn parking. I mean that). I already paid 86 dollars for my commuter pass, so 35 a pop for parking tickets does not appeal to me. Parking services informs me that the lot won't clear up until about the 25th, and that there are spots in F lot, behind Dunkin Donuts. No. I like W Lot. It's on the way, and it has buses that go where I'm going.

Dejected, I later take solace in the fact that I get to eat lunch. God bless America. I enter the dining hall only to find good ol' UConn has gone trayless. I do my best Ringling Bros. balancing act, which I will explain in detail. My silverware is in my pocket. My plate, full of food, now acts as my tray. I put a salad bowl on my plate, covering it in ketchup and other messy amenities later to end up on my shirt. A former two-drink diner, I hold my one drink in my hand as I pray that no one bumps me, starting an impromptu mid-90s kid's movie food fight. If this is the best we can do to go Green, I'm buying a H3.

I'll close by saying exactly what I said to my TV during the UConn/Temple football game. Come on UConn. You're better than that.

Pontus Pilates

If-This-Is-Not-Already-The-Name-Of-A-Business-It-Damn-Well-Should-Be #1:

Guacamole Doritos

In my younger and more vulnerable years, the wondrous corporation that we all know as Frito-Lay used to manufacture a glorious chip, one that conquered the masses and set entire countrysides aflame.

This chip, construed from the holy shroud of Turin, coated in the finest seasonings known to man, and baked in the hellfires of Valhalla, was then distributed by the friendly snack-food giant, mass-produced and placed on grocery store shelves nationwide. There it was, hiding in plain sight. The world's consumers, stupid peasants that they were, ignored the clandestine blessing until one day, it vanished. Like a shooting star across a cool summer's eve, the chosen snack known only as Guacamole Doritos had shuffled loose this mortal coil. They had gone quietly into the dark night. They were discontinued. Stupid.

These Doritos are a staple of my past. If not for these delicious treats, who knows what sort of triathlete I may have become. However, though they were my vice and part of me should rejoice having been freed from their bondage, even now I long for their blissful satisfaction. As lesser flavors of Doritos are allowed to continue, the one true champion of the snack line was cast aside like the runt of the litter.

Perhaps, in the many years since I last enjoyed destiny's corn chip, my mind has romanticized Guacamole Doritos to an unrealistic level. Perhaps they were simply average, and my longing for them is solely postmortem. Perhaps they will go down in history as another Orangina; that is to say, after trying them years after initially falling in love, they turn out to be just alright. Mediocrity in sublime packaging.

But perhaps, just perhaps...

Guacamole Doritos are The Chosen Ones.

Get Ready to die, Assholes!

"'Sup, bitches."

By guest contributor, Chad "Stabwound" Remington.

Yo, yo, yo, mothafuckaz. I hacked into dis shit to tell you one thang, and dat's dat you'z in big trouble. As you'z can tell by my gangsta ass picture over there, I bean bidness. I'm like a wild pitbull n' shit. You don' even know. I stole dis fuckin' gangsta ass suit from Party City, straight up. While I wuz at it, I copped me some red plates n' cups (like blood, bitch!), couple PushPops, and a fuckin' ballin' ass 90's mix CD. Gun's real, too. Took it from my pops while he wuz passed out on the couch. Fucker thinkz he can tell me what to do? I guess we gonna see when I blast his ass wif my sawed off double barrell shotgun. None of you bitches is safe! Get ready for da pain, mothafuckaz! EAST SIDE, WHAT!?

-Stabwound

Blogging the dolphin

Boy, I feel like blogging. I don't know why. I have a compulsion. I don't think this will have a theme, or a particular point I'm trying to establish. It'll just be more or less verbal diarrhea. Of the fingers. But I can assure you I'm saying everything out loud, too.

I suppose I just like to write.

So, you can be assured that this thing will be filled with:
A. Rants. It's a stupid, stupid world, filled with dumb, stupid people, and I'll be sure to take every opportunity to throw them under the bus. If only that were literal.

B. Random crap. I love random crap, and I'd be thrilled to share it with you, my non-existent readers. This will include, but not be limited to: highly entertaining YouTube videos, pictures, news stories, etc. Since I spend more time on the internet than Uconn's e-mail system, consider me a source for weird shit.

C. Stories. In the event that anything interesting happens in my life (highly hypothetical), I will be sure to share said anecdote with the world.

D. ???. The gears, they are a'turnin'.

Maybe this will catch on, maybe it won't. We'll see.

ME