Tuesday, March 21, 2006

Lifestyles of the kitsch and the aimless: Dan Matheson

I'm not one for long explanations so I think I'm going to join the likes of Jesus, Shan-tao, and the Madison disheveled dirtcaked rambling State Street hobo, Scanner Dan, and take the thinking man's way out and answer all questions about my previous whereabouts for the past ueberyear by using a parable.

Truth be told...Jesus and Shan-tao's parables were far more intellectual and deep than Scanner Dan's loud, barely coherant ramblings about 1. the last time he thought you just farted...or 2. the time he got kicked out of Einstein Bagels for making leud comments whilst snapping disposable camera pictures of the asses of sorority sorostitutes and the ass(es) of my rather large while equally unpleasant ex-roommate.

My ex-roommate's ass(es') picture may have been taken by accident as Scanner Dan's special hobo power to hone in on young clueless East Coast 20-somethings was fooled by my ex-roommate's melodramatic 12 hour phone calls, valley-girl uppityness, bursting at the seams ego, can-sue attitude, and attire consisting entirely of items randomly grabbed out of a basket labeled Things-That-Shouldn't-Accentuate-My-Chest-But-Do-So-Nonetheless. To this day, I wonder if Scanner Dan's hours of intent drool-crusted gazing at my ex-roommate's ass picture have sent up any sort of flags or even raised any doubt in that gin & curb runoff saturated brain of his whether the object of his lust and desire may in fact be the posterior of a man...or rather why he hasn't yet put that picture onto a T-shirt with a catchphrase, and cleaned up his life by selling them on the street for $9.99, eventually profiting and expanding into a national chain of ass-T-shirt stands and becoming a millionaire.

*ahem* upon closer inspection, the first of Scan Dan's parables, about the farting, is a clever allegory which encourages the soul to appreciate those who do not blame others for letting their hate out in a provocate manner. The second praises the man who realizes that the carnal pleasures of this world last but for the blink of an eye or camera lens. One has to look deeper when he swears at passersby for wearing Chicago Cubs hats. Scanner Dan is merely looking out for the good of humanity in this sociological insight about the dangers of having groundless hopes that will never come to fruition. One must live in the planes of reality. Scanner Dan obviously has ascended to a higher existance on a bench in front of a bagel shop, walkie talkie to nowhere in lap, boisterously enjoying every minute of it all.

P.S. I know that I mistakenly led you to believe that the whole point of this post was that I would be telling you a parable of my own after I got through all of that introduction, but you see, there was this house with more blenders than outlets in it. The master of the house realized this and bred a trifecta of radioactive apes to plunder powerstrips from around the neighborhood. The first radioactive ape threw radioactive dung through the glass doors at Best Buy and plundered their powerstrip cache. The second radioactive ape planted a mustard seed causing the mountains to collapse, thus killing the moutain villagers thus leaving their powerstrips up for easy plundering. The third radioactive ape instinctively outsourced his plundering to lesser radioactive apes in India. One day, the master of the blender house returned home. After meticulously evaluating each of the radioactive apes' spoils he entered and cross checked the data using microsoft excel. Then he went to wikipedia.com and did some reasearch into the radioactive plunderer's union minimum wage laws. He then went to an ATM and withdrew three amounts in three separate transactions with three separate receipts. His next stop was to the post office where he purchased three identical envelopes into which money could be placed. Next he went to the nearest office depot to buy a gluestick with which to seal money envelopes instead of using the brutish tongue muscle. After a quick stop at the grocery store to purchase three bottles of victory champagne, he drove home and summoned the radioactive apes into the kitchen. The radioactive apes howled with glee when they saw the twinkle in the master's eyes and the three-money-filled-envelopes-sized bulge in the master's overcoat and the victory champagne in his hand. The master raised one finger signaling "just one moment", reached into his overcoat, inhaled deeply, opened his mouth in preparation to giving a lengthy congratulatory speech, and paused stock still in that exact pose for an embarassingly long time, seemingly debating his next action earnestly. The radioactive apes bustled with anticipation and bemusement. Their celebration was cut short 10-12 seconds later as the master unfroze, quickly whipping out a shovel and beating all three radioactive apes to a bloody radioactive death before guzzling down three bottles of victory champagne and slitting each wrist and his neck with a money filled envelope and lighting the blender-strip house on fire for insurance purposes.

and that my friends is my parable. whoever deciphers it will receive the prize.

Tuesday, February 08, 2005

Buscemi vs. the people of Omes, Utah

Deep philosophical thought can come upon you in the craziest of places. For Archimedes this was the bathtub when he screamed "Eureka!" and ran naked through the streets of Syracuse. Its a good thing that he wasn't in the New York version of Syracuse or the wussy naked philosopher might have discovered new applications to his theory of displacement if you know what I mean...

It turns out that the bathroom also happens to be my place of deep thought. I'm no Archimedes, but I have put many complex mathematical equations to use in order to prioritize my bathroom routine. I have combined fairly opposite tasks in order to save time. I shave, brush my teeth, practice my marching, get dressed, and shout my German vocabulary all while in the shower.

It amuses me to imagine what the people in the shower stalls next to me must be thinking as loud foreign noises and rhythmatic jostling come from next door. It must be kinda unnerving. Kinda like starting a conversation at the urinals...then and after introducing yourself, stick out your hand and gesture for a handshake while both of you are still going about your business... and then telling him that you have aids...and then telling him that you gave his wife aids too...and then winking and asking him what his son does after school...yes this is only another classic example of things that I think about while meditating in my bathroom of solitude.

Upon a recent visit to my bathroom, while in my meditative state I noticed that the toilet paper is on reinforced metal rods with a heavy duty padlock at the end. Now who in their right mind would be that desperate to steal toilet paper of all things? Its not even a nice, plush refreshing toilet paper with a heartwarming scene that screams tenderness on the package like a kind snuggly teddy bear giving backrubs to orphaned unicorns. Instead its the thin and brittle kind probably with something like a sweaty Steve Buscemi giving a thumbs-up sign while sloppily pouring concrete cement sidewalks on the package.

The use of the reinforced padlock vexes me to no end. They could have just used the traditional public toilet plastic contraption which causes the toilet paper to rip off way up in there thus enticing you to put your hand way up there too in order to reach the end, but instead you manage to get your hand stuck up there or chaffed too. Never happen to you? Well it has to me.

It is my theory that the use of the padlock is a challenge issued by the janitors to see if anyone is crafty enough to still find a way to steal the toilet paper. Its kinda like that English fable "The Sword in the Stone". Whoever manages to steal the toilet paper becomes the King of England...or the King of the restroom. The evil old janitor ladies have been cackling with glee all semester since all plans to remove that paper has thus failed.

Conceivably, I could unroll all of the paper, rip it off, and then reroll it onto new carboard tubes, but that would be a lot of work and all my efforts would be for crap. Ha get it...I said crap...I crack myself up...and I just said crack... Next time I go to the bathroom I'm gonna bring a screwdriver...and maybe a hammer, saw, and welder... and we'll see who is King of the Bathroom then, bitches.

Tuesday, January 11, 2005

4 out of 5 Doctors agree that the other doctor is a moron

For ages, people have been looking for ways to perfect humanity or at least optimize its potential. Alexander the Great tried to form a universal language, the Greeks tried ridding themselves of the gene pool by being gay, and some other jerks invented calculus and the subsequent grading scale which gave me a B in it.

All of the past attempts to optimize the human body have failed. All except one. I believe that I am on the brink of the biggest scientific discovery since the world renowned nobel prize winner...er...since the world renowned my brother...er... since my brother discovered a used copy of Shaq Fu for $1.99. On numerous occasions, I have conducted serious medical experiments, using parental grant money on my own body and the bodies of my friends and have found out the true failsafe formula to maximizing the human body potential. It was written out on twenty two ton stone tablets written in piglatin hieroglyphics which we translated and compiled down into an easy, cookbook style recipe:

1) In a large blender mix two parts Mountain Dew to every one part sleep depravity.

2) Empty a full bag of solid grade A repititive LAN into the pot.

3) Add a pinch of driving in your friend's van to Taco Bell past midnight.

4) Baste with weird conversations and paranoia.

5) Knead in the occasional terribly crazy idea that seems amazing at the time.

6) Bake on hilarity for 3 to 4 hours and you'll have a lifetime of memories.

Results may vary from having a pumpkin thrown at your own van's windshield at 40 mph to trying to ambush the pizza delivery guy with zombies with american indian accents.

Side effects include: lost shoes in the middle of off-limit baseball diamonds, being caught on the security camera at the local medical research lab, and mild indigestion due to the Taco Bell.


Saturday, December 25, 2004

"AAHG, GOD!!!" - the sound of 7up hitting your left eyeball

So there's this interesting sort of ritual that my friends and I like to perform at a special time each year. Actually, it's really anytime when it's bitterly cold outside, which is almost a third of the year in Wisconsin, so there's a fairly large window of opportunity.

This all started one winter a few years ago, when my friends Alex, Daniel, Aaron and I decided to go for a walk around the pond by our house. This used to be a common occurance. We would walk down to the pond and then through the woods around it, talking about video games, other dumb things we'd done, my fear and loathing of wasps... other dumb things we'd done... you get the idea that we do a lot of dumb things. But anyway, this pond was an awesome place that my friends and I always loved to walk around. The highlight of these visits was usually finding adequate-sized-and-density tree branches and engaging in furious "lightsaber" duels. I came away from one such duel wounded, my cornea scratched from a stray piece of bark that must have dislodged from the branch when we locked "lightsabers." In case you were wondering, i survived that grievous injury, but the branch... sadly i had to shatter it... it failed me.

Another event involving the pond was the discovery of the old-Nintendo game "Skysharks". I wasn't present when my friends found this ancient relic of the gaming world, but I've heard stories of how... awesome... it was. Skysharks was one of those stupid 2D forward scrolling airplane shooter games, where endless squadrons of pixilated jets and tanks surround and beat the hell out of you. Truth be told, we all felt that Skysharks didn't belong in the new age of gaming, and it needed to be remembered and honored with a proper burial. So, we laid Skysharks to rest off the shore of Stricker's Pond, our pond. For a tombstone, nothing fancy: a 2x2 piece of plywood. A simple marker for a simple game. But this was in the summer. When winter rolled along, the plywood marker became lost, and we frantically searched for our beloved Skysharks. It somehow, had become lodged under a a few solid feet of ice. Frantically we scrambled to free the recently buried relic to no avail. The seasons came and went, and Skysharks sank down into the murky oblivion for all eternity. A fitting end to such a game whose first level could not be beaten.

It was at one of those times that we developed a new ritual. My friend Alex happened along an old exacto knife in my garage. You know, one of those that extend... This knife was old, and very very rusty. Well, Alex took this knife, and against all logic, picked up a can of Coke, also from my garage, but not old and rusty, and this Coke was diet, mind you, and he stabbed the knife into the side of the can. To my utter disbelief, the can didn't explode in his face, but rather, it now had a sizable slit in its side, from which Alex proceeded to suck the sugary liquid that was the Diet Coke.

Not to be outdone, I grabbed the knife away from him and punctured my own can. The Coke somehow tasted better coming from a slit than from the normal sipping-aperture. Then came Daniel. Preferring 7up, he too, punctured the can. This resulted in a powerful stream of 7up shooting up into Daniel's left pupil, followed by "AHHHHHGGG GOD!!!" Daniel dropped the can, still spraying 7up, and it proceeded to roll down my driveway, creating an interesting display of whirling 7up as it picked up speed. Daniel was not seriously injured, but we probably all got tetanus from that knife. We still to this day do not completely trust Aaron with the rusty knife or any even moderately almost sharp object that could slightly puncture a marshmallow. There is a rite of passage before one may partake in this ritual.

I don't know where the knife is now, but my friends and I have made it a traditin of puncturing soda cans and taking a walk to the woods, to continue our search for Skysharks. Maybe someday we'll find it... and maybe someday we'll all die from blood-poisoning.


Thursday, December 16, 2004

Mattingly! I told you to shave those sideburns!

So I decided to shave today. I was severly disappointed. There were no explosions, supersonic jet fly-bys, or green lasers. I guess I could deal with that though. Any of those things would probably have destroyed my dorm or seriously injured me. Then I had to walk back to my room from the bathroom. I was expecting random women to flock to me and instantly start sensually feeling my face and make me feel like a man. The reality of the situation was that the only person in the hallway was the sixty year old dorm cleaning lady, and even she didn't sensually feel my face!

You can't turn on the tv without seeing twenty shaving commercials. I decided to find out how shaving commercials have evolved over the years. The first documented shaving commercial was probably that annoying jingle "Shave and a haircut, two bits". Notice, they did not mess around with lasers, explosions, jets, or women. In fact, none of those things probably were even invented yet back then. They just lay the facts right out there like they should. My only beef with this is what the hell is a bit? A bit of what? Usually "a bit" can not be plural, i.e. Q: "How much arsenic would you like in your coffee?" A: "A bit". Not "Oh two bits please". Don't horses have a bit in their mouth so they can't bite things? Horses were more popular back when this jingle was popular. Maybe the old shaving industry teamed up with the horsing industry to form a monopoly back in the day. Oh the possibilities.

During the 60's and the 70's there probably weren't any shaving commercials at all for everyone in this country was a long haired unshaven hippy, even the women. In the 80's people just wanted to look as terrible as possible. If this involved using a shaver so that their hair was in the right shape to smear with glue and raw eggs in order to form that smelling mohawk, so be it.

This brings us to the present day when shaver commercials have just exploded, literally. The companies of today have an interesting ploy. The more colors, flash, and macho adjectives that they throw into their commercials the better. Take the "Gillette M3Power featuring PowerGlide™ moisturizing Indicator® Lubrastrip™ and Micropulse technology." That's seriously what its called on their website. That just scares me. I mean, am I buying a shaver or a car? Does it come with handle airbags, underglow, airconditioning, and powertrain warranty too? That wouldn't surprise me in the least.

The Gillette company is showing no slow down. They even have their name on the New England Patriots stadium. This somehow doesn't seem such a smart move to me. "Hey guys, the football game is on, lets shave!". For me, football does not go hand in hand with shaving...errr hand in...chin. When I think of football fans, I think of fat hairy obnoxious pizza roll eating drunk couch potatoes, not well groomed manly sex magnets surrounded by lasers.

Gillette does have things going for them though. Their only competitors have even wussier names than the wussy French sounding Gillette. Braun just hits me as something that I wouldn't want to use on my face. It doesn't sound gentle. They should hire Arnold as their spokesman, and their slogan should be something like "It will beat your stubble to a bloody pulp...with lasers". Then there is that piece of Schick. Schick means "trendy" in German. How arrogant is that? That would be like naming an American company "Well-Liked". The company, Remington , just reminds me of a gun. I mean...do I really want to point it at my face and run the risk of blowing my brains out?

Shaving is not all its cracked up to be, but yet again, neither is sliced bread...unless it is laser sliced.

Wednesday, December 08, 2004

BRING ON THE PAIN-The merits of Steven Seagal

I would really love to say that Steven Seagal is not unique. Upon an initial viewing of one of his films, it seems as if there’s nothing special, nothing… distinguishing about his character (because he’s essentially the same character in every one of his movies, the only differences being his name and/or which of his relatives plays a supporting role).

This couldn’t be farther from the truth.

After multiple viewings of some of his classics including “Marked for Death”, “Out for Justice”, and “ Hard to Kill”, I have radically changed my opinion of Steven Seagal. He’s not just another bland action hero who always does the right thing and fights for the good of mankind. Actually, all he really cares about is satiating his seemingly bottomless appetite for breaking bones of nameless thugs. And I think anyone that has seen one of his movies will agree with me that the best and most exciting moments of bone-breaking glory are when Steven (I’ll call him Steven from here on) breaks the neck/spine of a hapless security guard or even the occasional Rastafarian drug-dealer. There’s something strangely disgusting and beautiful about seeing Steven hyper-extend 5 or more different bones throughout one of his films.

Truth be told, Steven Seagal has essentially carved out his own niche in the grand proverbial concrete wall of the action-hero film. He combines aspects of countless other action stars and molds them together into an unstoppable ball of greasy, pony tailed fury. Take his hushed, raspy voice: ….. well, ok, maybe he’s the only action star to have that. But the brooding, surly demeanor and squinty eyes: vintage Bruce Willis. You know as long as I’m talking about Bruce Willis, what is his problem? God, you’d think if he opened his eyes just a bit more he might actually be able to see something, so he could have successfully landed that space shuttle in “Armageddon” instead of breaking it into pieces on that huge freakish asteroid. I bet if he squinted some more, he’d be even more intimidating. Which is probably the whole deal behind squinty eyes anyway, and why Steven incorporated it into his character(s). So back to Steven. Besides the eyes and the attitude, he’s got the muscles of Arnold Schwarzenegger. This is vital to any great action-hero, because how else are they going to beat up fifty henchmen when everyone but them has a gun?

Unlike most great action heroes of our era, Steven has an ace up his sleeve: he’s got his own, originally conceived insult. What is this insult, you say? Actually, I don’t even know for sure if it’s supposed to be insulting. In “Out for Justice”, Steven decides to rile up a bar full of drunk bearded men in jumpsuits (and, to the movie’s credit, one Asian guy sitting alone in a corner, my personal pick for the star villain of the movie, “Sticks”). At one point he says to the bartender to “tell his finokes to get on the table.” Finokes or Phinokes, however you spell it, I had never heard this word in my life. I looked on Dictionary.com and it wasn’t even listed as a word. That Steven uses this original word implies one of two things: 1.) He made it up. 2.) He learned it at some point in his life, which would imply that others know of the word Finoke/Phinoke, which tells me just how horribly Steven Seagal’s world strays from our own.

One last aspect of Steven Seagal’s character(s) separates him from the rest of the pack. In each of his movies, a different member of his family plays a major supporting role. In “Marked for Death” it was his sister, who eventually had a ritualistic sacrificial ceremony performed on her by a Rastafarian drug-peddling cult. In “Hard to Kill”, it was Steven’s own wife and son who were involved. Both were viciously murdered within the first ten minutes of the film, after which Steven spent 7 years in a coma and grew quite an impressive beard. I think it would be in Steven’s best interest to excommunicate himself from his relatives and live a solitary life spent hunting down every drug-dealer in the world, since most of his relatives in his movies thus far have died because of his involvement in every little petty crime that his hometown has to offer.

The point I’m trying to make is that looks can be deceiving. I will admit that I was a skeptic at first, reluctant to watch more than 10 minutes of “Marked for Death,” my first Steven-experience. But take some time to watch these movies, and try to remember these points I’ve made. Steven Seagal movies are ultimately very rewarding. They’ve taught me a thing or two that have changed the way I live my life. But I won’t tell you what those things are. You have to discover them for yourself. However, one thing I can guarantee you: I can give you a solemn pledge that I will never blame you for hating Steven’s hairstyle, which is perhaps his most defining characteristic: a low ponytail, which he NEVER EVER TAKES OUT.

Tuesday, December 07, 2004

The people of Scottsdale, Arizona welcome you

I'm sure that you all have missed me, checking my site every day in vain, writhing and barely able to contain yourself, and above all wishing that I would release a subtle drop of my oozing hilarity onto your tongues so that you may be satisfied for days to come.

This is only one of the many symptoms that from now on will be referred to as Chronic Oddity Deficiency Syndrome or COD Syndrome for short...not that you are short, its just that you remind me of a pre pubescent Napolean sometimes...whoa don't get all defensive about it and charge into Russia on me...its cute...it adds to your character....but subtracts from your field of vision bwahahahahaha...sorry its just so hard to contain myself. The only cure for this disease is to take two jars of pickles every hour on the hour for the next three weeks...oh and I don't mean by mouth.

Well the whole point(s) of this post was that I am pleased and threatened to announce that there is a new addition to our team...err my team...er we don't really compete at anything so I/we technically probably aren't even a team at all...kind of like the San Francisco 49ers...but to all of you who have made jerseys and coffee mugs with my logo on it, I still am there for you. Just as soon as I draft a few more players and have Macgyver build a stadium for me out of things in my basement we will be ready to shine.

But...my oldest friend Sven, a.k.a. the Human Muscle Depository or any other name that you can possibly think of that involves flaunting the idea that he has lots of muscles, he may be writing some stuff on this site too! He probably will be writing stuff that I have ideas for but am too lazy to get around too, although he said he would do this awhile ago and still hasn't gotten around to it, so maybe the person who is filling in for me being too lazy will be too lazy himself and have to recruit someone else for when he is too lazy, and this ongoing cycle will continue on for all eternity until every member on the face of this earth...except for David Spade because he isn't very funny anymore...will be a member of my blog.

Here is some background information and things that you should know about this Sven:

His real name is actually Svenigan O'Toole which his parents kindly named him in hopes that one day Ireland will be invaded and conquered by Norsk powerhouse Sweden.

Despite his musclely build, he is deathly afraid of one of the smallest creatures on earth...the wasp. He is the chosen one according to wasp prophecy that will bring ruin to their society. Therefore, as passed down by oral wasp tradition, they have had conducted a kamikazi vendetta against him for his entire lifetime. Even mentioning the name of these foul creatures will reduce Svenigan to a musclely pulp. I suggest doing this frequently and often for his own safety. You could also get together a group of friends to dress up as wasps and invade his house. This has been attempted once before with tragic results

Sven is a connosieur of old crappily amazing NES games. He, my brothers, and I have had some great old times playing such impossible button mashers like 1. "Track, and Press 'A' as fast as you can for every event, Field 2", 2. "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles the uncool impossible overhead view version", "Battle Toads" which was impossible to get past level three until the most fulfilling day of my life last summer, and who can forget "Jedi Knight Dark Forces 2" which happens to be the only game I have attempted to make a level for, that is a very pitiful story of embarrassment and harrassment.

Sven and I have broken many objects in his basement over the years playing stupid non-videogame games such as "The blue ball (of destruction) game", "Inverse Pointy Beard Grog Toss", and "America's #1 Favorite game Kill Daniel". Expect to see home board game editions of all of these instant classics soon such as Blue ball (of destruction) Monopoly, Inverse Point Beard Grog Clue, and Kill Daniel Risk.

Sven possess all of the qualities which I look for in a future bride: muscles, hairy arms, ability to do the wave with his abs, and was on a summer swim team with me for like ten years.

I think that that is basically all you need to know about Sven. So now, everyone please put your hands, heels, elbows, and lips together for the man of the hour!