Monday, September 20, 2010

The Event

   So if you live under a rock, as apparently I do, NBC's new flagship show The Event debuted tonight and I had no clue this was happening until maybe 40 minutes before. As I was sitting here wasting my night away anyway, and all my summer flicks are on holiday, I decided to give the show a go in hopes of finding a new distraction. I guess the easiest way to talk about the debut episode of the we-need-to-pick-up-what-we-lost-when-Lost-ended show is to summarize it. I admit, I missed the first twelve minutes, but this apparently didn't hinder the show at all - here goes:
   Start with Guy on island with girlfriend all shaky and trying to propose, suddenly some girl is drowning and can't be saved by a guy with an arm cast! Proposer man jumps into the ocean and saves her. Now we're all drinking on the beach rehashing good ol' times of when this rando girl was drowning, everyone's friends, and then the soon-to-be-fiance girl gets a phone call. Her parents! They haven't talked to her in a while! Now everyone's drunk on a boat! Now all of the sudden our original proposer man is on an airplane with a gun and a guy is pointing another gun at him. Now the plane is crashing! Now they're on the beach again! But this time we see the parent's perspective of the phone call, they hang up and for some reason the parent's daughter (fiance's sister?) get's kidnapped, but not actually kidnapped, the kidnapper goes inside and shoots everyone! Now we're on a boat again and the proposer man thinks he and his fiance are in a room, but they're not! She's not there! He's just nuts, so he runs away from a security guard and calls...the airplane that he's on? Now we're back on the airplane and it's crashing and the pilot locked the cabin and there's military jets and inexplicably they can't function correctly and crash...or something, and here's where it get's good.
   Suddenly the President is in a house. Alarms begin to ring. In a house. It's a house with alarms, and they're ringing. Secret service men who were just chillin' in the garden come running in and whisk the President to his limo where his wife is waiting and they all turn around TO SEE A FUCKING AIRPLANE DESCENDING UPON THEM. Flash back to the plane, which is still crashing, and our main man is all "BRO DON'T CRASH THE PLANE!", because apparently he knows the pilot, but pilot bro is all intent on crashing that plane. Flash back to the President once again running to his limo and getting in AND THERE'S THE FUCKING PLANE!!!! DRIVE AWAY MOTHERFUCKER, but they don't drive, they just gawk, our President just gawks at an airplane heading straight for his fucking convoy and ya know what happens? Do ya? THE PLANE DISAPPEARS. Poof. There's some awfully animated green wormhole lookin' thing and then plane is gone. Next some dumbass security woman says "There's something I didn't tell you" and the Pres is all "!?!?!?" and she's like "yeah" annnnddd end of episode.

   WHAT THE FUCK. I bet you the plane disappeared into Lost and that's how all that jazz started. Ya know what I'm going to do? Start a show. It's going to be about trains. Trains heading straight for black holes. And the train's can't dodge the black holes because trains are on tracks. Everyone on these trains will be like "WHERE DO THE HOLES GO?!" and when they come out on the other side they'll be confused because the scenery will be slightly different. Everyone will get off the train and say "Where are we??" and the truth will be they're all in Tennessee. But they started the trip in FLORIDA! Spooky. In the end these black holes just conveniently lead to other portions of tracks elsewhere and the whole plot is actually just an elaborate scheme by the American money machine to make rail use quicker and simpler but you'll only find that out after six seasons of shitty plot twists and tons of conspiracy theories.
   Fuck, bring back summer TV.

Monday, August 30, 2010

Listen Up

   Hello there, yours truly, Desmond, here. I realized something last night that I've always hated but never really talked about. Now, when I say "always hated" I mean from every depth of my soul, with every inch of my moral being I cannot stand being called cutesy names by waitresses or the like. What do I mean, you ask? Well say you sit down to get, what you hope, is a non-confrontational, easy, tasty meal and you get that jovial waitress who utters the "whahht can Iuh git ya, Hun?" Hun can be substituted by honey, sweetie, baby, cutie, etc (basically nouns with "ie" at the end) and it just makes me want to declare marshal law and let everyone know the following: I'M NOT YOUR FUCKING SWEETIE, NOR BABY, NOR 'HUNNY'. I'm not even part of your FUCKING FAMILY. So don't you treat me like that, Doris.

A still from some fucking show called "Lie To Me" from an episode title named "Honey" (no joke) See how pissed that guy is?
   All I want are some baby back ribs and a coke, not to be lambasted with your need to talk down your nose and make yourself better than me because I'm literally shorter than you while in a booth. You're an asshole.

Missed Connections

I was the pleasantly full guy in the green car. I was still enjoying the Burger King double cheeseburger sitting in my stomach. You were the cunt-ass jack-hole in the shitty van. I wanted to conveniently pull forward out of my parking spot instead of annoyingly (not to mention more dangerously!) reversing into potential oncoming traffic. Or an old woman with a walker. Or a small child with a puppy. You get the point. But you were against it. You, madam, said "nay; you will not pull forward. Why, yes...I do see that you're already in your car, in motion and about a quarter of the way out of your spot. Don't worry, I also see the 3 other spots that are just as easy to get in to, directly next to this one. But, because I am a douchebag, I'm going to FUCK YOUR DAY UP!"

(Exact artist's rendering)

My glare didn't seem to stop you. Or phase you in any way. It actually looked like you were dazed off in your own little world, reminiscing about the time when people liked you and you had friends; back before the daddy issues and acne. It was a good thing I noticed that you were an uber-bitch and was able to hit the brakes before you drove through me. I hope you enjoyed your parking spot. I also hope you choked on your salad that you got, along with your apple pie and large coke, because it's "healthy".

Really hoping to see you again!
Dr. Jones

Tuesday, August 24, 2010

Rex and the Stair war

   I once had a friend named Rex (his actual name). Rex was pretty nuts. When I say pretty nuts, I mean he regularly ate trash, could throw up on demand, would start fights to see if people would do anything about it, and drew his form of art on just about everything, including himself in tattoo form. Rex wasn't exactly bad off financially, I mean not rich but not poor, but he loved living a true "punk rock" life style - and he did it well.    One day in high school Rex came up to me and decided to try and start a fight. As I sat on some stairs by myself eating a shitty lunch Rex came up and pushed me around, so I pushed back and punched him. We became friends pretty much the next minute. Rex loved to do insane things. Soon after we became friends Rex decided he didn't like the people that sat beneath us on the stairs, on the sides of the stairs, and basically anywhere within his eye shot. These kids were interesting, but not offensive, really. They wore capes, casted spells, played a lot of hacky sack, sat in the rain, danced in the rain, probably loved in the rain and were just a little different (but who in high school wasn't, right?) So what was Rex going to do with his disdain for these creatures? Well he threw milk, chicken nuggets, and general debris in their direction hoping that they would get the point and leave. They didn't. This escalated into basically a gang war at my high school between these bottom of the stoop children, and my rag-tag band of punk-wannabe high stair sitters.

   One day a member of the opposing side decided he'd had enough and retaliated by throwing a chicken nugget back over the ledge where Rex had just decided to dispose of his meal, and this didn't bode well with my group of Sid Viciousi (plural like octopi). The details of what happened next are a bit hazy but Rex may have leaned over the ledge and threw up on some people, or he may have grabbed some trash and thrown it on them. Either way, some kids got doused with some nasty shit.
   Now, as in the professional artist rendering above you can see there were statistically outnumbered somewhere in the range of 500 to 1. So next thing my lucky band of bandits knew we had the entire school descending upon us (not really, but Pokemon, dungeon and dragon and Magic fans are intimidating). I think at this point we devolved into name calling, got broken up by someone, and everyone went to class covered in mustard. Or stomach acid and bits of Lucky Charms, but who's counting?
   Anyway, shortly after that our stair incident the rivalries went quiet, but before we go I'd like to have a caveat about good ol' Rex. One day Rex and I were walking around a scenic district in our town and Rex found a porno mag. After perusing the magazine for a few minutes and realizing it was all old ladies, Rex promptly found a parked car, put it under the windshield wiper, threw up on the magazine and car and walked away..
   Nice kid, that guy.


Friday, August 13, 2010


This blog seems like it's becoming a letter forum
for things that Dr. Jones and I dislike. Well, in keeping
with that, I'd like to write something to my new next
door neighbor.
Now, I'm out of state now and again, and out of
town pretty often, so when I came home one
weekend to find that new neighbors had moved in,
well, it seemed like the normal turn around for this
house (seriously, new people move in like every 3
months). So, I'll set the scene: this backyard has an
old 1930s car frame, a huge, I believe unusable boat,
a half-pipe, and a bunch of cages. And a dog. So after
skeptically scanning this new neighbor's possessions
I walked back in my house and forgot about them.

That brings us to right about 2am when I'm startled
awake by the sound of COCKAFUCKINGDOODLEDO,
MOTHERFUCKER. A fucking rooster. Who the FUCK
owns a rooster in veritable suburbia!? These people
do. Remember when you were a kid and you had that
little spinner toy that as you spun it it made different
animal sounds? Remember the rooster? It wasn't that
obnoxious, was it? Remember eating Kellogg's corn
flakes and learning that rooster wakes everyone up
all jovially on the farm at the crack of dawn so that
little Billy can go milk the cows, or trim the corn or
some shit? It's all lies. All fucking lies. This rooster
sounds like it's one day away from dying and it's
cockadoodles are more like an asthmatic attempt at
imitating a farm animal.
Oh, and that crack of dawn shit? Yeah, that's a total
fucking lie too. This abomination screams murder at
2am, 5am, 9am, etc. One could guess this is probably
due to the fact that this animal is kept in a cage. In
the middle of a yard. Where our local raccoons and
foxes more than likely come to the edge salivating
for some food. I'd freak-the-fuck out too, but that
doesn't excuse this.
I'm generally a pretty crafty guy when it comes to
telling people I'm pissed off but I've been trying and
trying to figure out a way to let this neighbor know
that this bird is one step away from being my next
dinner. I think I may leave them a note tonight - I'll
let ya know if I do.

Thursday, August 12, 2010

Another Letter

Dear trash man,

I, like many sane American citizens, enjoy sleeping. I enjoy it so much that I do it daily. Shocking, I know. Again, like many people, I am usually partaking in this sleep activity in the first few hours of the AM. Mainly, 6:45am. You, however are not sleeping. No sir. You and your monstrosity of a garbage eating robotic death machine on wheels like to come play a fun game of Piss Off the Neighborhood at 6:45am. Fuck you.

What is the purpose of going through to collect trash at such an early time? Why not pick up your treasure trove of disgustingness at a later hour? Perhaps some time in the noon to 4:00pm time frame, when normal American citizens are at work, and not having visions of sugar plums dancing in their heads (who the fuck dreams of sugar plums? What the hell is a sugar plum?!!).

Don't get me wrong, I am unendingly grateful for the under-appreciated job you guys do; without it, our garbage would be collecting in thousands of small piles instead of one gigantic decomposing heap. I just think that it could be done at a later time in the day.

Providing you with a job since 1989,
Dr. Jones

(By the way, this is a sugar plum...I think)

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

Juicy Asses

Excited about that title? Don't be. Unfortunately, this post has nothing to do with J-Lo, Beyonce, Jessica Biel or Shakira. I'm sure everyone has seen it; the old/fat/shapely woman with the sweatpants on that have the words "Sexy", "Juicy", "Bootylicious", or some other word that obviously does not describe your wrinkly, fat-pocketed ass.

I really don't even feel comfortable reading words off of hot girls asses, let alone having to physically walk from one side of you to the other in order to read the 4 letter word that has somehow managed to completely wrap itself around your derrière. It is in my opinion that there should be both an age AND weight limit on this type of clothing, which includes more than just the pants. For example, a woman in her mid to late 60's came in to my place of employment earlier this week wearing a bright yellow spaghetti-strap shirt (no bra.......) with the word "SEXY" bedazzled into it. Did you just gag? I thought so.

Obama, get on it.

- Dr. Jones