SCIENCE:
C+
let me explain. I love science. I love reading about new discoveries in archeology, new theories about space and physics, new forensics to catch a theif and new ways to whiten my teeth. I eat it up. however, I am fundamentally depressed at the sloppy output of scientists and the fact that my car can't fly.
about a week ago I read that it is probably bad for you to consume artificial sweeteners. see, the body, scientists have discovered, instinctively knows how many calories are in the sugary foods we eat, and our brains, therefore, are designed to tell our mouths to stop eating when we have consumed too many sugary calories in favor for something with more substance. but by eating artificially sweetened foods we are consuming sweets that have no calories and over time we are destroying that instinctive relationship between our tastebuds and our brain. our brains no longer understand that sugary foods contain calories so when we get our hands on real sugar, say a cherry pie, we eat and eat, and our brains never say stop.
way to go, scientists! way to drop the ball on that one. "Let us give you that sugary flavor, without the calories," they said. "Won't that be good?"
well, no, it isn't good. turns out it's worse. cause now I start eating those damn little Snickers and I can't calculate how many of those equals one whole big Snickers bar. and the Snickers company doesn't bother to put a calorie count on the tiny ones, austensibly because they are insignificantly small. and now I can't trust my brain to tell me when to stop anymore because it has been damaged by saccharin. I have brain damage. my tastebuds are retarded.
sigh. well, I'm sure the scientists who thought of artificial sweeteners meant well.
or did they? new scientific forensic evidence has show that it was all a conspiracy by the Food and Drug Administration (a known communist front) to make Americans fat so that communist Russia can invade and take over all of North America while we are busy rolling from the kitchen to the bathroom, stopping every couple of feet to breath heavy and sweat.
now I know that Russia is no longer communist. but that was the plan, and it was thwarted primarily by Richard Simmons. and if it wasn't for the miracle of science Mr. Simmions would never have been able to wear such short shorts. then where would we have been, I wonder?
(scientifically speaking this post sucked.)
Monday, February 25, 2008
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Review - Death and Aging
AGING:
D-
ok, when you're little aging seems like the best thing to do. when you are four or five you have no power in the world. all you want is some f-ing ice cream once in a while! but your parents keep spelling shit out so you don't have the first clue what's going on, and you get the distinct feeling that they are sending you to daycare and then going back home to watch Sesame Street without you. AND THEY'RE EATING ICE CREAM THE WHOLE TIME!
that's when growing up get's a big fat A++. all you want is to be a little bit bigger so you can start kicking some ass.
so then you get to seven or eight. that's a pretty friggin' cool age. I have to admit I loved it. you get a bicycle and your parents shove you out the door at 10 am on Saturday and say, be back for dinner. your biggest fear at that age was getting chased through the neighborhood by an unchained dog. You didn't know what dangers lurked around the corners. they didn't have Law and Order SVU back then to scare the crap out of parents. and you wouldn't have watched it if it was on. not unless someone gave you some damn ice cream... which they still weren't about to do.
so growing up is still ok at seven or eight, maybe a B, though you're almost as big as you really need to be.
then you get to 11 or 12. you're not quite a teen and you don't really care. the teenagers you know are hella stupid. but the girls your age are starting to act totally wacked out of their heads. but that doesn't really matter because you have comic books and Nintendo. and, of course, your bicycle.
at this point there is no real need to grow up. you're big enough to get around. you're still kinda little. adults don't really give you the time of day, but who cares about adults? you mowed the lawn last week, so you can buy your own damn ice cream.
on the other hand, Scott R. the bully down the street, is still a little bit bigger than you. if he would just leave you alone life would be perfect. but he won't, and since your one attempt to stand up for yourself ended with you in the emergency room you wouldn't mind a couple more inches. aging squeaks by with a C-.
14. holy crap, you totally understand the glory of boobies. there is a God, and it was by his guiding hand that you stumbled upon a stash of Play Boy magazines in your great grandparents abandoned house in Kentucky. Nintendo still rules, and your bike is your best friend, but thirty minutes in the shower bookend your days nicely. and would it kill your friggin' parents to buy a little bit of ice cream? chocolate, vanilla swirl, cookies and cream, you're not picky.
there are some problems with this age, however. most of the girls your age do not have the bodies of your Play Boy mistresses. and even if they did, they aren't giving you the time of day, which is probably for the best because lately you've been preoccupied with a hairy little issue. you don't know if it's all the "showers" you've been taking, because everyone told you those were urban legends, but your body is slowly being over-taken by hair; arm pits, belly, chest, back and... well, you know. your palms are still clear, so no one is the wiser, but you simply cannot take your shirt off in front of anyone... ever, ever again.
so you convince yourself that just a couple more years is all you need to be perfect. againg gets a B here. maybe a B+.
of course 16 is awesome, cause you get to drive. oddly this does little to help your efforts with the ladies. your metabolism kicked in and you shed about thirty pounds. while this sounds really good, you need to remember that now there is less skin area to put all of the hair that you are cursed to carry with you because of all of that love makin' you did... sans partner. so basically you look like a skinny teddy bear. anyway, it doesn't take you long to realize that the hot girls at school don't give a rats butt about you. it's a good thing you're in the band.
16 is pretty cool. if it wasn't for the stupid nuisance of school, life would be sweet! just a couple more years is all you need. aging get's a B at this point in time because you are totally stupid and you're totally missing the point of being 16!
the next thing you know you're 33. haha dumbass, where did your 20s go? you don't have the first clue, do you? well neither do I. don't lament them because they're gone, long gone.
aging gets a friggin F, right here, bitches. time totally PWN3D your ass. now you got tendonitis in your good hand and your butt totally cramped up racing your 4 year old kid to the car. for the first time ever he beat you legitimately, because you are AGING.
AGING gets another F right here, because you are pretty pissed off and fired up.
so, 33. that's where you are, but only for a few more days. these ages zip by and never come back. and it has been a helluva long time since you stumbled across a cash of nudey magazines. or any other metaphorical boon for that matter.
the only milestones left are "over the hill" and "retired." well, there is one other.
DEATH:
F
as far as I can tell death is for shit. what a good for nothing invention.
I might change my tune once I'm dead. I may think it's the bomb, then. but presently I'm not convinced.
Dear Lord,
The boobies you made are rock awesome! Go God, you are da man. Also, ice cream is really cool. And bicycles and Nintendo.
However, this death thing is a little on the bullshit side, and I was wondering if you could re-evaluate.
-Michael
so death has no practical applications that I can tell. unless you want a hamburger. you really do have to kill the cow if you want to eat it. oh, also if you are Prince Charles. I bet he can think of a really good use for death.
D-
ok, when you're little aging seems like the best thing to do. when you are four or five you have no power in the world. all you want is some f-ing ice cream once in a while! but your parents keep spelling shit out so you don't have the first clue what's going on, and you get the distinct feeling that they are sending you to daycare and then going back home to watch Sesame Street without you. AND THEY'RE EATING ICE CREAM THE WHOLE TIME!
that's when growing up get's a big fat A++. all you want is to be a little bit bigger so you can start kicking some ass.
so then you get to seven or eight. that's a pretty friggin' cool age. I have to admit I loved it. you get a bicycle and your parents shove you out the door at 10 am on Saturday and say, be back for dinner. your biggest fear at that age was getting chased through the neighborhood by an unchained dog. You didn't know what dangers lurked around the corners. they didn't have Law and Order SVU back then to scare the crap out of parents. and you wouldn't have watched it if it was on. not unless someone gave you some damn ice cream... which they still weren't about to do.
so growing up is still ok at seven or eight, maybe a B, though you're almost as big as you really need to be.
then you get to 11 or 12. you're not quite a teen and you don't really care. the teenagers you know are hella stupid. but the girls your age are starting to act totally wacked out of their heads. but that doesn't really matter because you have comic books and Nintendo. and, of course, your bicycle.
at this point there is no real need to grow up. you're big enough to get around. you're still kinda little. adults don't really give you the time of day, but who cares about adults? you mowed the lawn last week, so you can buy your own damn ice cream.
on the other hand, Scott R. the bully down the street, is still a little bit bigger than you. if he would just leave you alone life would be perfect. but he won't, and since your one attempt to stand up for yourself ended with you in the emergency room you wouldn't mind a couple more inches. aging squeaks by with a C-.
14. holy crap, you totally understand the glory of boobies. there is a God, and it was by his guiding hand that you stumbled upon a stash of Play Boy magazines in your great grandparents abandoned house in Kentucky. Nintendo still rules, and your bike is your best friend, but thirty minutes in the shower bookend your days nicely. and would it kill your friggin' parents to buy a little bit of ice cream? chocolate, vanilla swirl, cookies and cream, you're not picky.
there are some problems with this age, however. most of the girls your age do not have the bodies of your Play Boy mistresses. and even if they did, they aren't giving you the time of day, which is probably for the best because lately you've been preoccupied with a hairy little issue. you don't know if it's all the "showers" you've been taking, because everyone told you those were urban legends, but your body is slowly being over-taken by hair; arm pits, belly, chest, back and... well, you know. your palms are still clear, so no one is the wiser, but you simply cannot take your shirt off in front of anyone... ever, ever again.
so you convince yourself that just a couple more years is all you need to be perfect. againg gets a B here. maybe a B+.
of course 16 is awesome, cause you get to drive. oddly this does little to help your efforts with the ladies. your metabolism kicked in and you shed about thirty pounds. while this sounds really good, you need to remember that now there is less skin area to put all of the hair that you are cursed to carry with you because of all of that love makin' you did... sans partner. so basically you look like a skinny teddy bear. anyway, it doesn't take you long to realize that the hot girls at school don't give a rats butt about you. it's a good thing you're in the band.
16 is pretty cool. if it wasn't for the stupid nuisance of school, life would be sweet! just a couple more years is all you need. aging get's a B at this point in time because you are totally stupid and you're totally missing the point of being 16!
the next thing you know you're 33. haha dumbass, where did your 20s go? you don't have the first clue, do you? well neither do I. don't lament them because they're gone, long gone.
aging gets a friggin F, right here, bitches. time totally PWN3D your ass. now you got tendonitis in your good hand and your butt totally cramped up racing your 4 year old kid to the car. for the first time ever he beat you legitimately, because you are AGING.
AGING gets another F right here, because you are pretty pissed off and fired up.
so, 33. that's where you are, but only for a few more days. these ages zip by and never come back. and it has been a helluva long time since you stumbled across a cash of nudey magazines. or any other metaphorical boon for that matter.
the only milestones left are "over the hill" and "retired." well, there is one other.
DEATH:
F
as far as I can tell death is for shit. what a good for nothing invention.
I might change my tune once I'm dead. I may think it's the bomb, then. but presently I'm not convinced.
Dear Lord,
The boobies you made are rock awesome! Go God, you are da man. Also, ice cream is really cool. And bicycles and Nintendo.
However, this death thing is a little on the bullshit side, and I was wondering if you could re-evaluate.
-Michael
so death has no practical applications that I can tell. unless you want a hamburger. you really do have to kill the cow if you want to eat it. oh, also if you are Prince Charles. I bet he can think of a really good use for death.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Review - Valentines Day
VALENTINES DAY:
B+
I don't know, as far as holiday's go, it isn't so bad.
in Elementary School it is required that everyone in your class send you a Valentine, and that you send one to everyone. this is fine in Kindergarden, first and second (or so), before kids start to realize that they are giving cards that express affection to kids that they really have no affection for. and when you receive a card from the kid who pulled your pants down in the lunchroom, you know he doesn't really "WANT TO BE YOUR FRIEND."
then by third or fourth grade you have the f-ers who send everyone a card because they have to, but next to the "YOU'RE COOL" they write, "I don't really feel this way about you," on it, or next to the "BE MINE" they write, "As IF!" of course, some of the more clever kids will simply give you an envelope with nothing inside so it looks like they are following the rules. or they give you a card that has someone else's name on the inside, like the girl in class who is made entirely of matted hair, or the boy who farts all the time.
by fifth grade the teachers have completely stopped trying to make you write Valentines. it's just easier to console a kid who gets nothing than one who gets a hand made card that says, "Last night I decided you're gay." so they just stick the boxes out there and "encourage" everyone to participate. and you basically get cards from your friends that say, "You're really funny," or "You won't always be fat" and you really start to understand exactly how lonely Valentines can be.
then by sixth and seventh grade you start to "understand" Valentines and your showers start taking a lot longer. and you wonder if you weren't better off in first grade when you were getting lied to.
then in high school, if you aren't a total reject (my apologies to any total rejects out there), you find yourself a girlfriend. and the week before Valentines Day the bitch totally dumps you for this dick she had been dating before you. you were a rebound, you loser. and you wonder why you dated her in the first place. you really didn't like her. she wasn't very smart, or very pretty. but she was the best could do.
then in or after college you land a wife who is a supermodel and you take some small comfort in the fact that your ex-girlfriends are all lesbians or prostitutes and you are going to get a huge tax deduction for Valentines because you are married with children.
B+
I don't know, as far as holiday's go, it isn't so bad.
in Elementary School it is required that everyone in your class send you a Valentine, and that you send one to everyone. this is fine in Kindergarden, first and second (or so), before kids start to realize that they are giving cards that express affection to kids that they really have no affection for. and when you receive a card from the kid who pulled your pants down in the lunchroom, you know he doesn't really "WANT TO BE YOUR FRIEND."
then by third or fourth grade you have the f-ers who send everyone a card because they have to, but next to the "YOU'RE COOL" they write, "I don't really feel this way about you," on it, or next to the "BE MINE" they write, "As IF!" of course, some of the more clever kids will simply give you an envelope with nothing inside so it looks like they are following the rules. or they give you a card that has someone else's name on the inside, like the girl in class who is made entirely of matted hair, or the boy who farts all the time.
by fifth grade the teachers have completely stopped trying to make you write Valentines. it's just easier to console a kid who gets nothing than one who gets a hand made card that says, "Last night I decided you're gay." so they just stick the boxes out there and "encourage" everyone to participate. and you basically get cards from your friends that say, "You're really funny," or "You won't always be fat" and you really start to understand exactly how lonely Valentines can be.
then by sixth and seventh grade you start to "understand" Valentines and your showers start taking a lot longer. and you wonder if you weren't better off in first grade when you were getting lied to.
then in high school, if you aren't a total reject (my apologies to any total rejects out there), you find yourself a girlfriend. and the week before Valentines Day the bitch totally dumps you for this dick she had been dating before you. you were a rebound, you loser. and you wonder why you dated her in the first place. you really didn't like her. she wasn't very smart, or very pretty. but she was the best could do.
then in or after college you land a wife who is a supermodel and you take some small comfort in the fact that your ex-girlfriends are all lesbians or prostitutes and you are going to get a huge tax deduction for Valentines because you are married with children.
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Review - Harry Potter
HARRY POTTER:
A
come on folks, this shit was good. if you don't like Harry Potter then your an idiot. or a Republican.
note: not all Republicans hate Harry Potter. neither do all idiots, for that matter. I don't actually know yet if all idiots are Republicans. it isn't likely, but it is a possibility. I have, in the past, known a few people who claimed to be Democrats who were blithering idiots. but since I can't actually follow them into the voting booth, I don't know how they voted. they may have just been saying they were Democrats to score weed.
note: not all Democrats smoke weed. and all weed smokers are not Democrats. truth be told, weed smokers can claim whatever the hell they want to about their political leanings. they're not gonna get their stoned ass up and vote, so it doesn't much matter.
POLITICS:
C+
I used to think politics got an A. I'd talk about it all the time. then my wife told me that if I said one more f-ing work about Republicans or Democrats or anything remotely related to politics to her again she would beat me to death with her bare fists and then eat my body, bones and all. and she said it mean, too. I asked her a bit later if she was just trying to be sexual and she said, "no" so I'm guessing that she probably wasn't.
you don't think writing about politics in a blog counts, do you?
pretend I didn't say anything.
A
come on folks, this shit was good. if you don't like Harry Potter then your an idiot. or a Republican.
note: not all Republicans hate Harry Potter. neither do all idiots, for that matter. I don't actually know yet if all idiots are Republicans. it isn't likely, but it is a possibility. I have, in the past, known a few people who claimed to be Democrats who were blithering idiots. but since I can't actually follow them into the voting booth, I don't know how they voted. they may have just been saying they were Democrats to score weed.
note: not all Democrats smoke weed. and all weed smokers are not Democrats. truth be told, weed smokers can claim whatever the hell they want to about their political leanings. they're not gonna get their stoned ass up and vote, so it doesn't much matter.
POLITICS:
C+
I used to think politics got an A. I'd talk about it all the time. then my wife told me that if I said one more f-ing work about Republicans or Democrats or anything remotely related to politics to her again she would beat me to death with her bare fists and then eat my body, bones and all. and she said it mean, too. I asked her a bit later if she was just trying to be sexual and she said, "no" so I'm guessing that she probably wasn't.
you don't think writing about politics in a blog counts, do you?
pretend I didn't say anything.
The Elevator bum-bum-bummmmmm!
So I went downstair and got myself a Coke Zero, which I've been told was rated a B+ by the Reviewist.
Anyway, I hopped on the elevator -literally- not expecting anyone to be in it, and got kind of embarrassed when someone was. He was a biggish kind of guy, a bit "fluffy" I guess, with slacks and a brown fuzzy V-neck sweater. He looked a bit like my 8th grade math teacher. Anyway, I landed on the elevator floor and looked up slightly ashamed at my display of childhood and he smiled and said in a sweet southern accent, "Come on in. I don't bite."
"Ha ha," I said. "I don't either, anymore."
He smiled at me, as though he was happy to have met someone who shared in his good-morning-mood. This was odd because I am not a morning person, and under normal circumstances I'd probably have slipped into the corner of the elevator and stayed there until my floor. But I felt compelled to keep talking.
"I had to quit biting after all of the restraining orders."
He kept smiling, but his eyes bugged out as though I had somehow touched on some secret information. I could tell he was right on the line of uncomfortable. My brain said to stop, but my mouth said,
"It's kinda hard to work here when you're constantly having to move 50 feet away from everybody."
He started to sweat. Was it something I said? 'Shut up, ME!' I thought. 'For cryin' out loud, SHUT UP!' Then I said,
"I mean, it'd be fine if everyone would just sit still, right?"
I noticed him scootching himself back into the corner of the elevator. Probably wondering, just like I was, "How friggin long does it take to get to the second floor?"
"They're like little kids with ADD," I added. "I want to just yell, keep your seats, kids!"
With that the poor man let out a high pitch groan. "Who do you work for?" he whispered at me.
"What's the matter?" my mouth said, now complete emancipated from my brain, "Don't you like kids?"
"Ahgh," he squealed in a high voice, and actually swooned.
"Of course you like kids! You look like the teachery type. I think I had a teacher who looked like you once."
"No you didn't!" he screamed in an almost woman's voice. And though my brain could tell that he was clearly in distress, my mouth was now the puppet of the Tourrette's-demon-puppet master.
"I'm really not trying to imply you're a pedophile."
"I was NOT your teacher," he said and opened his cell phone with shaking hands.
"I mean, you look like one. That doesn't mean you are one, right?"
"Ohh," he moaned as he was typing the numbers in.
"You know," I said, "You're really not supposed to use that in the elevator. They have a sign up."
Half an hour later we got to the second floor and I got off. The guy was still inside chatting it up with his psychiatrist.
Where did the "real" conversation end and the made up one begin? Well, I'm too ashamed to admit.
Anyway, I hopped on the elevator -literally- not expecting anyone to be in it, and got kind of embarrassed when someone was. He was a biggish kind of guy, a bit "fluffy" I guess, with slacks and a brown fuzzy V-neck sweater. He looked a bit like my 8th grade math teacher. Anyway, I landed on the elevator floor and looked up slightly ashamed at my display of childhood and he smiled and said in a sweet southern accent, "Come on in. I don't bite."
"Ha ha," I said. "I don't either, anymore."
He smiled at me, as though he was happy to have met someone who shared in his good-morning-mood. This was odd because I am not a morning person, and under normal circumstances I'd probably have slipped into the corner of the elevator and stayed there until my floor. But I felt compelled to keep talking.
"I had to quit biting after all of the restraining orders."
He kept smiling, but his eyes bugged out as though I had somehow touched on some secret information. I could tell he was right on the line of uncomfortable. My brain said to stop, but my mouth said,
"It's kinda hard to work here when you're constantly having to move 50 feet away from everybody."
He started to sweat. Was it something I said? 'Shut up, ME!' I thought. 'For cryin' out loud, SHUT UP!' Then I said,
"I mean, it'd be fine if everyone would just sit still, right?"
I noticed him scootching himself back into the corner of the elevator. Probably wondering, just like I was, "How friggin long does it take to get to the second floor?"
"They're like little kids with ADD," I added. "I want to just yell, keep your seats, kids!"
With that the poor man let out a high pitch groan. "Who do you work for?" he whispered at me.
"What's the matter?" my mouth said, now complete emancipated from my brain, "Don't you like kids?"
"Ahgh," he squealed in a high voice, and actually swooned.
"Of course you like kids! You look like the teachery type. I think I had a teacher who looked like you once."
"No you didn't!" he screamed in an almost woman's voice. And though my brain could tell that he was clearly in distress, my mouth was now the puppet of the Tourrette's-demon-puppet master.
"I'm really not trying to imply you're a pedophile."
"I was NOT your teacher," he said and opened his cell phone with shaking hands.
"I mean, you look like one. That doesn't mean you are one, right?"
"Ohh," he moaned as he was typing the numbers in.
"You know," I said, "You're really not supposed to use that in the elevator. They have a sign up."
Half an hour later we got to the second floor and I got off. The guy was still inside chatting it up with his psychiatrist.
Where did the "real" conversation end and the made up one begin? Well, I'm too ashamed to admit.
Friday, February 01, 2008
Review - Oldies (music)
OLDIES MUSIC :
D
minus
oldies suck.
I liked oldies for a period of time, I admit. back in the late 80s, when "oldies" were only 30 to 40 years old, and the only rock and roll alternative on the radio was hair band/glam rock music.
I'm one of those people who can't stand the same music over and over. I don't even know that the oldies were ever "good." Roy Orbison is cool, I guess. whoever the hell wrote Crimson and Clover was good. late Beatles are ok. but after a while even the diamonds in the rough fade. who can listen to this stuff again and again and still be entertained? it's like eating the same thing every day; day after day. I don't care what my options are, if I had to choose between one thing and poison, over and over, eventually I'm gonna choose poison.
ok, perhaps food is a bad example. I'd probably eat the damn food. but if I had to listen to the same music, over and over, day in-day out, I'd probably eat the poison. this is the main reason I don't listen to the radio anymore. I just can't stomach it. I'd rather hear nothing than be subjected to Smells Like Teen Spirit again; or anything off of 10.
in case you haven't been counting Nirvana and Pearl Jam's earliest music will be "oldies" in just a few years. they may have been cutting edge at one time, but that cutting edge is dull. it's just spreading butter now.
my heart can't take it.
D
minus
oldies suck.
I liked oldies for a period of time, I admit. back in the late 80s, when "oldies" were only 30 to 40 years old, and the only rock and roll alternative on the radio was hair band/glam rock music.
I'm one of those people who can't stand the same music over and over. I don't even know that the oldies were ever "good." Roy Orbison is cool, I guess. whoever the hell wrote Crimson and Clover was good. late Beatles are ok. but after a while even the diamonds in the rough fade. who can listen to this stuff again and again and still be entertained? it's like eating the same thing every day; day after day. I don't care what my options are, if I had to choose between one thing and poison, over and over, eventually I'm gonna choose poison.
ok, perhaps food is a bad example. I'd probably eat the damn food. but if I had to listen to the same music, over and over, day in-day out, I'd probably eat the poison. this is the main reason I don't listen to the radio anymore. I just can't stomach it. I'd rather hear nothing than be subjected to Smells Like Teen Spirit again; or anything off of 10.
in case you haven't been counting Nirvana and Pearl Jam's earliest music will be "oldies" in just a few years. they may have been cutting edge at one time, but that cutting edge is dull. it's just spreading butter now.
my heart can't take it.
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