The un-cool demographic speaks here.
From Huckleberry Finn to George Bailey to Star Trek’s Data to Doctor Manhattan, the recognition of the intrinsic value of human life; be it of an individual, a particular group, or the collective value of humanity; is a common story arch for some of fiction's greatest characters. Fairly regularly, however, this same plot device will piss all over what made some of those characters great in the first place.
Based on this premise I give you; 6 Great Fictional Characters Made Lame By Their Own Humanity
6. Severus Snape
If you don’t know him:
An integral character in the Harry Potter series; he is the Potions teacher at Hogwart’s School of Witchcraft and Wizardry; and one of Harry’s primary antagonists. Whether Snape was good or evil was a driving plot point of the entire series.
What makes him awesome:
He is a wizard so skilled he has earned the absolute trust of Dumbledore and Voldemort, mortal enemies and the two most powerful wizards in the world.
Where it went wrong:
By series end we find out his driving motivation was a 15 year old boner for Harry’s mom.
5. Mr. Big
If you don’t know him:
He is the on-again, off-again love interest of “Sex and the City’s” Carrie Bradshaw.
What makes him awesome:
He was a handsome, martini drinking, cigar smoking, Wall Street big shot, known for banging women until they started giving a shit, then dumping them. He was Don Drapier without the angst. He was so above the rest of us, we weren’t even allowed to know his name.
Where it went wrong:
By the first movie, Mr. Big had become a take-out eating, reality TV watching couch potato. We are not embellishing his characterization based on some random scene of Mr. Big in front of the TV; this was actually a central plot point to the movie. If Carrie is the movie’s protagonist, then the antagonist is Mr. Big’s sloth. Also, his name is John.
4. The Borg
If you don’t know them:
If you thought Klingons were the top villains in the Star Trek universe, you obviously haven’t been paying attention for the last 20 years (good call, by the way. Enjoy the successful career, and boob access.) First appearing in the “Star Trek: The Next Generation” series; the Borg are half robot/half humanoid beings bent on “assimilating” (read, “destroying”) every other race in the galaxy.
What makes them awesome:
They are the Terminators of the Star Trek universe. The Borg tagline, “Resistance is futile” pretty much summed up their Mission Statement. Their relentless, unstoppable bad-assery culminated in the almost entire annihilation of Star Fleet at the battle of Wolf 359 by one Borg ship.
Where it went wrong:
In the episode, “I, Borg,” the character, Georgi essentially adopts a pet Borg. Geordi teaches the Borg, (he named it Hugh), the meaning of humanity, and then returned Hugh to the Borg collective. This has such a massive impact on the collective that by the two part episode, Descent, the previously unbeatable Borg are blow to hell by the Enterprise, while Doctor Crusher is in command.
(Again, if none of that made sense to you, enjoy the boobs).
3. Michael Corleone
If you don’t know them:
Stop wasting everyone’s time and go rent The Godfather.
What makes him awesome:
By the end of the 2nd Godfather, the nicest thing you could say about Michael was that he waited until his mother died to have his brother shot in the head. (We realize we are using the term “awesome” subjectively).
Where it went wrong:
In the third movie Michael is a guilt ridden old man whose greatest threat is diabetes.
2. The Terminator
If you don’t know him:
Well then enjoy Rumspringa, Caleb. Might we also suggest you try oral sex and Ho Ho’s.
What made him awesome:
Kyle Reese said it best: “It can't be bargained with. It can't be reasoned with. It doesn't feel pity, or remorse, or fear. And it absolutely will not stop, ever, until you are dead!” What made the Terminator of the first movie awesome was its cold, calculating relentlessness. No hesitation to consider the moral impact of its actions; no pause for dramatic effect, and certainly no need to wish its victim a pithy Latin farewell before pulling the trigger. This was a Terminator that would crack your skull for being on the phone when he needed to make a call.
Where it went wrong:
In Terminator 2: Judgment Day; Arnold went from villain to hero; and for the audience to relate to the hero, they must be shown that he gives a damn; otherwise he becomes simply another weapon Sarah Connor uses to cripple hospital orderlies.
Unfortunately what he ended up giving a damn about was a young Edward Furlong; and he spends most of the movie following the orders of a whiny little emo brat; while in the meantime this literal killing machine is being out bad-assed by the woman who started this adventure as a waitress at Bob’s Big Boy.
Fortunately the studio execs learned from this misstep, and put an end to the series right then and there.
1. Darth Vader
If you don’t know him:
Welcome to Earth. We submit to our alien Overlords and present our anuses for immediate probing.
What made him awesome:
He’s Darth freakin’ Vader! He’ll mind choke you for disagreeing with him in a staff meeting. He’ll send his goons to torch your home, and leave nothing of your family but their smoldering skeletal remains, just for purchasing the wrong R2 unit.
Where it went wrong:
You’re thinking one of the three prequels and yes, from the wooden little boy to the whiny young adult, those movies did nothing to restore the awesomeness which was Darth Vader; but his awesome actually faltered the minute Luke pulled his helmet off at the end of “Return of the Jedi.” I understand, the plot of the movie is Vader’s redemption, and I’m glad Vader chose NOT to kill his own son. But going from black helmet wearing cyborg to bathrobe wearing ghost dad was kind of a let down; once again proving the rule that your kids will suck the cool right out of you.
So there's this movie coming out starring Gerard Butler, called "Machine Gun Preacher." I support that premise. I embrace it in the way I embrace "Hobo with a Shotgun" (also a real movie if you didn't know). Any movie that puts a deadly weapon in the hands of someone you maybe find uncomfortable to be around, but not necessarily immediately threatening, is a good idea. "Proctologist with a Glock"... that's gold, baby. I did have a problem with the poster though. Here it is...
My problem with it is the tagline, "Hope is the greatest weapon of all." If that's the case, why is this movie not called "Hope Preacher." Why is he shown holding a machine gun? Is it loaded with hope?
Maybe that little boy behind him is named Hope, and he is some kind of knife throwing assassin. That would be awesome.
Canada is known as America’s attic because it’s where the U.S. stores the old, smelly stuff we no longer want to look at, like hippies and Dan Aykroyd. Well, here’s another fact you probably don’t know about our neighbor to the North, Canadians LOVE Mawgland! That’s right, as you can see from the screenshot of our Google analytics page, our international traffic has just increased 100% all thanks to our hockey loving, weird bacon eating, pale skinned, shivering cousins from the land of moose and beer; or at least because of one dude in Toronto. So, thanks dude in Toronto!!
I tend to feel an inordinate sense of pride and accomplishment regarding certain tasks. A well mown lawn, finding a great parking space, correctly assembling a Lego toy; all reasons for me to celebrate my manliness. I once tightened a loose bolt on a chair, and finished it up by pounding my chest and roaring like a gorilla. That being said, I drew a SWEET sidewalk chalk Spiderman this weekend!!
(Or ‘How We Killed a Friday Afternoon’)
The Ford Crib Death
The Chevy Catheter
The Chrysler Gunt
The Toyota Blood Fart
The Chevy Nut Sack
The Dodge Moist
The Chrysler Fluffy
The Ford Stem
The Toyota Soapscum
The Mercury Inkspot
The Nissan Gray
The Lincoln Redneck
The Chevy Shah
The Dodge Panties
The Mercury Cigarette Butt
The Pontiac Phlegm
The Volkswagen Abcess
The Chevy Toe Jam
The Kia Burnt Toast
The Hyundai Stain
The Mitsubishi Drain Clog
The Kia Reek
The Honda Blow
The Toyota Ejaculate
The Porsche Douche (or is it pronounced, Por-shaa Doo-shaa?)
The Mercury Boil Lance
The Pontiac Tax Fraud
The BMW Body Cheese
The Acura Skeet Skeet
The VW Smegma
The Ford Squirt
The Toyota Gosselin
As I’ve stated before, my dear friend and co-blogger, Uncle Wrunkle’s Dad is a bloody meat eating, giant shit taking badass. His son is a MacGyver-esque mechanical genius, so it’s only a matter of time before they combine their efforts to; 1) build a time machine, and 2) use it to kick some temporal balls. Here is how I imagine that going:
Papa Wrunkle: “What the fuck are you working on, boy!?”
Uncle Wrunkle: “Hey Pop. It’s a Tipler cylinder.”
Papa Wrunkle: “A fucking time machine!? That’s my fucking boy! How did you overcome the fucking Cauchy horizon?”
Uncle Wrunkle: “I had to unify general and special relativity to identify closed time curves without using negative energy. Took me all morning.”
Papa Wrunkle: “Ha! Fuck Hawking, am I right!?”
Uncle Wrunkle: “There… it’s finished! Where should we go fi…”
Papa Wrunkle: “IT’S NAZI KILLIN’ TIME!!”
Omaha Beach – Fox Green Sector
Lieutenant General Clarence Huebner
June 8, 1944
Beach landing chaotic. Infantry and Tank Battalions missed scheduled landing sites by several miles. Strafing fire from German machine gun batteries resulted in heavy initial loses taken by infantry during assault on bluffs.
During assault long range reconnaissance noted two men ahead of the infantry racing towards the bluffs. The unidentified men scaled the wall; diving successively into each machine gun nest at which point the infantry reported hearing, “screams of terror” followed by a cessation of fire from the nest.
Subsequent inspection of the batteries by field officers revealed that the German soldiers were not killed by gun fire. Colonel Thomas Rogers was asked to speculate on how the men were killed; at which point he made the sign of the cross, wet himself and passed out. Colonel Rogers’ Section 8 paperwork is pending.
Upon approaching the final nest, field officers witnessed two men climbing out, both blood stained and smoking cigars, one with a German officers’ severed head under his right arm.
When questioned, the men refused to identify themselves. The officers asked the men why they were naked, to which the older of the two men responded; “Wait 40 years then watch The Terminator. Fucking awesome.” Officers report that at this point the space around the two men “began to warp,” and the men vanished.
Since this event, German resistance has been minimal.
Our third entry comes to us courtesy of the internet’s premier font of sketchy knowledge and hazy wisdom, Wikipedia:
Apparently Google feels that a reference to John Candy’s Spaceballs character ranks higher in importance than our website. While we see no shame in being bested by either Wikipedia or the great John Candy, we do find it mildly irritating that we can literally say we’ve been beaten by Barf.
Our second entry comes to us from the pan-governmental project to clandestinely register all of the world’s virgins; World of Warcraft.
Mawg Grimshot is a WOW NPC who wants nothing more than to kill ‘Bonelashers.’
He “can be found in Stonebreaker Hold and Terokkar Forrest.” People who know what any of that meant can be found at your local comic book shops and radio shack.
As a new blog, interested in increasing traffic to our site, we will regularly perform Google searches on the term, “MAWG” to see how far up the Google moutain we’ve managed to climb; and how many sherpas we've needed to murder for consumption along the way.
You would think that MAWG, being a relatively unusual term, would not turn up too many hits before landing upon a site that actually includes that term in its URL. You would be sadly mistaken. (Really. You're taking it way to hard. Work on your perspective a bit, man.)
So to track our progress, we’ll be regularly posting websites which currently rank higher in a Google search than our site. Here is today’s entry…
This site links to the Minnesota Association of Wheat Growers. Here you can learn all about market activity (Spring Wheat is up 11 points); discuss MAWG policy resolutions (MAWG supports the continuation of the Hard Red Spring Classification); and study the University of Minnesota’s protein survey results!
So congratulations Minnesota Association of Wheat Growers. Apparently more people care about the economic impact of Rust Disease on Oat Crops than the attribution of human characteristics to our anal canal… actually, that’s probably as it should be.
Considering the short amount of time we’ve been on the Internet, the folks at MAWG were surprised to learn that we are already embroiled in a rivalry with another media icon, Jon Stewart of the Daily Show.
We suppose it was inevitable. Jon has been the host of the Daily Show for going on twelve years. He’s been on top for a long time; perhaps feeling a bit stale; a bit… past his prime. It’s only natural that he would feel threatened by this hip new internet upstart. We are, if you will, the Jolie to his Aniston; you can argue most of their relative merits; talent, appearance, public appeal; but when you want things to get freaky, you know where to turn…
We are however, a bit disappointed at the nature of the attack. We only learned of it while reading through www.urbandictionary.com (Dirty Sanchez!? Does that really need to be a thing?) While perusing the site, we came across this entry:
Mawg (1) Noun. Acronym for "Middle Aged White Guy" used to describe a suspicious older man. Used by Jon Stewart in satirical reference...
Apparently it can also be used as a verb: "That guy at the end of the bar has been totally mawging me."
Not cool, Jon Stewart; suggesting that our age, skin tone and gender automatically imply that we are sneaking into Chuck E. Cheez to leer at single moms... (We totally are by the way).
How does that work? Yeah, yeah, “400 years of oppression! That’s how it works!” I get it. White guys did some stuff. People are still justifiably pissed, and Jon Stewart is acting as a voice for the minority. But what you aren’t considering, Jon Stewart, is that “white” encompasses a lot more now than it did 400 or even 100 years ago. There are plenty of ethnic groups which get lumped into the “white” category, who did feel the sting of oppression not too long ago.
For example, 100 years ago you may have been Irish...
but today…White guy.
100 years ago you may have been Italian...
but today…White guy.
100 years ago you may have been Jewish…
So, please, Jon Stewart, from one highly respected media outlet to another, let us assure you there is no need to feel threatened. You are, after all, one of us.
Today I drew this bear.
Then I scanned the drawing.
The scan was too light so I adjusted the contrast on the scanner.
I did this three times but it was still too light.
I went back to my desk and traced over the original drawing, making it darker.
Then I scanned it again and e-mailed it to myself so I could post it here.
The bear's name is not Vlad.
Vlad is the name of the guy I was talking to while I drew the bear.
Vlad is a good name for a bear.
You can call the bear Vlad if you want to.
When I was a kid, one of my brothers and I held my youngest brother over a stairwell by his ankles. He screamed and thrashed around, while we laughed and told him if he didn’t hold still we might drop him. If we did drop him, the fall would have seriously injured or killed him. We laugh about this now. Brothers are in a unique position wherein the abuse inflicted is often judged less by its cruelty, than its creativity. I’ve found that as I matured, my relationships in every other aspect of my life have matured with me. My relationship with my brothers, however, still consists primarily of them trying to convince me that I am a retarded hippie half-man.
To emphasize my point, here is a collection of comments pulled from e-mails my brothers have sent to me over the past year. Please note that all of these comments were made by men in their mid to late 30’s; professional men with families of their own. Please also note that this is only a small percentage of the comments I could have used. I stopped pulling them only because this article was becoming too long. (And because by this point after reading them I had become emotionally unstable. I’m going to go cry in the shower now):
“She is a happy baby. Fair skinned. She has a pinko, commie for an uncle. We just lie and tell her he's retarded.”
“I know you're a fan of the Sopranos, so I'll keep calling you Big Pussy.”
“Hey limp prick”
“Why do you want to tank the economy which single mothers rely on to feed their babies? Why do you hate babies, ass-eater?”
“I don’t blame you. If I had your life I’d be pissy too.”
“Incidentally, if blowing $780 billion will get us out of this mess, why stop there? Why not $80 trillion you Kenesian fuck?”
“take it ez, ass-cheese...you caught me ona day that I have both a work deadline AND an exam (that I am supposed to be taking right now instead of educating a pinko douche)”
“Talking to you is like talking to a woman.”
“Wii sucks. You wasted your money. Happy birthday”
“Thanks for making me change my profile picture back, asshole”
“Did you see that David Ogden Stiers came out of the closet? That makes Sulu, Winchester...shoot, if we ever find out Jon-Erik Hexum was gay, that'd pretty much be all your childhood heroes.”
“Don't tease me (in the political, debating sense, not in the sexy way you hock up your skirt to review your creamy thighs).”
“Hey Pussy Whiskers”
“Note how I properly removed mom from the thread before joking about your well visited ass”
As fathers, society measures our value to our family by the size of our paycheck. This is a plus for men since dollar value is a much more reliable metric than that applied to moms, namely the physical and emotional well-being of their children. The bigger the paycheck, the better the dad. That’s easy math.
An occasional problem a father can run into is that his paycheck size must also be weighed against his ability to purchase goods and/or services; i.e. he must have “purchasing power.” As an example, a gallon of milk in the Northeastern United States will run you about $4; whereas the farther west you travel, the cheaper milk becomes, until you reach Montana, where you can pull onto any local farm and have a cow crap milk into a bucket for free (I’m guessing… I’ve never actually been to a farm).
However, in most cases both salaries and costs are determined regionally, so maybe you have to pay more for milk in New Jersey than you do in Montana, but it evens out since the folks in Montana are typically paid in otter pelts. (I've never actually been to Montana either).
So overall, as I said, measuring a Dad’s relative familial worth is a fairly easy metric. A few minutes on Excel, and you can nail down how much you love your kids pretty much to the dollar. Moms, on the other hand, are continually adding and subtracting points based on a massive range of criteria from the number of stains on their kids clothes to the types of snacks in their kids lunch (plus for carrot sticks, minus for HoHo’s).
This methodology is convoluted and vague. Sure, you can easily identify the mothering extremes.
But how do we rank those myriad of moms that fall somewhere in the middle? Those moms that serve Chicken McNuggets with a side of apple slices? I don’t pretend to have an answer, but for the sake of mom’s everywhere, we must find a common metric so that we can rank them appropriately. We owe them that much.
My dear friend and co-blogger, Uncle Wrunkle, once told us how he received internal suspension in high school for describing a Great Gatsby character as a “pussy.” (Cheers, my friend, cheers). Uncle Wrunkle’s father was called in to school to discuss his son’s transgression. Uncle Wrunkle’s father is an engine block building, bear shooting, commie strangling (probably) bad ass. Here is my interpretation of how that meeting went:
PaPa Wrunkle: "What the dick? Why is my fucking son in fucking internal fucking suspension!?"
Principal: "He... uh... would you mind not saying "fucking" so much?"
PaPa Wrunkle: "Excuse me, Mr. Mary Fucking Queen of Scots! Would you prefer I say 'fudging?' I'll rip your 'fudging' lungs out of your 'fudging' chest! Does that sound better to you!?"
Principal: "I... OK... the thing is, Jim used some inappropriate language in the classroom."
PaPa Wrunkle: "Ha! That's my fucking boy! What'd he fucking say?"
Principal: "I'd rather not..."
PaPa Wrunkle: "Just say it, pussy! Why do you have to be a pussy about it? Fucking pussy."
Principal: "That's... ah... that's it actually. He was asked to describe a character in the Great Gatsby, and your son said the character was a... um... pussy."
PaPa Wrunkle: "Was it Tom Buchanan?"
Principal: "Oh... um, yes as a matter of fact it..."
PaPa Wrunkle: "Tom Fucking Buchanan IS a fucking pussy! Fucking millionaire dilettante! Can't keep Daisy happy even with his fucking millions! Tom Fucking Buchanan is a fucking PUSSY! A sore ridden, pus oozing old French whore's vagina!"
Principal: "That's not really the point..."
PaPa Wrunkle: "Sounds to me like my fucking son answered the fucking question! Sounds like you should fucking apologizing to my fucking son!"
Principal: "I really don't think..."
PaPa Wrunkle leaps at the principal, grabs him by the back of the neck and slams his face down on the wooden desk, breaking his nose. He then lifts the principal's head so that his blood stained face is staring at Jim.
Principal: "Sorry Jim. Our mistake. Good work."
PaPa Wrunkle: "Now sign his fucking release papers!"
Principal: "Release... we don't use release papers..."
Principal: "Ahhhhh... no... please... (sob)"
PaPa Wrunkle: "Don't fuck me, boy, I've killed hundreds of fucking Koreans!"
Principal: "You fought in the Korean War?"
PaPa Wrunkle: "No."
Principal: "Then how..."
PaPa Wrunkle: "Just sign this goddamn release!"
Principal: "Uhhh... but...that's the cafeteria menu... no, god!"
Principal: "I'll sign it! Look! It's signed! Please... I have kids..."
PaPa Wrunkle: "Fucking sweet. Now don't forget what we fucking learned here today."
Principal: "Oh god... I'm not sure..."
PaPa Wrunkle lifts the blood soaked barely conscious head of the principal from his desk and whispers in his ear, "Tom Buchanan is a fucking pussy."
San Francisco’s Chinatown – circa 2072. The man in black pulls a final drag from his cigarillo; his gaze methodically taking in his surroundings. The storefront is not atypical. Grimy windows with Chinese lettering etched into the glass; a holographic chicken hangs in the window. He tosses what's left of the smoke to the wooden planks which now pass for a sidewalk in this town, and crushes it beneath his boot heel. He pushes open the storefront door. Inside a short, plump old woman stands behind the counter. Every inch of the shop is filled with a vast array of bottles and jars, hand labeled and containing an innumerable assortment of exotic materials; more than one label, the man notices, contains the Chinese symbol for penis.
The old woman glares at the man.
Old Woman: "You want tiger penis!" She demanded.
Man: "What? No... I'm looking..."
Old Woman: "You look at tiger penis. You buy. Make good chop chop."
Man: "I don't... I'm not even sure what that means. I'm looking for a man...(the man paused for dramatic effect...) named Kang."
Old Woman: "Ah, you want Kang penis! Ha. Me make good joke!"
Man: "No, look..."
Without warning, the old woman launched herself at the man in black, driving him into a wall of jars which crashed to the ground. The man grabbed the old woman, lifted her over his head and threw her back over the counter, slamming her into more jars on the far wall. The old woman rose from behind the counter, half of her face burned away by the contents of one (or many) of the smashed containers; revealing a mass of metal and circuitry where her flesh used to be. The woman raised her hand, now a putrid mix of flesh and machinery, as the man in black pulled his pistols and unloaded both magazines into the old woman.
The man in black stood over the body of the woman reloading his weapons as the occasional spark emitted from her body. She lay in a pool of muck and glass; the remnants of her shattered inventory. The contents of many of the jars, now free of their containers, wiggled on the floor around her.
The man in black looked down. "God damn cyborgs" he spat. He knelt down. Placing his fingers at the base of her throat, he pushed through her skin. A mix of blood and white pus oozed from the wound. He felt around until he found a latch, then pulled until he heard a distinctive click. He removed his fingers from her throat, then grabbed her head with both hands and twisted. The machinery of the skull now detached, the skin stretched and ripped easily; the man in black stood with the old woman's severed cyborg head held in his hands.
He moved to the back of the store, through a partially camouflaged hallway leading to a large steel door. Next to the door, attached to the wall, was a small glowing disk. The man in black held the cyborg head up facing the disk. "Retinal scan approved," said the building's security system as the metal door slid up into the ceiling. "Tiger penis. Chop Chop." Replied the severed head.
The man in black looked into a smoke filled windowless room with seven men sitting at a small round table playing poker (most likely holographic poker, it being the future and all). The men looked up at him, standing silhouetted in the doorway holding the severed head of the old woman/cyborg under his arm. He threw the head onto the center of the table.
"I'm looking for a man... named Kang."
The men, suitably impressed by the dramatic pause, stood, drawing an array of weapons ranging from hand guns to what looks like a laser/crossbow hybrid. With the speed of a boob flash from a sorority girl on spring break, the man in black drew his pistols and unloaded them into the men, killing all but one, and, just for fun, shooting several in the balls first. The one man still living lay on the floor clutching his balls and begging that they not be shot off. The man in black holstered his weapons, strode confidently over to the man, and grabbed him by his collar. His face now inches from the panicked thug, the man in black demanded in a gravely whisper; "Where is Kang!"
"He's not here, man! I swear! He'll be back in town tomorrow!"
The man in black released the thug, and said, "You tell him I'm looking for him." then turned to leave.
"Who are you, man!?" The thug cried.
The man in black looked back, "I'm Shingo Duke." he said, as he pulled his pistol and shot the thug in the balls.
To be continued...
Flush that urinal!
You made piss piss, now I must
I don't like your pee
Ted Kaczynski - You know man, it's gotta stop.
Dirt Bike - Ba ding ding ding ding ding
Ted - Nah, it's these politicians man. I'm voting and you're voting man, so what else is there, right?
Dirt Bike - Braaa dung ding ding ding
Ted - It's all in how you look at it. Throw Washington in jail, man. Nothing but a bunch of crooks.
Dirt Bike - Brup...brum brum brum
Ted - What? You don't even understand dude. They're the reason our taxes are so high. They're killing us.
Dirt Bike - Butta dum dung ding ding ding
Ted - How could you think that they didn't ruin our envinronment?!? We don't even have any trees left man, how am I supposed to breath!?!
Dirt Bike - Ding butta din din din din BRAAAP butta ding ding ding
Ted - You know what, just go back into your little hole man. Just keep thinking that you're not getting totally screwed by the man. You know, I'd love to be as ignorent as you, I would.
Dirt Bike - din din din din din din din din...
Ted - Fuck you, I've always had my hair like this.
"I do not need a plane" he said,
"if I want to fly."
"I only need a little faith,
and I will reach the sky."
His friends all scoffed and said to him,
"Man, faith is not enough.
You need wings to fly, a motor, prop,
and all that kind of stuff."
"But birds do fly," he said to them
"and they need none of these.
To them it is a simple task
to sore among the trees."
With that he turned and walked away
He knew where he should be
Flying through a wind-swept night
In to a star filled sea
He climbed the highest rooftop
In all his little town
No shred of fear within his heart
He just smiled, and looked around
He stepped off from that rooftop
Only confidence did he show
As he splattered like a grapefruit
On the street below
LEPRECHAUN: Good day, your honor. I'm in need of some assistance.
RECRUITER: Uhh,.. OK. What is it.
LEP: You see, lad, there's this fellow. More of a scoundrel really. Owes me a tad bit. Seems you have him now, and I'll be needing him back.
REC: I'm not,... Um,... What now?
LEP: Just fiddle with that pewtery thingy there and dash of his whereabouts on a scrap of paper for me, and we'll be on our way in the blink of an eye, we will.
REC: Mister, I'm not sure...
LEP: Name's Seamus. But you needn't bother with me. I do need you to find that scoundrel.
REC: What scoundrel?
LEP: There we go now! I knew you'd come around. He goes by Jackson, but to hear it told, he's a might spooked, so he probably changed his name when he came in.
REC: Came in? You're looking for someone who enlisted?
LEP: Ha-Haaa! You're into the hunt now, lad! Get's the blood rushing, doesn't it now. Ahhh, nothing like the chase. So where is he now?
REC: Well, I don't know if I can just,...
LEP: Careful me boy. There be 2 ways about this, to be sure to be sure, the pat or the paddle. No one that I recall has preferred the paddle. Though a fair number have got it, eh Susan! (He nudged the henchman to the left, who nodded.)
LEP: Short for Black-Eyed-Susan.
REC: So is the other one crab grass, or something?
LEP: No, that's Daisy. Don't concern yourself. Ye jest need to be handing me over where we can find our boy, Jackson, or whoever he be now... (Slowly, tapping his walking stick in time on the floor)... Pat. Pat. Pat.
REC: I don't think I like y...
LEP: Paddle it is then, Daisy!!! (Daisy and Susan rush past the Leprechaun and instantly spirit the Recruiter out a rear door, which slams behind muffling a din that
continues as the Leprechaun sits down at the computer and begins gingerly tapping keys.)
LEP: Let's see now... Control... Alt... Money.
(With a tap of his walking stick on the monitor, a handful of gold coins pour out of the printer along with a sheet with an address on it. He steps over to it with a spring and calls his boys. The commotion has subsided. Henchmen return.)
LEP: Off we go lads! It appears they send them all here to start with. Let's go and see if we can find our lucky clover in this patch of olive green.
- Mensa Flav
1. Your underpaid waiter or waitress. Also the person assigning your seat on the plane. Flight attendants, are OK.
2. The bosses' admin.
3. Those 19 year old 'kids' trick-or-treating at your house on Halloween. Just itching for trouble. You know, on second thought, they'll do whatever they are going to do anyway. Give them a reason. Dare them. Earn it, punk.
3. The guy with the taser.
4. Angelina Jolie in Mr. And Mrs. Smith.
5. Your White House tour guide.
"Poop shiver" - That familiar all over shudder that accompanies dramatic changes in bodily systems, like a walk in a drizzly fall day, waiting in a doctor's exam room, or when you drop a load. A friend, a classy lady I know, once dropped this scatological gem into a conversation we were having. Instant ice breaker. We as a society will be much closer and supportive of one another when we can bond comfortably over such simple intimate human things. Not so much when those intimate things don't work right. Like with old people. Eww.
I'm sure there are other common but uncommonly used terms. Maybe not even about poop, but rather about the other stuff we keep secret unnecessarily.
"Lap tent" - The tendency of some middle aged mens' pants to create a prominent bulge when seated. Ladies... It has nothing to do with you. It is the pants. To be honest, after the age of 15, it really doesn't just jump on out there without some physical encouragement. And certainly not seated. If you see us manipulating at all, it is most likely to make necessary adjustments to avoid excruciating pain, rather than because we are also fantasizing about if your leg goes all the way up. Oh, we're thinking about it alright. But that alone doesn't typically engage the launch sequence. Well, for some particular types of individuals on the city buses, yes, that tent might indeed have a pole, but not for most of us. So I guess your suspicions could be justified. If you're curious, and you want to make a close friend quickly, and you can handle any answer, go ahead and ask.
- Mensa Flav
Think about it. You can use them with your friends, you can say them to yourself, but there's often a gap between an awesome phrase and a situation where you can actually use that phrase. How frustrating. Let's discuss..
- Get to the Chopper!
How bad ass is this phrase?? “My God, we’re all gonna die if we stay here. Our only means of escape is the conveniently located idling helicopter complete with beckoning pilot screaming ‘Come on!’ ...so…for God sakes GET TO THE CHOPPER!!” I suppose the classic example of this was Arnold Schwarzenegger in Predator. Cool scene, eh?
Not in million billion years will I ever find myself in that kind of situation. I have nothing to do with helicopters, nor any situation involving them. I’ve never been on one and I’ve certainly never “choppered into” anywhere. For just once in my life I’d love to be able to yell this to somebody in that oh-so-toughguy “Save yourself, I’m gonna stay here and fight em’ off” manner.
One time I took a bus trip to the Smithsonian and my group spent a little too much time ogling Archie Bunker’s dirty brown chair and guessing how far we could throw the Hope diamond. When we finally checked the time and realized that the driver might be unsympathetic to our lateness, we had to do that fruity run-walk hybrid back to the bus where you’re briskly walking past people and almost skipping in the open spaces until you hit the next people jam. We looked super cool swishing through the minefield of slow moving little schoolkids, wheelchairs and people taking pictures of eachother and establishing the polite no-fly-zone between them, all while encumbered by plastic bags bouncing full of cinnabuns and refrigerator magnets and toting the ubiquitous fast food soda cup, straw erect. Oddly enough when I made it to the bus, I found myself looking out the window with that same steely, thousand yard stare that you see guys do in war movies during the post-battle chopper ride home. I imagined myself with jungle scenery passing underneath and eyes slightly squinted, as if to say “we lost a lotta good tourists out there.”
- Stop or I’ll Shoot!
You’re damn right. Stop or blow your head off mutha f*cka!! Don’t forget clicking the hammer back to solidify your intent. Very important to do this after you’ve said “stop or I’ll shoot” otherwise the person that you don’t really want to shoot might think that you’re really, really gonna shoot them and may lose the courage to seek out the amazingly improbable Rube Goldberg contraption in their midst, step on a rake and trigger a series of events that will drop a sandbag on your head. All this somehow faster than you’re able to pull the trigger of a loaded gun. I digress…
It’s too numerous to mention just how many times this phrase has been used, generally to good effect, in every other cop related movie produced in the last 50 years. I played paintball a few times a while back. During one of those games there was a girl on the opposing team who was holed up in the top of this rather well protected plywood structure keeping about 10 guys at bay with her Charles Whitman-like shenanigans (before you go through the trouble of googling Charles Whitman, he was the sniper in the clock tower at the University of Texas in 1966. Why do I know this? Anyway..). There were only a few of us left by the time I had miraculously managed to slip past her view and onto the blind side of the structure, ready to jump in and take her out. Now, for those unfamiliar with paintball, it hurts. Not in a John Cougar – Hurts So Good kinda way, but in a time-stopping pain/lumpy purple bruise kinda way. Understandably, it’s bad form to shoot someone point blank. Mostly because they don’t actually die and will probably key your car after the game. This in mind, I planned my assault to be one that jumps to the inside of the structure and with enemy at gunpoint, yells an authoritative “Surrender!” Eager to be the hero and flushed with the anxiety of being so close to an armed, trigger happy, daddy-issues kinda girl, when I turned the corner and rushed her with gun drawn, all that came out of my lungs was “GHHHAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!” Yep. That’s what I said. “ghaa.” To which in typical late-teens girl speak, she replied “Okay dude, I’m out, whatever (polite chuckle)...” Since then, I’ve abandoned any idea that I might be able to coolly confront a home intruder with “Stop, or I’ll shoot.” and have resigned myself to the idea that if I ever have the misfortune of being robbed and I actually do get to confront the intruder with a gun drawn, I’ll probably default to my personal, multi-national halt command of “Ghaa!”
- Let’s Rock Out with our C#cks Out!
Where can you use this? Seriously? It’s impressive not only in the volume of bravado therein, but the timbre of the hard hitting consonants makes you really want to “rock out”, acting on whatever your vision of that is. If one were to actually expose himself and begin fist pumping though, I’m not sure if others in view would say “Oh look, that guy is really good at rocking out with his c#ck out” I’m guessing they’d go african sprinter in the opposite direction while dialing 911. Anyway, I like to think of this one as the concept car of awesome phrases. It looks great, it sounds great but you just can’t use it. Imagine being at work and capping off a motivational leadership speech with this frag grenade of a statement. HR has a special Casino-like back office for these types of incident follow-ups.
- Pay me my money!
Again I reference Human Resources. They’re the only people who actually pay me money. As much as I’d love to yell this at them, showing a set of Bobby De Niro sized fangs to HR can be troublesome.
This one is gonna make me a little sad. Just about everyone has had the chance to use this at some point in their youth. Running from friends, running from parents, running from lit fireworks, running from cops, ahh middle school. What is more exciting than yelling this to a chum when the situation has just become explosive and you guys had better get the hell outta there before you’re in a world of hurt!? Well. We’re all grown up now and unless you’re the weakest link on the bomb squad, you probably don’t have much of a chance to yell “run” and mean it. Oh no, my water bill is going up by 10%, run! The boss wants us to complete the reports by Thursday, run! They don’t serve caramel cheesecake topping at Outback anymore, run! See? It’s all over. “Run” is dead. And to tell you the truth, if you’re a fellow middle aged guy and run isn’t dead, you might be a fuckup.
Have any you’d like to share? Write em’ up in the comments section!
Sweet Home Alabama - Lynryd Skynryd Look, we all loved it at some point in our lives. It's an amazing piece of music. It's been the title of a movie, inspired countless musicians and defined an entire genre of music. But for the love of God, if they play it one more time on the frickin' radio I'm gonna set fire to a pet store. Seriously. It's over. When this song comes on the radio, all I hear is Ronnie Van Zant getting fatter. Please, knock it off.
It Smells Like Teen Spirit - Nirvana
Let's have a heart to heart here. Kurt Cobain. Tragic Hero? Over-rated white trash lead singer of a marginally-ok grunge band? I'm not here to judge. I'm just here to say pleeeeeeeease stop playing this song. For Pete's sake (really, think of Pete), we've all heard it thousands of times and it never got any better. While you're at it, don't play any more Nirvana. The same 6 songs have been clobbering our beleagured radios for almost 20 years now. This music doesn't remind me of great memories from the 90's, it reminds me of Tuesday.
When I Come Around - Green Day
Really? You let music execs push you around and this is what you get. Look, I'm not saying that my opinion is right, but this song suuu-uhh-uhhh-uh-ucks!!!! I didn't like it when it came out, and now I hate it like fat kids hate locker rooms. Get it off the f-ing radio.
The World I Know - Collective Soul
If you like this song, go punch yourself in the face.
New Years Day - U2
Who doesn't like U2, right? What's not to love. Compassionate lead singer, follow up albums that didn't suck, music that brings generations together, you get it. Of all the great U2 music there is play, what force made rock stations ride this once cool song into oblivion? I've heard it so much that it doesn't even sound like music anymore. It's taken on a sound identity on par with ringing telephones, passing cars and noisy air conditioners. Almost white noise. If we didn't hear it for the next 20 years, it might turn back into music.
I Want You to Want Me - Cheap Trick
From the moment I hear Robin Zander say "I want you, to want, me" I go diving for the radio buttons like a lesbian dives for, well... I dont even know why I can't stand this song, but it pops up on the radio so much that I don't need a reason. I just know it makes me uncomfortable in the same way that Broadway musicals do. Yick..
Gotta Get Away - The Offspring
Hey guys! Guess what? It's over. Stop it. Who is funding this crap factory?? I don't understand. These guys are still coming out with new music. It ALL sounds bad. Why the bad music? I must apologize for my contempt of this band. I've heard interviews. They sound like nice enough people. I blame the system that perpetuates this kind of thing. Please, you're only encouraging them...
I don't even need to name a song here. We deserve answers. This music has got be a health violation somewhere. I'm gonna call Erin Brockovich and her big ol' boobies to help stop Nickleback from causing ear cancer.
Sorry you had to hear all that..
-by Uncle Wrunkle
This is a picture of all of the cast members of the Real Housewives of Orange County (center, on table). They have been boiled down to elemental form and are being prepared for placement into a mold of a Ronald McDonald statue (Ronald seated on bench, arm up giving an inviting -if not menacing stare). After fully dried, the RHOC casting will be dumped off the coast of Cape Town, South Africa.
Now that I think about it, today doesn't have much to do with a menstrual nail-bomb. But say "Menstrual Nail-Bomb" and show a picture of four adults manhandling 80 lbs of silly putty and you've got a front-page content, daddy-o.
This is a test for our new website MAWG Land. Is it actually working?? Do you see Will Ferrel? Is he smiling at you and your family?
Trucker Jesus is with you always.