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Too Late, Trotsky is part blog, part journal, and completely pointless.Following
This actually makes me hate the movie a little bit less
George Clooney, you perfect bastard.
Well, I happen to have the novelized version of this movie right here, and I will share with you one of the best sections from it.
“Pamela watched Bruce’s retreating back for a moment, then frowned at her invitation. “Batman and Robin,” she hissed. “Militant arm of the warm-blooded oppressors! Animal protectors of the status quo! First I’ll rid myself of the winged and feathered pests - and then Gotham will me mine for the greening!”
And scene.
This Is All Kinds Of Wrong of the Day: A Texas-based “pro-family” group is calling for a boycott of Girl Scout cookies [pdf] in response to the organization’s decision to allow a Colorado boy who identifies as a girl to join a local troop.
In a video uploaded to YouTube last week, Honest Girl Scouts member Taylor, a 14-year-old Girl Scout from Ventura County, California, reads a statement excoriating GSUSA for “not being honest with us girls, its troops, its leaders, its parents or the American public.”
“Girl Scouts describes itself as an all-girl experience,” Taylor continues. “With that label, families trust that the girls will be in an environment that is not only nurturing and sensitive to girls’ needs, but also safe for girls.”
This isn’t the first backlash GSUSA has seen from its decision in Colorado: Three troops in Louisiana disbanded in December, citing the inclusion of trans girls as the reason.
A boycott of Girl Scout cookies would undoubtedly harm the august organization, as it receives a generous amount of its funding from their sale.
Reached for comment, Girl Scouts spokeswoman Michelle Tompkins told the Washington Post that GSUSA “prided itself on being an inclusive organization serving girls from all walks of life,” and will continue to review “cases involving transgender children on a case by case basis with a focus on ensuring the welfare and best interests of the child in question and the other girls in the troop as our highest priority.”
[blogpost.]
I was never a Girl Scout. I never wanted to be a Girl Scout. However, I support the Girl Scouts of America because:
Nothing, I repeat, NOTHING will stand between me and gorging myself on Thin Mints. EVER. Even if there is a shortage of mint flavoring and dark chocolate coating, I will SELL MY FIRST BORN CHILD for Girl Scout Cookies.
Not only is this wrong on every level of justice and all that, but if this somehow affects my Girl Scout Cookie fix in ANY WAY, we are going to have some serious problems.
When I was little I used to read two fringe kid’s mystery book series. One was The Bailey School Kids, which I have now taken upon myself to rewrite for an older, more mature audience. The other was the Cam Jansen Mysteries, which focused on a girl with a photographic memory who always caught the bad guy by remembering something key about whatever she needed to remember to catch the bad guy.
Tonight I went to say goodnight to the household when I noticed my parents were watching some show where a woman can remember everything based on the scenes she sees. Turns out it’s CBS’s newest pointless crime-drama show Unforgettable.
“That’s Cam Jansen all grown up,” I said. My parents, who used to cart my tiny little nerd ass to the library to get all these books, looked at each other and nodded in agreement.
At this rate, I’m waiting for HBO to pick up my “Bailey School Teens” idea.
Just before Christmas, a store opened near me that sells used games for every video game system under the sun. Below is a list of what they offer:
I still have my SNES and N64, along with the family Wii, and so I’ve been perusing the shelves looking for games that have been lost throughout the years. The other day, I found that they have seven cartridges of a game I used to have called Pac-Man 2: The New Adventures.
I bought one for shits and giggles. I remember it wasn’t a particularly fun game, but I decided to give it another shot. For this store, $9.95 was a bit pricey, but hey, it’s only money, right?
Jesus fuck, this game is just as terrible as it was when I was ten. The entire premise of the game is to direct a frighteningly anthropomorphic version of Pac-Man through “missions” (if they could even be called that) by shooting various objects, including Pac-Man, with your slingshot.
It’s classified as a puzzle game, but a better description is puzzling game. The plot makes no sense. Your first task is to orientate yourself to Pac-Man’s world, which takes 20 minutes of shooting random objects with the slingshot until Pac-Man decides he’s satisfied. The next task is to get Pac-Baby more milk because the ugly infantile 8-bit bastard has an insatiable appetite for your suffering. The third task is to get flowers for some neighborhood kid’s birthday or something, I don’t know. Finally, we get to some conflict in the fourth mission, where Inky, Blinky, Pinky, and Clyde steal Pac-Man Jr.’s guitar and Pac-Man, having to actually be a parent for once, goes to the big city to get it and somehow has to save the world or something.
My biggest beef of this game, aside from being pointlessly difficult, is that there’s no way to save the game if you need to, and the only way to get back to where you were is with “passwords” randomly given during gameplay.
If offered this game, don’t take it. Even if it’s free. Even if they also offer you a bucket of leprechauns that shit gold. Even if they also offer you a goose that lays nothing but truffles. If you do somehow end up with Pac-Man 2: The New Adventures, you should destroy it, then sanitize yourself to keep the awfulness out of your system.
Next in the series: Biker Mice from Mars (1994)
Begged my mother to let me wear my New York Giants jersey to my aunt’s house. We compromised on this.
Aldous Huxley (via misswallflower)
My bro always gets an automatic reblog.
I am the worst gift wrapper of all time. I could make up a story about how because I’m an only child and have moved back in with my parents that I just ask the opposite parent to wrap presents for the other, but I don’t. I’m not lazy - I’ve spent four years of college breaks trying to figure out how to do this shit.
I’ve come to a conclusion. I can’t neatly wrap a fucking present if my life depended it.
So I just won’t. I’m just going to stay up/wake up when everyone else is passed out cold and leave the presents under the tree unwrapped a la that bike I got when I was ten.
Otherwise I think someone might ask if Santa’s health is failing.
Last night, I managed to super-glue a beer can to my hand.
Here’s a little background, because I think we’re going to need it.
About a week ago, I woke up to get ready for work and walked into the living room to turn on the television. Because I still live with my parents, this is basically a ruse to convince my mother that, yes, I’m awake and getting ready and no, not back under the warm comfort of my bedsheets. Yawning and cursing my morning hangover-induced weekday headache, I opened my eyes to see the Christmas tree on the floor, face down like a bum in a gutter.
Shards of ornaments littered the carpet, creating a minefield of sharp things for one to maneuver with bare feet and sluggish legs. Dad and I lifted the tree to its upright position and secured it to the wall with some twine.
Out of all the shattered ornaments though, only notable one that broke was my “Baby’s First Christmas” ornament. I’m adopted, and was born 4 lbs., 1 oz, so I was in the hospital (because of both my health and the backwards adoption) from my birthday in late October until I came home on December 15th. So I was just home in time for Christmas. I gotta figure this is kind of an important thing to my parents, even if it is just a little keepsake (but then again, so am I).
After a few beers, and having been left alone in the house, I decided I could fix the “Baby’s First Christmas” ornament with a steady hand and some Crazy Glue. I pieced together the ornament and carefully applied the adhesive to the edges, being careful to avoid my fingertips and the paper plate I used as a workstation.
I missed, apparently, because while holding the pieces steady so the glue could dry with one hand, I reached for my open beer with the other and quickly found that I was not able to put the can down. With a flurry of profanity, I let go of the ornament and rushed to the medicine cabinet, hoping to find some nail polish remover or something to unstick the sticky situation I had stepped into.
Panicking, I realized that if there wasn’t any nail polish remover, I had an instant DUI stuck to my hands if I drove myself to Wal-Mart to buy a remedy. Thank god there was a full bottle of lemon-scented glory in the cabinet, because I could see myself saying, “Now Officer, I know what this looks like, but you’re never going to believe what’s actually going on.” I submerged my hand and the can in a tub of 70% nail polish remover, 30% warm, soapy water and in about 20 minutes, the can was slowly, but painlessly, removed.
For what it’s worth, I fixed the ornament.
Christmas time brings many things around my house - friends, family, laughter, and, of course, copious amounts of booze. At the annual holiday party my friends and I have every year, though, we had an uninvited guest.
Fruitcake.
The tradition of eating an unappealing foodstuff started off as a joke two years ago, when one of our friends, who is an excellent baker, made a tray of cupcakes and frosted one with mayonnaise, with the expectation that someone would drunkenly eat it. Someone did, and the results were about as hilariously awful as you’d assume they would be.
This year, the guy who ate the mayonnaise cupcake brought a fruitcake. I agreed to eat it because I wasn’t physically present during the mayonnaise cupcake incident.
The loaf of fruitcake was about 2” x 1.5” x 10”. When unwrapped, it smelled like the trash can of a donut shop. I took a bite, not knowing what to expect. Which, in retrospect, I’m kind of happy about, because if I had expected it to not be so bad, I would have punched myself for being so absolutely wrong.
This food, and I think I’m giving it too much credit by calling it that, is foul. While chewing, I detected hints of bread and an overwhelming amount of mixed nuts. My actual words were: ”It’s not the taste, it’s the texture. I’m pretty sure there multiple Scooby Doo fruit snacks in here.” The best description of taste is a combination of equal parts gin and Airheads.
Swallowing the first bite, I looked closer at the kaleidoscope of colors within the cake itself. Black, red, green, yellow, and beige were scattered through the loaf like the shrapnel from an explosion. I commented on the black spots, asking if perhaps the flavor repulsing me was, in fact, from deadly mold spores.
For reasons I don’t understand, I took a second bite. And then immediately spit it out, disgusted at myself and at the dreadful soul who invented this vile holiday dish.
This holiday season, if you plan on giving someone you love a fruitcake, don’t.
Introducing Print Money Ben Bernanke.
Yes, Federal Reserve Chairman Ben Bernanke is a meme. And it’s spectacular.
This is amazing.
