Kablammo!

And now, time for some reviews.

Mountain Creek water park: Generally fairly fun, but sucks in a lot of ways. For example, the place was laid out by an idiot and you end up having to carry an inner tube up the length of almost every ride. Not to mention the waves in the wave pool are far too regular. “New Jersey’s Largest Water Park”? I’ll take their word for it, but I wish they’d spent some of their funds on not making it a damn pain in the ass to go from one ride to another.

Fender Duosonic: Might not be a completely shitty guitar if the strings didn’t untune in less than 5 minutes and if the slightest nudge to a plugged-in cable didn’t send horrible bursts of static through the attached amp.

Monk: The obsessive-compulsive detective angle of the show works pretty well, and makes for a nice character-driven comedy. However, as a detective show, it kind of blows.

Roses are red
And ready for plucking.
You’re sixteen
And ready for high school.

God bless you, Mr. Vonnegut.

It may have been said before, but if so it bears repeating: John Kricfalusi is absolutely batshit-fucking insane. I thought Ren & Stimpy was crazy before, but then I saw tonight’s episode. I tell you, you have not lived until you’ve seen Stimpy wearing a crash helmet and custom-modified spandex briefs bouncing around in a toilet bowl, trying to unclog it.

In further proof that John K is insane, he’s the protegé of a certain Ralph “Rotoscope” Bakshi. And he’s Canadian.

From the gee-who-would-have-guessed department, Google News brought the following headline to my attention: Death Risk Higher in Obese Women with Colon Cancer. A note to any struggling medical researchers out there: have all your recent experiments been failures where you didn’t manage to determine jack shit? Just do the following and you’ll be rolling in grant money again. Step one, pick a category of people (for example, diabetics or people whose last names start with ‘M’) and study a bunch of them for a while. Step two, notice something along the lines of “the tall ones have circulatory problems” or “the fatties get all out of breath while climbing stairs”. Step four, profit!

The gluttony-and-sloth-forever department tells us that U.S. Children Fatter but Less Violent, Report Says. (Before I make snide comments from my position safely ensconced within my ivory tower of leanness, I’d like to celebrate the fact that Reuters chose to go with ‘Fatter’ instead of something lame like ‘More Overweight’.) Looks like fat people are jolly, after all! Or, failing that, merely too lazy to administer beatdowns. Either way, I should be safe from comeuppance following this inexplicable anti-fatty outpouring.

Apparently comments weren’t working on my recent posts (thanks Lynn for pointing that out!); everything should now be peachy-keen and kosher. Props to the good folks at Blogkomm for noticing the problem with their comment system and Blogger‘s recently-updated blogging system, and releasing a fix for it pronto.

In other news, I noticed more evidence of my age yesterday, as I was going home… I’m at the point in my life where, while at the train station, I can bump into highschool classmates I haven’t seen in years, and we get to reminisce about old times and catch up with regard to recent times. I don’t mind the experience when it happens, but it’s still very eerie that high school is that far behind me.

Oh yeah, let’s not forget that most of the athletes in whatever NCAA title game may be played at a given moment are probably younger than I am. Thankfully, Playboy playmates are still generally older than I am, for the moment.

Back from Mexico. Perhaps some commentary on that will follow eventually. Also back from LIELS. Aren’t I a bit young to be feeling as old as I did there? Little kids running around with responsibilities and priveleges; it really felt awkward. Now for some signs I’ve noticed that I’m becoming an old man:

• I marvel at how children have grown, and occasionally inform them that I knew them when they were “only this tall.” Then they look at me the way they might look at a particularly dusty septuagenarian who was incapable of locomotion without a walker.
• While in Mexico, a political entity that currently exists, a few times I noticed striking resemblances between it and the Soviet Union, a political entity that has not existed in years.
• The NES is 20 years old today. Did you know that there are children around today who may have never had a chance to play a Nintendo game? The very thought makes me want to fire off a bitter, longwinded letter to the editor, after I sit in my rocking chair for a spell.
• It’s been about 4 years since Radiohead’s Animal Accessory was released. And it’s been about 10 years since Radiohead’s Pablo Honey was released.
• I remember what Ecto Cooler tastes like.
• I’ve been going to work semi-regularly lately, and happy hour at the Alehouse even more regularly lately.
• I’ve played every incarnation of Nintendo’s Game Boy.
• I’ve been kept up at night sometimes by the harrowing realization that I might, deep down, actually give a crap about something. ::shudder::

Anything else anybody can name? I’m sure my incipient Alzheimer’s has made me forg

Back from Canada, I am. Off to Mexico, I am. North America truly is the most Northern of the American continents, and the most American of the Northern continents. Also, home to the world’s longest non-militarized border, which is pretty swanky as well.

In other news, man with sword kills 2 at grocery. Seriously, go read the article. “As he roamed the store, employees armed with barbecue utensils, mayonnaise jars and trashcan lids tried to corner him.” Mayonnaise jars: what aren’t they good for?

I’m not quite sure how it happened, but last night somehow a commercial for the DVD of Kangaroo Jack spawned an hours-long heated argument that covered topics as varied as magical orphans, the strength of five gorillas, the infallibility of the pope, and the acts of the apostles. During the course of this discussion, such references as dictionary.com, the Catholic Encyclopedia, two copies of the Holy Bible, some kind of general religious reference text, and our good friend liquid bread were consulted.

Personally, I suspect the hand of Yuengling, otherwise a fine beer, in instigating this matter somehow. Or perhaps the Auff is to blame.

I was able, thankfully, to eventually turn the ensuing heated debate of useless catholic dogma and other assorted bullshit into a heated debate of Aqua Teen Hunger Force. Walking home, though, that somehow turned into an even more heated debate on automatic transmissions and their failure.

Damn, I haven’t even begun talking about yesterday’s other occurrences, like the orgy of nerding that took place in the CUCC, or the hilarious condition of the loading dock afterwards, and Hak’s comm seminar. Whatever, I do what I want.

There’s nothing quite like an evening with your mother and her best friend that includes 6 pints of Guinness and a reading of Ulysses, all brought to you by the friendly folks at the Swift Hibernian Lounge over on East 4th.

There’s also nothing quite like a sentence as full of tooltips as the previous one. Nor is there anything very much like Hawksley Workman‘s recent release, (last night we were) the delicious wolves, unless you count his previous work. It’s good and all, and his voice has some kind of oddly enjoyable beauty despite its quirks, but the man is obviously quite insane, not that I’m complaining.

Soon, as if by magic, a nice digital camera should be arriving at my doorstep. How I loathe the internet and credit cards.

Final non-sequitur of the moment: the story of the luckiest man in the world. He survives various automobile and even airplane crashes, along with 4 marriages, then goes on to win the lottery. Truly, a model for us all.

First of all: Fuck you, Senator Hatch!

Also: The Onion is absolutely fucking amazing this week. “U.S. Refuses To Allow U.N. Weapons Inspectors Back Into Iraq”… They’ve outdone themselves. My horoscope was pretty dope, as well.

The more I desperately try to do British-style crossword puzzles, the more I realize (a) how rad they are and (b) how absolutely insane the people who can do them consistently are.

Hear ye, hear ye! Let it be known that the decision to drink as penance must not be entered into lightly. Sure, pain can be quite a good thing, and the redemption it brings is without price, but for heaven’s sake, there is a right way and quite a few wrong ways to go about this. You’ll want to drink enough that your prayers to the porcelain god are on their way that night, not the next morning. If you don’t start puking until the alcohol’s already left your system, you won’t stop puking for about a million years, as your body will decide, for some reason, that not even your own bilious secretions are fit to remain in your stomach. If your body won’t even let bile occupy your gut, there’s no chance that cup of water, bagel-half, or glass of mimosa you’ve got your eye on will stay down, either.

After a few hours of vomiting, you might be tempted to think that it’s over, and that you can safely have a sip of water to clean out the taste of your digestive tract from your mouth. Do not stray down this path, for whatever strays down your gullet, no matter how innocuous, will soon find itself being propelled upwards and out by peristaltic forces beyond your direct control.

On the plus side, after going through the type of ordeal discussed above, you’ll likely have forgotten all about whatever compelled you to mortify yourself; I can only imagine that this means absolution is yours. Also, remember that there’s no better way to celebrate the inauguration of your friend’s new deck than by vomiting off and under it. Vomit on the deck, however, and may God have mercy on your soul. Also sprach Zarathustra, or so I’m told.

In other news, I have mixed feelings about my first encounter with Smirnoff Sour-Apple Flavoured Vodka. On one hand, it’s delicious. On the other hand, reread the above and use your imagination. ^_^;;