Monday, June 29, 2009

Girls of Cancer: Miss June

Kylie Minogue

Crikey is Australian-born Kylie Minogue attractive, despite how annoying her 2002 smash hit “Can’t Get You out of My Head” was. Though I hadn’t heard of her until seven years ago, Kylie reached fame in Australia in the late ‘80s with her role in a soap opera, and then as a singer. Kylie has sold over 60 million records and has a bronze statue in Melbourne, Australia, which is bowed to by horny teenage boys.

Some of Kylie’s critics say she is a terrible singer, and that she uses her fame, revealing costumes, and sex symbol-status to cover up her lack of talent. I can’t agree or disagree—the few times I caught part of the boring and highly unpopular show American Idol I thought singers were good when the panel claimed that they sucked. I do think Kylie’s music sucks though I’m also not her target audience. I was her target audience seven years ago when I considered purchasing a plane ticket to Melbourne, as well as a small rug to protect my knees on the concrete.

Kylie was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2005. Kylie and the local Australian government went to great lengths to keep her situation private, but through extensive research (two websites, neither credible) it appears that Kylie underwent the full range of treatment: surgery, chemotherapy in France, and radiation. She reportedly compared chemotherapy to experiencing a nuclear bomb, which is the same thing women say about copulation with American Idol’s William Hung.

At forty-one years old, Kylie is still gorgeous and successful. She has an upcoming album and will appear in the biggest budget Bollywood film ever made. If you look hard enough you can find young American men facing Melbourne during prayer.Kylie Minogue

Leia Mais…

Monday, June 22, 2009

Men's Bathroom Etiquette

“Keep your eyes on the wall,” Ho-Train said. “No matter what, keep your eyes on the wall.”

My friend, Ho-Train, was sharing his most important rule of the men’s bathroom in an article I wrote for my high school newspaper, The Yellow Jacket. Ho-Train’s quote was one of the few I used in my articles that I didn’t fabricate and randomly credit to classmates.

More rules:

  • No talking unless all the communicators are on the same plane: at the sink, urinal, or in the shitter. If you and your friend are peeing, and you finish before him, your conversation must pause until he rejoins you at the sink.
  • Never touch handles with your palm.
  • Take an end urinal if available. If possible, leave two unused urinals between you and the other dude, but no more than three or you risk looking like a pansy, with the exception of the end unit. If you have to saddle up next to another dude, keep your elbows tight. If you’re going to have to squeeze between two dudes, broach the urinal extremely slowly in the hope that somebody will finish before you arrive.
  • If a dude farts at the urinal, it is appropriate to laugh, so long as your eyes don’t move from the wall.
  • For goodness sake, wash your hands after shitting.
  • If two friends are shitting in adjoining stalls, they are permitted to hold hands. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
  • It is strongly encouraged to ridicule dudes who spend significant time in front of the mirror.
  • Never ridicule a dude who takes too long at the urinal. Stage fright will be sympathized with, even downright respected, as opposed to the dude who left four or more urinals between the next dude.
  • Any direct and intentional sight of another dude’s wang may result in death.
  • Always give a dude room when he’s pulling valuables out of his pants.
  • Pulling out through the zipper is the best method. A full unbutton and unbuckle is authorized. Dropping trousers to the point where the ass crack can be seen is not permitted.
  • A shitter will be chosen that eliminates the aggregate awkwardness. This will be a judgment decision. Factors to be taken into account include adjacent open shitters, a workable lock, and farthest distance from the bathroom’s common area. Of course, selfish factors will also be taken into account such as cleanliness and fully-stocked toilet paper.
These are universal rules that dudes know instinctively. Centuries ago they were passed down from father to son. Through survival of the fittest, the unaware civilizations died off, and by way of evolution these rules are no longer learned.

At my last job some of these rules were bent and some outright broken. One dude would unbutton, unbuckle, and completely untuck his shirt just to pee.

Dudes took a urinal in the middle when the end was available. Dudes took the urinal next to me when they could’ve chosen one with a buffer.

Dudes began conversation upon entering the bathroom, while I was in the middle of peeing. This is a serious problem on two levels: (1) we weren’t on the same plane; (2) by saying hello they forced me to turn my head to the right. If another dude was urinating next to me, and suspected that I peeked at his wang, then he could try to kill me.

One dude would greet upon arrival and continue conversing from the shitter. This put me in a terrible bind. I didn’t want to seem rude, but I also didn’t want to be around when the noises began. He was the Alpha Dude, with a complete lack of natural shitter-inhibitions.

When it comes to the shitter, there are fewer rules than preferences. Dudes would flush and then wait to come out until the bathroom was empty in an attempt to conceal their identities. Dudes would exit the stall inconspicuously, wash up, and leave the room as quickly as possible. Dudes would wait to tuck until after exiting the stall, proudly displaying their pooping success.

One dude tested the flushing capability beforehand. He was The Clogger. Some dudes let loose without a care, while others restricted their expulsions to mere squeaks. One dude prayed that the bathroom was empty before entering to shit. If not empty, he would pretend he came in to pee and come back later to poop.

And me? The last rule: don’t relieve and tell.

Leia Mais…

Tuesday, June 16, 2009


Meet Gregg Valentino, who clearly drinks his orange juice. He looks like a challah bread. I feel like I should eat him with my Manischewitz wine Friday night.Gregg Valentino looks like challah bread

Leia Mais…

Thursday, June 11, 2009

'Terminator' Misses Target... at First

Terminator Salvation movie posterI knew something was off from the start. The theme song from 1984’s The Terminator had been tweaked for the previous two sequels, but nothing like this. Terminator Salvation director, McG, and his composer obliterated it. The theme song was the sole reason I tuned in to the first episode of the TV show, Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles. It was also the sole reason I changed the channel after five minutes, because the song was not in the show.

The new installment to the Terminator series was disappointing. I can be nitpicky, like there was too little background music during the action scenes. But the dialogue was also very weak, and the acting fairly poor. For the second straight summer, Christian Bale was outdone by his costar. Sam Worthington—is he human or something else?—was the shining star of the film, receiving as many scenes as Bale, who played humanity’s savior, John Connor.

We first saw John Connor’s character in 1991’s Terminator 2: Judgment Day as a boy played by Edward Furlong, who would later star in American History X. I couldn’t move from my couch after seeing American History X; it’s the most powerful movie I’ve ever seen.

Nick Stahl was Connor in 2003’s Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines. He and Furlong gave Connor’s character personality. They showed fear and humor, and we felt sympathetic toward them. Christian Bale didn’t do much of anything, except speak in the deep, dark voice we know as Batman. Whether it’s Bale or McG to blame, John Connor’s character, too, was destroyed.


I was a Schwarzenegger fan as a boy, watching movies like Twins and Kindergarten Cop. It wasn’t until my dad showed me The Terminator, widely considered an all-time classic, as a teenager that I saw what my dad saw: Arnold was indestructible. We loved Arnold even more than we loved mocking him—“Get to the chopper!” “Stop whining!”—and were disappointed when he chose to give up acting for politics. There are plenty of trash politicians. There’s only one Arnold.

Terminator 3 hit theaters during my second long hospital stint in Minnesota. I was subjected to the bed more than 23 hours each day. After a couple episodes of Saved by the Bell each morning, I watched the Food Network, though I couldn’t eat anything. I couldn’t even salivate over the prepared meals because my salivary glands had stopped working.

Rarely had I ever been so helpless, lifeless. My relatives came to visit. They stayed in my room briefly and then left, sensing I wanted nothing to do with them.

The NBA playoffs had ended. Basketball is what had kept me going the previous couple months. Now I had nothing, with one exception: every night there was a different Arnold movie on TV in preparation for the upcoming Terminator release. “Arnold is the best,” my dad and I always say. That summer he was more than that.

I am surely holding the new Terminator to a higher standard. It callously breaks from the core of the original, and that really bothers me. But it redeems itself with a great ending, one worthy of calling itself Terminator Salvation, and even has a brief Arnold cameo. That doesn’t make up for the film’s failures, but maybe it will make McG recognize how to do the next one the right way. I promise you this: Terminator will be back.

Leia Mais…

Thursday, June 4, 2009

Water Fuzz

While boating with friends during Memorial Day weekend, a police boat pulled us over. I considered taking my earplugs out, but then decided it would probably be best for me to play dumb. My four other friends had a long conversation with the two officers, far longer than I hoped for. The only thing I heard was the officer repeatedly say “$2,500 fine.”

I scrolled my friends’ expressions to gauge if what I heard was correct. They seemed calm, certainly more relaxed than I was.

I became impatient. I wanted the coppers to leave so I could find out what was going on. One of the officers was asking us what we did for a living. When the officer inquired about my profession, Mr. Mountain Dew said, “Ben is…” Mr. Mountain Dew hadn’t a clue what I did or how to describe it. He looked at me and spoke loudly so I could hear. “Ben, what do you do?”

I don’t even know what I do. I pulled it out of my ass: “I’m a Junior Acquisition Specialist at a Government contractor that assists Government agencies with their performance-based procurement.” That's how you end shit. Not knowing how to respond, the officer blundered about his daughter living near DC, or some other pointless tidbit, and then they left. I took out one earplug. “What the fuck just happened?”

Mr. Mountain Dew had jumped off the back of the boat, while moving, ten minutes prior to getting pulled over. Mr. Mountain Dew was about to jump again, seconds before the police boat flashed its red and blue lights and before we noticed it near us, but for some reason unknown to him, he waited. That was a blessing. We were given only a $100 fine because three of us were illegally sitting on the sides of the boat.

Whenever you’re held down by the popo, spit off some bullshit about acquisitions and procurement and other terms you don’t actually know the meaning of.

Leia Mais…