There is no spoon. We do, however, have plenty of sporks.
Caption Contest: Sweeney Todd
Ok, folks. I'm actually on vacation with the family, but I snuck off to an Internet cafe in the shadow of the Sphinx long enough to come up with a caption contest pic. You know the rules: Submit your caption in the comments. Mrs. Diesel and I will pick our favorites, which I'll post in a poll on Tuesday.
I'll be back on Monday with some kind of post about something or other. Have fun!
Everybody loves Christmas carols. Christians love Christmas carols. Jews love Christmas carols. Even Satanists secretly love Christmas carols. The only people who don't like Christmas carols are Communists and people named Carol who are going to smack the next person that asks them if they are a Christmas Carol because it's just not funny after the bazillionth time, ok?
One of the most enjoyable Christmas songs to listen to is "The First Noel," the lyrics of which were presumably written as some sort of prank by a guy named Noel. The tune is wonderful, but the lyrics are ridiculous. He works his name into the song like 87 times, for starters.
Noel wrote a song, Noel Noel Noel Noel Noel Noel It's my song so suck it, Noel Noel Sing Noel Noel Noel Noel Noel Noel Noel Noel Born is the King of Israel whose name is Noel!
If it weren't for "Hey Jude", old Noel would still be on the hook for Most Needless Repetition of a Name in a Song.
Ok, ok. That's not really how the song goes. In reality, the lyrics are far, far worse. If you don't believe me, you obviously haven't had to try to sing the song lately. Sure, it sounds great piping gently through the speakers at Starbucks, but at my church they actually expect us to sing the song, and let me tell you, it's damn near impossible. That song has the most godawful awkward lyrics I've ever tried to wrap my lips around.
Let's take the first stanza, shall we?
The first noel the angels did say Was to certain poor shepherds in fields as they lay In fields where they lay keeping their sheep On a cold winter's night that was so deep. Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel Born is the King of Israel!
First of all, a "noel" is a song. So this is a song about a song. If you were to update the refrain of this song to modern English, it would be:
Song, Song, Song, Song Born is the King of Israel!
Which, if it weren't redeemed by the second line, would be the worst refrain ever.
Next, you don't "say" a song. You sing it.
Then there's the pointless redundancy: "in fields as they lay/in fields where they lay." That's just lazy. And what the hell are the shepherds doing lying in the fields? Shouldn't at least one of them be awake? And if they're asleep, how are they "keeping their sheep?"
Then there's the little fact that Jesus was most likely not born during the winter. And even if he were, what exactly makes a night "deep"? What the hell is that supposed to mean? I'll tell you what it means. It means somebody couldn't think of a word to rhyme with 'sheep.'
Ok, so we've established that this song is confused, repetitive, factually inaccurate and banal. And we still haven't even touched on the fact that it's virtually impossible to sing. It's like the lyrics were written for a completely different tune.
The-uh fir-irst no-o-el the-uh angels did say Was to certain poor shepherds in fields as they lay I-in fie-eelds wheretheylay kee-ee-eeping their sheep On a cold winter's ni-ight that wa-as so deep. No-o-el, No-o-el, No-o-el, No-o-e-el Born is the Ki-ing of I-Isri-el!
Maybe the syllable breaks make sense if you're a world-class stutterer or something. And in case you think, "Well, that's just the way those old songs are," take a look at the first stanza of "Hark the Herald Angels Sing":
Hark the herald angels sing "Glory to the newborn King! Peace on earth and mercy mild God and sinners reconciled" Joyful, all ye nations rise Join the triumph of the skies With th'angelic host proclaim: "Christ is born in Bethlehem" Hark! The herald angels sing "Glory to the newborn King!"
Hey, the syllable breaks actually match the notes of the tune! Other than stretching "sing" and "mild" into two syllables and creating the contraction "th'angelic", you start a new syllable every time you hit a new note. It's a Christmas miracle! "Joy to the World," "Silent Night," "O Come All Ye Faithful" -- they all match their respective tunes almost perfectly.
You would think that once a lyricist has given himself license to depart from historical accuracy and go off on tangents about farm animals, he might have a chance of finding some words that actually go along with the tune, but old Noel had no such luck. In fact, the song actually gets worse in the later stanzas:
They-ey loo-ook-ed up a-and sa-aw a star Shining i-in the Ea-east beyo-ond them far And to-o the-uh earth it ga-a-ave great light And so it continued both da-ay and night. No-o-el, No-o-el, No-o-el, No-o-e-el Born is the Ki-ing of I-Isri-el!
Ok, I need to stop trying to figure out where the syllable breaks are before I develop a case of Turrett's. For the record, according to Luke the shepherds saw no star. The shepherds were "nearby," and if they needed a star to find Bethlehem, they were some pretty piss-poor shepherds. Oh, and if they had attempted to follow a star "in the east," they would have found themselves in the Dead Sea.
The next stanza is my favorite.
This star drew nigh to the northwest O'er Bethlehem it took its rest And there it did both pause and stay Right o'er the place where Jesus lay. Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel Born is the King of Israel!
Is there a more drawn out way to say "The star stopped over the baby Jesus"? I especially like the fact that the star "did both pause and stay" -- a phrase which is painfully redundant even without dragging it out over 37 syllables.
And now, the moment you've been waiting for: the historically inaccurate and syntactically disastrous inclusion of the three wise men:
Then entered in those wise men three Full reverently upon their knee And offered there in His presence Their gold and myrrh and frankincense. Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel Born is the King of Israel!
Ah yes, the famed Wise Men of the Southeast, who arrived on the heels of the shepherds. Historians have, of course, disagreed about the number of wise men. The standard interpretation is that there were three, based on the fact that there were three gifts. Revisionists, however, point to the fact that they all evidently shared a single knee.
Oh well. At least the intrepid vocalist is rewarded for his persistence with a single coherent, semi-singable stanza to close the song.
Then let us all with one accord Sing praises to our heavenly Lord That hath made Heaven and earth of naught And with his blood mankind has bought. Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel Born is the King of Israel!
Couldn't have said it better myself. Merry Christmas, everyone.
I'll probably take the next few days off, but I'll try to whip something up for the caption contest on Friday. See you then.
This week's winning caption came from newcomer carolinebender. Nice work, Caroline! I assume your first name is Caroline. It could be Car or Carolinebe for all I know. Anyway, as the winner, you may display the prestigious In Your Face Award:
It was a two-person race this week, and Sparrow ended up in second with:
"But Alfred, if I have to take my glasses off to get into the Batsuit, I'll be blind as a...oh."
And frequent finisher Brad pulled in a distant third with:
"Is there an opening for my...um...guano?"
Great job, everybody. I think this was my favorite one so far. Carolinebe's caption actually made me snort, an honor I generally reserve for the some of the stronger episodes of Charles in Charge.
I'll be back on Monday with a post on why "The First Noel" is the worst Christmas carol ever.
In the mean time, make sure you cast your vote for Huey in the Huey-pocalypse. So far, Huey is climbing Jacob's Ladder to victory, but we're still Walking on a Thin Line, people. If This is It we're in good shape, but remember that sometimes Bad is Bad. Where the hell am I going with this?
Just vote, ok. And spread the News. Together we can bring Huey Back to the Future.
Don't bet your future on a roll of the dice. Better remember, humor-blogs.com never strikes twice.
Yes, friends, this is it. The final showdown between the forces of infectious light rock and the forces of evil. The Ecstatic Infidel and I have come to an agreement on the terms of our internet duel.
If the Power of Love conquers all, the Erratic Infidel must do a post unreservedly lauding the genius of Huey Lewis. She must also proudly display my "Huey Lewis needs your help" banner on her site for all of 2008.
In the unlikely event that the Heart of Rock & Roll stops beating, I must post a retraction of my Huey accolades and then never mention Huey on this blog again.
That's right, the results of this poll have eternal consequences. This ramifications of this duel will reverberate through the ages like the "Wee-oo-oo-oo-oo-ooh, wee-oo-oo-oo-WEE-ooh" at the end of "Do You Believe in Love?" This is no laughing matter, folks. This is the Huey-pocalypse.
The poll ends at midnight Pacific Standard Time, Monday December 31st.
And before you vote, I implore you to listen to this song and try NOT to tap your feet and sing along. If you can do that, then Obi-Wan was right: You truly are dead.
I call upon loyal Huey supporters everywhere to help support the cause, including but not limited to:
I have a dream that some day in the not-too-distant future, little white children and other, slightly larger white children will hold hands and sing in unison Huey Lewis' "Power of Love." But not the part about love being "stronger and harder than a bad girl's dream," because that's not really suitable for the littler white children. Maybe we would change the lyrics to something more family-friendly, like "cooler and faster than methamphetamine," or "smoother and slicker than Vasoline."
Allow me to start over.
I had a dream.
I remember it as clearly as if it happened Monday night, although in reality it was early Tuesday morning. In this dream I was at the mall, waiting for Huey Lewis to arrive. Evidently I had won tickets to a Huey Lewis and the News concert, and part of the prize was getting to meet Huey himself. I stood there in the mall, wondering when Huey would arrive. I was not wondering if Huey would arrive, because Huey always follows through on his commitments. That's the kind of stand-up guy he is. Not like that f---ing flake Godot.
Sure enough, he showed up right on time. He definitely isn't as spry as he was back in the 80s, but he looked trim and neat in a casual button-down shirt and jeans. I shook his hand and introduced him to my son, Climber, who had appeared next to me, as people sometimes do in my dreams. "This man's name is Huey," I told Climber. "Just like Huey, Dewey and Louie."
If Huey took offense at that, he didn't show it, although he seemed to be more interested in getting something to eat. We stopped in at one of those nice family restaurants in the mall, like R.J. Blannigan's or whatever. Huey spoke briefly with the manager, securing a nice, out-of-the way booth for himself and his sizable entourage. I said entourage, you pervs. Anyway, his entourage was so large that by the time everyone sat down, there was no room for me. I think Climber got in, but I had to sit at another table.
I don't hold it against Huey -- a man has to put his entourage first. I knew that was how it had to be. And that's where the dream ended.
The next morning, while I was still pondering all of these things in my heart, I went to my computer and was met with a fateful comment from Elasticwaistbandlady, in which she claimed to be the Anti-Huey. Coincidence? Surely not.
No, friends, I'm afraid that we are entering the End Times, during which we will witness the final battle between the forces of infectious light rock and the forces of evil. Elasticwaistbandlady, also appropriately known as the Smiling Infidel, has thrown down the gauntlet.
----Semi-related interlude----
Mrs. Diesel and I were sitting at the kitchen table. She was reading the newspaper.
Mrs. Diesel: It says they're going to switch over to digital TV signals in 2009, so you won't be able to get any channels with an analog TV. Diesel: I'm not buying it. They're not going to take away people's TV. Mrs. Diesel: They're going to give people vouchers to buy converters. Diesel: See, they can't just take away TV. People wouldn't stand for it. Mrs. Diesel: Yeah, that's probably what would make people outraged enough to march on Washington.
A few minutes later...
Mrs. Diesel: Hey, they misspelled 'gauntlet' in this article. Diesel: Without the 'u', you mean? Mrs. Diesel: Yeah. Diesel: That's an alternate spelling. Mrs. Diesel: That's stupid. Diesel: I know, I don't like it either. Mrs. Diesel: There's clearly a 'u' in it. It's not GANT-let. Diesel: I know. It's stupid. Mrs. Diesel: There's no respect in this country for vowel blends. Diesel: (Looking skeptically across the table) Really? This is the cause you've decided to fight for? Mrs. Diesel: Well, it was either that or the TV thing.
----End semi-related interlude----
Frankly, the Elastic Infidel strikes me as the sort of person who would throw down a "gantlet" just to spite me. But as for me and my house, we'll stick with "gauntlet," thank you very much.
And now is up to me as the preeminent defender of Huey in the blogosphere to throw down my gauntlets as well. Although, come to think of it, I might just leave mine on. Because, you know, if you're going to fight, you want your gauntlets on. Otherwise what if you hit your knuckles on something? She's going to be kicking herself for that little dramatic flourish.
My dream was clearly prophetic, foreseeing the time when Huey would gather his entourage together at the family restaurant of his choice to prepare for the metaphorical Concert to End All Concerts. The fact that I was not permitted to sit at Huey's table clearly means that I, like Moses, will never see the promised land. But weep not for me, my friends. It is enough for me to simply be Huey Lewis' tool. Heh, heh. I said tool.
Last night the Infidel's seconds called upon my seconds, unaware that at that very moment my thirds were calling upon her fourths. Her fourths cleverly pretended not to be home, but I am hopeful that we will eventually be able to work out the terms of an internet duel with the help of our respective fifths. Mine being Jack Daniels.
Friends, this promises to be the greatest internet duel that I know about. Seriously, this is going to be big. Bigger than From Justin to Kelly. Bigger than Cop Rock. Bigger than Hands Across America, which everybody still remembers as the event that singlehandedly wiped out the problem of there not being much else going on that day.
Once again, my commenters have proven themselves to be the wittiest bunch of fawning sycophants on the web. Competition was fierce (particularly in the scatological and what's-he-doing- with-his-hands categories), but after much deliberation the captions were narrowed down to these:
No, I'm afraid the suit is not properly outfitted for rounds of "pocket pool", Mr. Diesel.
I got it all put together... finally. Whew. And the only thing is, um, there was this...kind of hand like thing and, over there, and well, he doesn't have a hand. Sorry.
- proper_attire
Alfred: Well, you'll fit the suit. But you're no Michael Keaton.
- y not i
Crazy Aunt Bea once again made the finalists with an oh-so-fitting "diesel fitter" joke. She explained what a diesel fitter is to me one time (I think it had something to do with chickens), but now it's basically just funny because she does one every single time.
I also have to give a nod to zogmama for Most Obscure Mattress Police Reference:
Diesel: Well, as soon as you show proof you've completed the continuity test, Mr. Pennyworth, I'll be on my way. You DID get the special equipment, didn't you?
It didn't make the finalists because, well, I knew it would lose. It's only funny if you've read this.
Anyway, vote for your favorite. Maybe tomorrow I'll tell you about the prophetic dream I had last night about Huey Lewis.
Submitted for your approval, some random items from the disorganized sock drawer that is my brain....
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I don't understand why people are freaking out about a little lead in toys. When I was a kid, I used to play with little paintable Dungeons & Dragons figurines. You know what those things were made of? Lead. That's right, the toy company would just pour a little glob of molten lead into a mold shaped like an elf princess and call it a toy. You're worried about a little lead in the paint on your Bratz(TM) Dream Crib*? Please. We used to paint our lead toys with lead-based paint in radon-filled rooms blanketed with asbestos insulation while sitting on furniture made out of cyanide and rattlesnakes.
One time my junior high teacher confiscated my lead orc figurine -- not because it was made entirely of poison, but because he thought it might be satanic. The grownups back then could give a shit about whether you were playing with toxic substances. They'd let you play with anything that wasn't possessed by a demon.
*No Bratz products have been shown to contain any hazardous substances. They will, however, turn your six year old into a whore.
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The other day I called a radio station to request a song. The D.J. answered, "Sorry, you're caller seven. Call me back." Then she hung up. Apparently I had entered -- and lost -- some sort of contest. That's a real morale builder, right there, losing a game you weren't even playing. I think I'm going to start answering the phone that way. "Sorry, caller seven. Call me back." Should confuse the hell out of my mother-in-law.
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In California there's no smoking inside restaurants, so all the smokers hang out outside the front door. The other day it occurred to me that it would be fun to stand outside there with the smokers and start lighting firecrackers. I'd just light them and then toss them on the ground in front of me. BAM! BAM! BAM! And then when the smokers started yelling at me, I'd be like, "What? The odds of you being seriously harmed by one of my firecrackers are really very low." And then I'd wax nostalgically about how you used to be able to just light firecrackers wherever you wanted and nobody complained.
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I don't get fortune cookies. Don't get me wrong -- I don't have a problem taking advice from a cookie, but aren't there more reputable cookies around? Fortune cookies are pretty much the worst cookie ever. Why would you listen to a cookie that can't even get its own shit together? Focus on being a halfway decent cookie for a while, and when you've got that down, come back and tell me about my hidden talents that will soon become obvious to those around me.
An Oreo -- now there's a cookie I'd listen to. I'd take stock tips from an Oreo. And between you and me, if one of those Girl Scout cookies with the caramel and coconut told me to, I'd kill a man.
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To the people who make "easy-open" packages: Stop it. You're just making me feel like an idiot because I can't get the damn thing open. At least in the old days I could just bitch about how they make packages impossible to open while tearing at a 12-pack of Dr. Pepper like a starving wolverine. Now I have to stick my finger in this spot and pull up, then push push down and then stroke it side to side for a while, and eventually I give up and just ask Mrs. Diesel exactly what she wants me to do. Wait, what was I talking about?
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To the makers of refrigerator magnets: Would it kill you to make them an eighth of an inch thicker? What the hell am I supposed to be sticking to my fridge with these damn things, dryer sheets? Every time I walk past the fridge, I'm attacked by a flurry of Christmas cards and pizza coupons. I understand that your primary purpose is to advertise an appliance repair business or real estate agent, but could you at least pretend that you care about holding my shit to the fridge?
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To the people who print receipt tape with ads on the back: Cut it out. When I'm on the phone and I need to quick find a scrap of paper to write down an important phone number, I don't want to see an ad for carpet cleaning. It's universally understood that the back of a receipt should be left blank so that it can be used as scratch paper. If you make me walk past the fridge to get a notepad, there is going to be trouble.
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Ok folks, that's it for today. Meet me back here for the caption contest results tomorrow.
How excited am I about The Dark Knight, the sequel to Batman Begins, coming to a theater near me this July? Well, considering that Batman Begins is the Greatest Movie of All Time, pretty excited. For about three hours after seeing Batman Begins, the only words I was capable of speaking were, "That was AWESOME." More importantly, it made me completely forget about Tim Burton's Beetleman, and nearly erased my memory of George Clooney's bionic nipples.
So I'm jumping the gun a bit with this one, but hey, did you really want to see me insert myself into the Alvin and the Chipmunks movie? Nobody even wants to see Jason Lee in that movie.
You know the rules. Submit your caption(s) in the comments. Mrs. Diesel and I will pick our favorites and I'll post them in a poll on Tuesday. Have fun!
Oh, and in case you somehow missed my shameless hawking in every post over the past two weeks, today is the LAST DAY to get my book, Antisocial Commentary, for $9.95 with free shipping. Tomorrow it goes back up to $11.95 with $3.00 shipping. You're saving $5, which means that Huey and I are making virtually nothing on this book. Get it today for someone you love.
Ok kids, in case anybody is still around after yesterday's distasteful rant, I thought I should tell you that tomorrow is the last day to purchase my book, Antisocial Commentary, at the low low price of $9.95 with free shipping. So really you should order it right now, because if you wait until tomorrow you'll forget. You know how you are.
Thanks to everybody who has bought the book so far, especially Mark Jabo, who seems to be planning a Very Antisocial Christmas. I mailed the latest batch out on Monday, so if you haven't gotten it yet, you should be very soon. If you don't, please send me an email at diesel - at - mattresspolice.com.
Oh, and for those of you who tried to buy the book only to have PayPal threaten to charge you $3.00 for shipping -- sorry about that. I've fixed the form now, and I've refunded the people who overpaid. And for those of you who are morally opposed to PayPal for whatever reason, send me an email and I'll give you my address so you can send a check. If the envelope is postmarked by 12/14, I'll give you the discounted price.
And now, some more quotes from people who have enjoyed Antisocial Commentary:
"I just finished the chapter 'Bills and Other Pests' and I don't think I've ever laughed harder at a piece of writing."
"He really is a very funny and clever writer. And depending upon how fast you read, this book could easily be consumed in one very entertaining evening."
"From the first page, where you are introduced to how the whole thing started (“…with a sea turtle”), to his ranting on music (“What bothers me about ‘Sexy Back’ is while it sounds like it had about twenty-eight producers, not one of them remembered to bring the melody.”), to his thoughts about war (“It surprises me how few wars are fought in the name of evil.”), to arguing with his wife about what to call a group of zombies (“She thought for a moment. ‘A groan, I think.’ ”), it is non-stop hilarity."
"You will surely want to buy a copy of Antisocial Commentary no matter what. It is the funniest book you will read this year and maybe for all-time. Diesel is that funny.
"Look out Dave Barry, you finally have some competition."
"Yes, this book is an offense to the natural order of humor. Yes, it’s unfair to third world humorists who lack access to literary stacking technology, but in the end all that really means is that I read it with guilty laughter and a measure of self-disgust."
"I laughed out loud every few pages and I chuckled more often than not between every flip. More importantly, the book is very, very readable. To collect 150+ pages from hundreds of posts and have it flow from start to finish is quite a feat. All in all, this is a good read and an anthology worthy of purchase.
"The number of chapters devoted to hard core pornography and scrotal abuse were really out of place, but I understand they’ve been taken out of the current version."
In the late 90s, back when Al Gore's Internet was still shiny and brimming with possibilities, I worked as a tech support rep at a large software company. My boss at the time was a good-natured dufus that I'll call Chad. Chad drove a blue Camaro with the license plate YAHOOO, not because he was a fan of the then-nascent web portal but because he was, in fact, a moron. Chad would demonstrate his cognitive deficit by forwarding emails of dubious origin to our entire department. I'm not sure if he ever sent his bank account number to a desperate Nigerian, but one time he did forward the one about people being drugged and having their kidneys cut out. You remember that one, right?
At this point I should mention that I'm a big-time skeptic. Not a Skeptic with a capital S, but a person who tends not to believe anything that sounds a little fishy without some hard evidence. I mean, I believe in UFOs because, well, I've seen one, but I don't buy the rumor that Jamie Lee Curtis is a hermaphrodite because, well, I've also seen True Lies.
So I read the kidney theft email, complete with testimonials from people with reputable sounding names and titles, and thought to myself, Bullshit. I did a web search and found statements by several reliable authorities, including the Las Vegas police department, attesting to the fact that this story was indeed bullshit. I forwarded the information to all the recipients of the original email, along with my own editorial commentary -- which I don't recall in detail, but which I can only assume was an extremely tactful and subtle rebuke of people in positions of authority who should know better than to infect the entire company with their own stupidity. (This job was, surprisingly, not one of the many I was fired from.)
I continued to do my best to counteract this sort of idiocy for several years. Whenever an email started to circulate about little Jimmy whose dying wish was to crash the world's email servers through infinite recursion, I would do a quick search and then pound out a debunking email. I would try to respond almost instantaneously, as if to say, "Hey, it took me 26 seconds to figure out that your email was bullshit... so exactly how much research did you put into this before sending it to 300 people?"
Then, in the early naughties*, something strange happened: People got a little bit smarter. Not a lot smarter, mind you, because they were still people and people are inherently stupid. But for the most part they stopped forwarding ridiculous stories like these, which was of course a good thing. But then people started doing something even more irritating than mindlessly distributing lies: They started mindlessly distributing facts. Or, perhaps more accurately, factoids.
Factoids are more subtle than the Look Ma No Kidneys variety of nonsense, but they are just as widespread and even more difficult to dispose of. A factoid is a kernel of truth wrapped in an oversized package of misleading implications. What happens is that someone picks up -- usually from the internet -- some intriguing 'fact' which runs contrary to conventional wisdom, and then repeats that fact, sans context, at every opportunity.
I was recently treated to a factoid-based discourse prompted by my bout of the "stomach flu." Now if you've had the stomach flu lately, you know that the standard response to this statement these days is: "There's no such thing as the stomach flu." And technically this is true: What we generally call the "stomach flu" is not in fact caused by the influenza virus. Which, while we're being technical, I don't give a shit about.
Look, I'm not using the term "stomach flu" in a clinical sense. I'm using it in place of saying "Hey, I spent all day Monday Voldemorting into a tupperware bowl next to my bed." If you prefer the more graphical description, let me know. In any case, if Sports Illustrated can get away with an article saying that Kobe Bryant had the "stomach flu," then maybe you can let it go, Dr. Literal.
Anyway, the statement that "stomach flu" doesn't exist is an accurate, if entirely superfluous, correction. But the follow-up to this statement -- complete with knowing look and raised eyebrows -- is always: "It was probably food poisoning."
Look, I've eaten bad McNuggets. I know what food poisoning is. And yes, it's remarkably similar to the "stomach flu." But here's the thing about food poisoning: You get it from food. So if my mother-in-law gets sick, and then a few hours later my nephew, whom she was babysitting, gets sick, and then two days later my kids, who were playing with my nephew, both get sick, and then two days later I get sick, and then two days after that my wife gets sick, all with the same symptoms, guess what? It's not friggin' food poisoning. The only way that the food poisoning diagnosis makes any sense is if my family members were eating each other. And I think I would remember something like that.
Oh, and one more thing before I let this one go: Food "poisoning" isn't poisoning. It's caused by a virus, not a poison. So even if you're right, you're still wrong. Suck on that.
Another example is the old canard about how "Most accidents occur within x miles of home." When someone says this to me, I respond, "Wow, I should move somewhere less dangerous!"
The point, of course, is that you spend most of your time within x miles of home. When you say that most accidents occur within x miles of home, all you're saying is that most accidents occur in places where you spend the most time. Gee, thanks for the tip, Mr. Safety. In reality, my odds of getting into an accident on the way to Disneyland are probably 10 times the odds of me getting into an accident on the way to work -- they key difference being that I don't drive to Disneyland 20 times a month. Of course, if you work at Disneyland you're pretty much screwed, but I suppose that goes without saying.
Or how about this one: Someone once told me, in regard to jogging during the winter, that it was important to wear a hat because "you lose 75% of your heat from your head." Again, this is probably technically true. Of course you'd have to stuff the hat down your throat, because you're losing that heat by breathing. But hey, don't let me stop you. Two birds, one stone.
So here's the deal: Reading some factoid off the Internet doesn't mean you know any more than someone who didn't read that little nugget of wisdom. In fact, often the people promulgating those factoids are pushing some sort of agenda that they're hoping you'll help them with by mindlessly regurgitating their blather. Don't buy it. If you want to pontificate on a subject, do a little research.
And when in doubt, think bullshit.
*Come on, people, am I still the only one using this term?
CORRECTION: As the Amoeba points out, what is commonly called "food poisoning" is not caused by a virus, but rather bacteria. Proving that even when I'm right, I'm wrong. Or something.
Humor-blogs.com is a hermaphrodite that had its kidneys forcibly removed.
Are we headed for an economic meltdown? Probably not, but that made for a much better opening sentence than the one I had before.
It is true that there are signs that indicate the American economy may be in for a rough patch. We've seen a weakening dollar, a housing bubble and a credit crisis -- and all the while the threat of a Spice Girls reunion tour hangs over our heads like a black cloud.
What alarms me the most, however, is the state of advertising in this country. As everyone knows, our economy is based largely on consumer spending, and consumers would have no idea what to consume if it they weren't constantly being told what to purchase by reliable authorities such as Sam Waterston or an animated gecko. Powerful, emotionally resonant advertising is the team of malamutes that pulls the giant, unwieldy sled that is our economy.
The typical American consumer has become fairly jaded regarding the choking miasma of advertising that envelopes him from cradle to grave, but a well-executed ad campaign can pierce that fog like a night watchman with a big flashlight who taps you on the shoulder and says, "Friend, you NEED this product or service." And you see that in the night watchman's other hand is a thing of Cheetos or a thing of Axe body spray or something else that until that moment you hadn't realized you needed, but now you can't live without. Then, as required by my previous metaphor, the night watchman transforms into a team of well-fed malamutes. And once again you are alone in the whirling fog, having realized too late that what you really needed was not so much Cheetos but one of those big flashlights.
My point is that today, more than ever, effective advertising is vital to the health of our economy. Without compelling advertisements, you and I would simply slog along, living within our means while the great economic sled runs aground, the malnourished malamutes tugging listlessly at their reigns.
For example, if you're like me, you've grown so accustomed to Google ads that you don't even see them any more. I mean, do you see that block of Google ads over to the right there? Just to the right of this text. No? Really? See, that's exactly what I mean. They're right there, plain as day, but you can't even see them any more. You have Google Ad Blindness (GAB). Frightening, isn't it? Don't worry, it's not fatal, and there is a cure. Just take one of these and you'll be fine.
See, now that was effective advertising. You actually hovered your mouse over the link for a second to find out whether I was once again shamelessly hawking my book. That's what we need more of. Advertising that grabs you by the lapels and won't let go until you admit to being a shallow, materialistic sop trying to find happiness at the bottom of a Target bag. And don't try to tell me that you're one of those people who isn't affected by advertising. Next time President Palmer comes on your TV and asks you if you're in good hands, tell me you don't feel a nagging sense that you really need to get your shit together.
But now -- when we need pithy, eye-catching advertising the most, I'm seeing signs that the advertising industry just isn't up to the task. And I'm not even talking about the commercials where you can't figure out what they are selling, or the ones that seem to be promoting a drug that allows you to take nice walks on the beach but you should really ask your doctor first. I'm talking about the trend of lowered expectations that seems to be infecting the advertising world.
The first sign of this were the Budweiser radio ads featuring a rousing Bob Seeger-ish pseudo-rock song that climaxes with the refrain "This is Budweiser... this is beer." I mean, what is up with that? I half-expected someone to chime in at this point, "Now do you see the difference?"
But that's all there was to it. "This is Budweiser... this is beer." Their ad campaign comes down to stating that their product does, by some technical definition, qualify as beer. Good work, guys. Take the rest of the week off.
Yesterday I drove past a billboard advertising a housing development which read "Great homes you won't find anywhere else." Well, that's an interesting feature to highlight -- The fact that your new home will exist in precisely one location. If anything, that seems like a drawback to me. I wonder if they have a competitor who offers homes that are located in two places at once. Their slogan could be "If you lived 20 miles away, you'd be home by now."
Then there's the local crappy pop radio station, which recently introduced the tagline, "The music you've come to expect." No, not the music I've come to love. Not even the music that I've grown to grudgingly accept after an unrelenting campaign of endless repetition. Just the music I've come to expect. Again, their entire marketing campaign basically consists of saying, "So, you've heard the kind of crap we play, right?" (To be fair, a competing radio station was already using their preferred slogan, "Yes, we're playing that f***ing 'Umbrella' song again.")
Still, as uninspiring as these ads are, they'll never top "Beef: It's What's For Dinner." What was up with that? Evidently the beef industry was so unsure of any positive aspects of their product that they decided to just go with a thinly veiled threat. I understand that the other slogans the beef industry considered included "Beef: Deal With It", "Beef: Resistance is Futile", and "Beef: I'm Not Making Anything Else So You And Your Stupid Vegan Friends Can Just Starve."
What next? I'm half-expecting taglines like: "McDonalds: Once a Week Doesn't Make You a Bad Parent." Or maybe "Daimler-Chrysler: Well, That Could Have Gone Better."
What happened to promising me sex, love and happiness if I buy a Big Mac/Bud Light/Dodge Caravan? This is America, people! Dream big!
Sam Waterston and the gecko are counting on you.
Humor-Blogs.com: Because laughter is the best medicine... for erectile dysfunction!
This week's winning caption came from the beautiful and witty Kadi Prescott, whose blog, Seven Seeds, you should visit right now. I have a feeling that Kadi is going to be very popular in the near future, so you should make a point to get over there and become her friend while she will still have you.
Kadi, you may display the prestigious In Your Face award:
I have to admit that I was silently rooting for Jay's entry, because it ties in so well with the newfound purpose of this blog:
"We're very disappointed with your refusal to play Huey Lewis on this station."
And finally, the woman who may soon be known as Third Place Theresa(the 'h' is silent), with another clever pop culture reference:
The Cat in the Hat was really sorry he'd let Thing One and Thing Two out of the box.
I also have to give a special shout-out to Crazy Aunt Bea, whose caption, though doomed to go down to defeat, holds a special place in my heart. You'll have to ask her what a "diesel fitter" is exactly, but I'll be darned if she doesn't work a "diesel fitter" joke into every freaking caption contest. I don't get them, but they still make me laugh every time. So of course I burst into uncontrollable fits of giggles when she checked in with this little gem:
Jules: Say "diesel fitter" again. SAY "DIESEL FITTER" AGAIN. I dare you, I double dare you, motherf**ker.
Okay folks, time for me to get some motherf***ing work done. See you back here on Monday for an insightful analysis of the state of the American economy. Tip your waitresses and buy my book.
Man, I've been so busy this week that I think I might have forgotten to mention that my book, Antisocial Commentary, is on sale for $9.95 with free shipping until December 14. Buy it now!
Recently I gave a copy to a friend of my wife's and her husband as a housewarming gift. I mentioned to them that several people had told me that it was excellent bathroom reading. Apparently they took me very literally, because the next day my wife's friend called her to tell her that while she and her husband were supposed to be doing some work around the house, her husband kept disappearing into the bathroom. At first she was irritated, and then concerned. Of course, it turned out that he was sneaking off to read my book. So be warned: It may start off as bathroom reading, but if you don't want people to think you're experience uncontrollable bouts of Dianetics, you may want to leave the book in the living room.
In case you're still not convinced, here are some quotes from various pillars of the blogging community regarding the wonder that is Antisocial Commentary:
"Diesel is that rare author who manages to find humor in just about anything. And not just 'regular' humor, but the much more difficult/rare Oh My God I'm About To Wet My Pants Because I'm Laughing So Hard, Help Me Jeebus! variety."
"Many would call it being a virtuoso, a prodigy or idiot-savant. In fact, due to the flying bullets of topics flying all around the reader, he covers all three of the aforementioned much to the chagrin of his fellow writers.... No other humor writer matches this ability sans one. Diesel has defined his niche and it is as the heterosexual David Sedaris. Yes, Virigina, that is possible. Just peek between the covers."
"Mr. Kroese is an amazingly brilliant and creative writer. It's always great to find someone who can take a simple thing like putting on your socks or renting a car and turn it into entertainment."
"The topics are as varied and diverse as the selections in today's average peanut butter aisle in the supermarket. I can laugh at things that are funny, but Diesel makes me laugh at things that I wouldn't have thought to think of as funny but, upon further review, realize are obviously funny. I really enjoy picking this book up, and you will too."
"Diesel’s book is funny. I laughed out loud every few pages and I chuckled more often than not between every flip. More importantly, the book is very, very readable. To collect 150+ pages from hundreds of posts and have it flow from start to finish is quite a feat. All in all, this is a good read and an anthology worthy of purchase."
"Diesel is one funny guy. Correction - make that one funny, brilliant guy. He gets it - gets the absurdities of life - and with his own unique, inimitable style of writing shares his take on life. Antisocial Commentary is a must read for all who recognize that laughter can get us through just about anything life throws our way. And then some… It brings forth smirks, smiles, chuckles and those big old laugh-out-loud guffaws. Read it and weep – tears of laughter!"
And no, I didn't pay any of these people to say that stuff. I'm not much for self-promotion (see, now even I'm laughing!), but you might have noticed that I'm rather proud of this book. I'd stack it up against anything in the Humor section of Barnes and Noble, if they wouldn't keep throwing me out of the store.
So just buy it, ok? You have until December 14th to get it at the almost immorally low price of $9.95 with free shipping. And remember, any proceeds will go to the cause of promoting Huey Lewis.*
Oh, and I know there are several others of you who have written rave reviews that aren't included here. Don't worry, I'll do another of these shameless posts soon. If you'd like to be mentioned, please leave a comment or send me an email so that I don't accidentally miss you.
Ok, so buy the book, and I'll see you tomorrow for the caption contest results. If you buy the book.
*Huey Lewis is not a charity and contributions are not considered tax-deductible.
These days we can be thankful that every primate with opposable thumbs, not to mention Tucker Max, has a blog. Today I can simply open the lid of my laptop and read no less than 800 million stories about absolutely adorable and completely interchangeable cats. I can also read sports commentary by armchair quarterbacks, navel-gazing by armchair philosophers and upholstery tips by the chair of the armchair armchair-makers society.
But what did people do in the Olden Dayes, back before armchair technology guru Al Gore invented the Interwebs? How did people find out that their cats were, in fact, no different from everyone else's cats? Where did they go to find throngs of like-minded idiots with whom to commiserate regarding the alarming decline of their own particular brand of idiocy?
Well, my friends, I have stumbled upon the answer. A few weeks ago I ran across a box of yellowed booklets at an estate sale, most of them written by one Joseph McCabe. Maybe you know the name; I didn't. Apparently he was a well-known "freethinker" back in the day, which is what they used to call people who were free to think anything except that there might be a God of some sort. If you stumbled across that particular belief, you were kicked out of the club. It was a very open-minded sort of club in that way.
In any case, this Joseph McCabe was what passed for a blogger in the 1930s-40s. He seems to have been a pretty smart guy, if a bit of a crank, and he wrote on EVERYTHING. The first booklet to catch my eye was something entitled "Our Wonderful Glands." It's about, well, our wonderful glands. Then there is "The Nature, History and Uses of Aphrodisiacs," "Television -- What It Is and How It Works" and "How the Talkies Talk." Despite his wide range of topics, Mr. McCabe did not, as far as I can tell, own a cat.
"Television and How it Works," penned in 1937, begins:
Thirteen years ago, I wrote a popular manual of physics in which I told my readers that when certain processes that were then in their crude infancy were perfected we should be able to sit an arm chair* at home and see what was at that moment happening in 42nd Street or at the baseball ground. A scientific weekly condescended to notice my book but warned me, on a note of high superiority, not to put such dreams before the public.
Joe's prognostication was so uncannily accurate that he can be forgiven for using the term "baseball ground."
Mostly old Joe seemed to be concerned with spreading the gospel of atheism and exposing the evils of the Catholic Church. (Joe spent ten years in a monastery, but it evidently didn't take). For a while there was even a Joseph McCabe Magazine (later modestly renamed to Appeal to Reason Library), which seems to have been written almost entirely by old Joe himself. One volume of Appeal to Reason Library is made up of articles like "Catholics and Crime, or Why the Catholics Fill the Jails," "How the Roman Catholic Church Gets Wealth and Power," and "Celibacy, an Unscrupulous Policy." In 1937 old Joe wrote a nice 32 page pamphlet entitled "Vice in German Monasteries," in which he unfortunately bases much of his case on the rantings of Goebbels. Tough luck, Joe.
Another issue of The Joseph McCabe Magazine promises In This Issue that "Science Conducts God to Its Frontier -- Atheism Advances Despite Absurd Cavortings of a Few Scientists Who Speak Up For God." Come on, Joe, tell us how you really feel. (By the way, is it just me, or does absurd cavorting sound like a pretty good time?)
Joe's disgust with the clerical bias of the editors of the Encyclopedia Brittanica prompted him to write "The Lies and Fallacies of the Encyclopedia Britannica -- How Powerful and Shameless Clerical Forces Castrated a Famous Work of Reference." (Castration being a particularly tragic fate once one has been schooled in the mysteries of Our Wonderful Glands.) Joe got so mad, in fact, that he beat Wikipedia by 60 years in writing his own alternative to the esteemed encyclopedia. That's right, I have in my hands Volume 2 of Joseph McCabe's The Encyclopedia of Essential Knowledge. Evidently there was a lot less to know in 1948, because all of Volume 2 (D to H) is slightly larger than the instruction booklet for the George Foreman grill.
Edison, Thomas Alva (1847-1941).The famous inventor read Gibbon and Hume before he was 10 and was an outspoken Agnostic all his life. In his later years he, like Lembroso, dabbled in spiritualism but does not seem to have gone beyond inquiry.
Sadly there are no illustrations, but I'm hopeful that a revised edition will soon be released with Thomas Edison thinking Great Agnostic Thoughts. If only there were some universally recognized symbol that could be used to indicate that Edison was thinking brilliant thoughts. Maybe a thought bubble with an oil lamp in it.
The Encyclopedia of Essential Knowledge also surprisingly omits Novelty Testicles and The Incredible Hulk -- mistakes I was careful not to repeat in my own book.
Some of you, I suspect, are still agnostic regarding my thesis that the cranky pamphleteers of the mid-20th century were the bloggers of their time. To you, I submit the fact that the final pages of the Josesph McCabe Magazine are filled with letters -- which is to say comments -- by readers on previous essays, and ads for other booklets (cough, cough, blogroll) that the reader might enjoy. Finally, there are the somewhat questionable ads for various products filling out the remainder of the pamphlets.
In case you can't read it, there are ads for pamphlets titled "The Treatment of Impotence in Man and Woman," "The Latest So-Called Miracle Cures for Gonorrhea" and (my personal favorite): "When are Girls Promiscuous? Love's Physiology for the Virgin and Her Sister." (Original Title: "Frank Talk About Sex for the Virgin and Her Sister, the Filthy, Filthy Whore.")
It is a tragedy that these valuable writings have virtually disappeared, surviving only in a few dog-eared and yellowing copies ignominiously offered for sale for a few pennies at an estate sale. I am proud to have done my part to immortalize these works by blogging about them. At least this very small fraction of Joseph McCabe's works will be accessible for eternity to all of humanity via the miracle of the internet. Along with 800 million posts about cats.
*I swear I didn't know the "arm chair" reference was in there when I started writing this post.
Anyway, here are the caption contest finalists. Once again, there were some great entries. Vote for your favorite and I'll post the winners on Friday. Have fun and good luck to each and every one of you, event those of you who have already lost. Maybe you'll find a nickel on your way to work or something.
The Finalists:
"We're very disappointed with your refusal to play Huey Lewis on this station."
Diesel realized that while it may not be completely legal for them to shoot Travolta, it was just punishment for having inflicted "Battlefield Earth" on an innocent movie-going public.
We've come to get our wallets back. Mine says "Bad Motherf***er" and his just says "Buy My Book - Please"
- zogmama
"Next slide please....OK, note that the Study subject's hands have now swollen to nearly the size of their heads, making it impossible for them to release their firearms."
Only 10 days left to buy my book, Antisocial Commentary, at the insanely low price of $9.95 with no charge for shipping. If you buy it, my children might not have to share an orange for Christmas this year.
Stumble it!
Digg it!
Everybody loves Christmas carols. Christians love Christmas carols. 
Ok, I need to stop trying to figure out where the syllable breaks are before I develop a case of Turrett's. For the record, according to Luke the shepherds saw no star. The shepherds were "nearby," and if they needed a star to find Bethlehem, they were some pretty piss-poor shepherds. Oh, and if they 
Yes, friends, this is it. The final showdown between the forces of infectious light rock and the forces of evil. 
If Huey took offense at that, he didn't show it, although he seemed to be more interested in getting something to eat. We stopped in at one of those nice family restaurants in the mall, like R.J. Blannigan's or whatever. Huey spoke briefly with the manager, securing a nice, out-of-the way booth for himself and his sizable entourage. I said 
Last night the Infidel's seconds called upon my seconds, unaware that at that very moment my thirds were calling upon her fourths. Her fourths cleverly pretended not to be home, but I am hopeful that we will eventually be able to work out the terms of an internet duel with the help of our respective fifths. Mine being Jack Daniels.
Once again, my commenters have proven themselves to be the wittiest bunch of fawning sycophants on the web. Competition was fierce (particularly in the scatological and 
I don't understand why people are freaking out about a little lead in toys. When I was a kid, I used to play with little paintable Dungeons & Dragons figurines. You know what those things were made of? Lead. That's right, the toy company would just pour a little glob of molten lead into a mold shaped like an elf princess and call it a toy. You're worried about a little lead in the paint on your Bratz(TM) Dream Crib*? Please. We used to paint our lead toys with lead-based paint in radon-filled rooms blanketed with asbestos insulation while sitting on furniture made out of cyanide and rattlesnakes.
What alarms me the most, however, is the state of advertising in this country. As everyone knows, our economy is based largely on consumer spending, and consumers would have no idea what to consume if it they weren't constantly being told what to purchase by reliable authorities such as Sam Waterston or an animated gecko. Powerful, emotionally resonant advertising is the team of malamutes that pulls the giant, unwieldy sled that is our economy.
My point is that today, more than ever, effective advertising is vital to the health of our economy. Without compelling advertisements, you and I would simply slog along, living within our means while the great economic sled runs aground, the malnourished malamutes tugging listlessly at their reigns.
"Many would call it being a virtuoso, a prodigy or idiot-savant. In fact, due to the flying bullets of topics flying all around the reader, he covers all three of the aforementioned much to the chagrin of his fellow writers.... No other humor writer matches this ability sans one. 
Well, my friends, I have stumbled upon the answer. A few weeks ago I ran across a box of yellowed booklets at an estate sale, most of them written by one Joseph McCabe. Maybe you know the name; I didn't. Apparently he was a well-known "freethinker" back in the day, which is what they used to call people who were free to think anything except that there might be a God of some sort. If you stumbled across that particular belief, you were kicked out of the club. It was a very open-minded sort of club in that way.
Mostly old Joe seemed to be concerned with spreading the gospel of atheism and exposing the evils of the Catholic Church. (Joe spent ten years in a monastery, but it evidently didn't take). For a while there was even a 
Joe's disgust with the clerical bias of the editors of the Encyclopedia Brittanica prompted him to write "The Lies and Fallacies of the 
Ok peeps. May I call you 'peeps'? No? Ok.