Wednesday, December 23, 2009

Bill and Ted Are Kind of Dicks

In the spirit of giving this holiday season, I've decided to repost one or two of my own personal favorites from the past six months in an effort to both make up for my lack of new entries this past month...

And to also remind myself how clever I am.

Dudes, so congrats passing that history exam of yours, but all those hilarious, goofy guys you travelled back in time to help you, most of them get seriously fucked up after this so-called “excellent adventure” of yours…

The least you could have done is warn them or something.

Let’s take a gander…

Socrates: People in Athens got pissed b/c he was smarter than them and had him tried, found guilty, and forced to drink deadly poison.

Joan of Arc: Maybe if you weren’t so busy trying to get under her chainmaille, you might have remembered to give her a heads up on that whole ‘tried as a heretic and BURNED ALIVE AT THE STAKE’ thing she’d have endure down the road. How painful do you think that was for her? But yeah, she probably didn’t want any kind of warning or anything.

That certainly looks like fun, no? Thanks guys.

Billy the Kid: So not only was he a wanton murderer to begin with, he was also violently gunned down in New Mexico at 21.

Abe Lincoln: I mean, really? Not even like a “You probably should avoid Ford's Theater if you can”? The guy brought an end to slavery…no heads up?

Sigmund Freud: Granted Freud lived into his eighties, he was alive to see his books burned by the Nazis and then had to flee to England once Hitler annexed Austria. Oh, and he also committed suicide to avoid a battle with oral cancer.

Beethoven: Basically the guy shat and vomited himself to death.

But I’m glad you had a good time at the mall with him.

You guys are always saying ‘Be excellent to each other.’ How about you start by being excellent to your friends?
Fucking dicks…

The Lost Art of Stalking

In the spirit of giving this holiday season, I've decided to repost one or two of my own personal favorites from the past six months in an effort to both make up for my lack of new entries this past month...

And to also remind myself how clever I am.

Kids these days don’t know how easy they have it.

Stalking used to mean something.

People used to care. People used to make an effort. Now, like much of the 21st century, it has become an automated, disconnected experience where efficacy and quality’s been replaced for expediency and ease.

It’s laziness.

In the post-Obama world we should be standing up, getting involved. But it is a lost cause.

As a youngster, if someone wanted to stalk me, they’d have to put some time into it. Follow me after school, figure out ways to leave me notes in my text books so that I’d find them when I’d open to a specific chapter for that day's specific lesson (diabolical!), waiting outside my house with binoculars, hoping to spot me in case I was home, or at least to wait patiently upon my return. This is an impressive obsession.

But now facebook, twitter, myspace, IM, etc., they’ve done half the job for you. You’ll know where to find me simply by looking at my status.

You’ll know who to duct tape and leave in the trunk of your car for days by checking who I’m “in a relationship” with.

Why bother clandestinely following my route after school if you see on Twitter that "ianweinreich@twitter: seeing startrek at the plaza this afternoon." It's like being handed a road map.

Before, in my day, if I didn’t have the same feelings for you, I could easily just ignore you at school. And then have my mom answer the phone at night to screen the calls.

Caller ID was the impetus for the fall of stalking.

“Oh it’s that Dayna broad.” Ignore. Click.

We didn’t know how good we had it.

Now there’s IM, email, skype, facebook chat, texts, facebook message, wall posts...the ability to ignore you has become something of an uphill battle with the myriad of outlets for communication to be facilitated from your end.

A key element that used to drive obsession and turn a crush into an infatuation into a dangerous broad ready to kill my little girl’s rabbit in a boiling pot of water then bring her onto a roller coaster ride? (b/c I base much of my knowledge on stalking on the idea that Fatal Attraction is a realistic, down-to-earth depiction of just this), is not being able to expel the feeling for me inside you. having it bottled deep inside just drove you ever the more insane and furious with lust.

But there are just too many forums for you to blog, instant messange, or twitter me about that it’s cut the legs off a lot of that old school ferocious crushing (not unlike how you wanted to cut the legs off from me to keep me from leaving your bedroom after having me ‘study’ that one time in 8th grade – I know what you were thinking, I saw the axe in your closet, the iodine, and the chains).

When I want a stalker I want someone who goes the distance. I want to see her out there, waiting for me to come home at the end of a long day, following me haphazardly, not knowing my final destination.

That’s obsession.

This, today, this…it’s just such a sadness.

Little Drummer Boy

So it looks like Ringo has a new album coming out soon...

Y Not

Y Not, indeed.

Well, I can think of a few reasons. First of all because your clever parlance of using the letter Y to represent the word 'why' is as about as hollow and meaningless as your career for the past twenty-five years.

Do people show up to see you perform these days in the off chance that Paul McCartney might show up as the surprise guest for the encore?

I kinda think that's the best you can hope for these days. Especially since you made a public announcement that you would NO LONGER BE SIGNING AUTOGRAPHS.

You don't even need to sign your full name. Just R-I-N-G-O. Five letters.
But apparently years of holding up peace signs to cameras have rendered your wrist muscles as weak and tenuous as your lyrics.

But I shouldn't be too hard on him. It must be tough to know an entire generation of people joke that someone should have shot him in the back of the head instead of John Lennon.

Or at least one person.