Tuesday, December 28, 2010

To Natalie, With Love

When news broke that Natalie Portman was pregnant, the outpouring of support resentment and unfathomable anger was unjustifiably outrageous.

"Worst News of the Year," one facebook status read.
"This is how dreams die," one friend eloquently put it.

Because Natalie Portman was waiting around in her nunnery like the old Knight in Last Crusade, just waiting for the first eligible man to choose the right chalice and win her heart?

You're talking as if by chance had your paths crossed before that egg was fertilized, the highly successful actress would give it all up for the chance to be Mrs. Part-time Assistant-Though I Also Write Specs For Galactica 1980 That Are Going To Get Me On Staff Any Day Now.

"Hmm, but what if Starbuck DID have a homo-erotic relationship with the Cylon after crash-landing together?"

I never understood the hysteria that follows when an attractive celebrity finds some semblance of happiness. Are we really that jaded and selfish that the idea of "if" convinces us that we deserve something that's not owed to us?
"If only WE were co-stars on a highly successful television show together where sparks could fly...," "If only Kristen Stewart saw how irreverent my youtube skits were before she met Robert Pattinson"If only Michelle Williams found my kitchenette and shared bathroom quaint, as opposed to say, filthy, or, as my last girlfriend put it, 'capable of giving Clive Barker nightmares starring Edward Gorey and HP Lovecraft.'"

"No, really, it's fine. We'll just...add some drapes to open the space up."

Get over yourselves. Nothing in your life has changed.
And if it makes you feel any better, she used to have sex with this...

On a regular basis. Using mouths and beards to do Lord knows what.
So, actually, maybe you DID have a shot. Oh well, too late now....

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

Give Us, Us Free!!

The Free Sample....

Just because something is offered without a price, doesn't mean it's necessary for you to accept said offer.

It's not even like they're giving you the fresh chicken teriyaki. You're getting the neck and gizzards at the bottom of the pan that got sluiced through the grate into the coagulated lard that has been collecting there since the Sankarra Teriyaki was a Nathan's Hot Dogs.

As soon as those trays of free samples get unloaded onto the cart at Trader Joe's, you'd think they were offering tickets on the last shuttle off Krypton before its red sun explodes. Grown men and women pushing ahead of others to get a dixie cup-sized taste of a microwaveable veggie lasagna.
And any other day of the week they HATE VEGGIE LASAGNA.

So why do they even bother? Because free tastes good? Good enough to turn rational customers into the Lord of the Flies with shopping carts? But instead of a conch shell we get half a mouthful of pasta shells & cheese?

Which makes me Piggy I guess, my glasses thrown off my head by the rush of customers fighting their way to the front of the line before the last sample is gone. It's only a matter of time before they push me off the side of a cliff in order to get their hands on the spork in my hand.

My favorites are the "unsuspecting customers" who just happen to be browsing nearby and "Oh...oh my, well, I mean, sure, I GUESS I could try this sample. Normally I wouldn't even bother, but, well, I wouldn't want any to go to WASTE."

You're not fooling anyone. I saw you standing at 3:00 from the cart for the last five minutes, examining the same loaf of bread as if Jesus's image was baked into it--

--your eyeballs breaking over its horizon as you 'clandestinely' scoped out your target--the emergence from the microwave...of the turkey meatloaf. And yes, please, wave your kids over to try, because I know Little Jimmy has had a craving for a bite-sized portion of haricots verts since soccer practice let out.

We're a country that believes in two things: Something for nothing; No one has the right to tell me I can't be obese. To people who hold this creed the free sample is a red, white and blue firework being shot from a Revolutionary War-era cannon while a socialist runs underneath it's glow being chased by a pack of wild jackals.

"Give me Diabetes, or give me death, or...both, I guess."

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

Has Anyone Ever Told You That You Look Like....

Yes, you imperceptive bastard, YES THEY HAVE!

Unfortunately I left my 50 year old woman costume back home on Earth--

--so you see, I've looked as I do for quite some time now. So chances are, if someone as unimaginative and hackneyed as you think I remind you of a certain celebrity, chances are that SOMEONE HAS TOLD ME BEFORE.

You're not even using your head. You go for the obvious:
Tall and skinny and jewish.

Swooped back hair and big glasses.

Bearded and curly haired.

Wow. Look at you! Finding patterns quicker than John Nash after two Four Lokos and a high ball.
Don't fool yourself into thinking you're deciphering the Antikythera Mechanism by connecting who I remind you of.

I've heard it all before, sweetheart, so let's dig deeper into history next time and impress me.
You know who no one's ever told me I look like? Guy de Maupassant.

Did I even know what he looked like? No.
Do I think I even look like him? No.
But at least it would show me that you make an intelligent effort to not be so obvious. And you actually know who Guy de Maupassant is, so I'd easily forgive your myopia.

Actually, now that I think about it, if I just grew out my mustache a bit.....

Friday, November 19, 2010

Peep Show

Everyone's complaining about these new TSA body scanner at the airport. They say that its too invasive and gives people a nude view.

Good! Why do you think I do all those sit-ups? Let SOMEONE enjoy this body.
The most action I've seen all year is the vigorous pat-down by the security agent after they mistook my spare iPod charger for a 5.45mm Russian semi-automatic Kalashnikov.

And bless you dear, for thinking anyone REALLY wants to see you nude. Security had to stop you twice because the fat at the bottom of your KFC bucket had congealed to over 3 ounces.

NO ONE is eager to look at that screen.

"They could leak out onto the internet," they say. I know there's a fetish for everything...

...but people are done idolizing the Venus of Willendorf. Those images are about as sexually arousing as an 8mm scat-themed snuff film starring Benny Hill.

There's one way to make people happy about this. Just have the image skewed so everyone looks 15 pounds thinner.
People would be LINING UP to get through security.

Oh...Nevermind then...

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

All Together Now

Great concert.

Good tunes.

But who the fuck are all these yokels singing?

I paid 145 bucks to hear YOU sing, Bono.

Not 10,000 drunken idiots who think "to really experience the Joshua Tree album, you need to hear it AT Joshua Tree, mannnnn."

So can you please stop inviting a stadium of tone deaf, grunting morlocks to "sing it now!"

It's bad enough I've got some high school kid on a date making out with the fat goth girl he brought with him standing on my toes, but do I want to hear him screeching the lyrics to Mr. Brightside in my ear?

"My mom's waiting in the parking lot, so we gotta make this fast."

I don't see a dime out of this, so please don't ask me to do your job for you. Next time my invoices start to stack up, can I call you to take over for a few?

Not to mention the awkwardness of the people who DON'T know the lyrics, but still want to feel involved. Mumbling half-spoken words in Esperanto between stealthily chosen sips of beer between verses. It's bad enough I get stuck next to these people at red lights.

I don't think your Fiat has soundproof glass, dipshit. Line that clunker with some eggshell foam.

I didn't fake sick to leave work early, sit in traffic on the Turnkpike for 90 minutes, spend 30 bucks for a tshirt that after the concert will only be 10, and drink all this beer to see a god damn karaoke show.

You wrote the friggin' lyrics. YOU sing them. That's what you're paid for. No union 15's, man.

Get off your ass and sing the fucking song.

Yes, please...


Monday, November 8, 2010

Wouldn't you, or Couldn't you?

I love when I hear someone say or write "I couldn't have said it better myself."
I find it's one of the few times that the dying embers that power the cold icy planet that was once my heart stirs with heat (save for AT-AT blaster fire on its surface).

No, you couldn't have said it better yourself.
Because you're a fucking retard.

And the person who said THAT, whatever that is, they are smarter than you. So why would anyone expect you to say anything better than them?
Other than these words: Would you like fries with that?

Posting a link to a caustic political/social commentator's well-crafted tirade and saying "I couldn't have said it better myself"above it as your way of inviting yourself into the conversation doesn't make us think you're as smart as the person saying it.
Plus the video's been removed from this site for copyright infringement.
Can't you at least get the link you're pretending to be associated with correct?
Intelligence doesn't travel through osmosis, sweetheart. It also doesn't travel vicariously through that Haagen Daz butter pecan ice cream either, so you can probably stop shoveling that into your mouth while you're at it.
I'd take the spoon away from you, but I fear you might mistake my hand for a cutlet and go Donner Party on me.

Shakespeare sums up the perils that come with the responsibility of great power in Henry IV with his line "uneasy lies the head that wears the crown."

You know what, I can't say that any better. I just can't. Will never happen.
Because he's William fucking Shakespeare. And I'm not.

But I'm okay with that. Because at least I'm not you.

Monday, October 18, 2010

Well, here's a new way to waste time...


Friday, September 24, 2010

So here's the problem...

Okay, well, I've been lazy, I've been busy, and I've been stressed out.
Spewing vitriolic musings can drain a man.
I wish I could be updating this as often as I have been in the past, and maybe I can again still at some point (I know all 8 of you are excited to hear that).
But for now...it's time for me to take the plunge and start ranting and raving in a much shorter, twitted form.
I will hopefully be able to update this much more often and share my hate on a regular basis.
So you can start following me, you know...if you want, at or @ or however the hell it is "ianisweinin"

Thursday, September 9, 2010

Book 'em Dano

Ohhhh, excuse me from TEARING you away from that enrapturing tome you hold between your palms??

All I politely asked was "What are you reading?"


If I had asked "Excuse me, what is the douchiest way you can show me what you're reading?" and you responded in kind by staring up menacingly over the upper-binding of your 8th grade summer reading list idea of "young and intellectual" (we all read Of Mice and Men when we were 14, buddy, congrats. Maybe my little sister can help you with a five-paragraph essay on it ) and show me the God Damn BOOK COVER as your answer, then yes, you'd be correct.

"Let's talk 'thesis statement', please."

I asked what you were reading, asshole. If I wanted to read right now, I would be the one not working at 3pm b/c my failed audition ran late and could spend all day with a book.

It's a direct question. Has the miasma of your just sheer, powerful hipness glued your mouth up so tight that you don't have the fucking ability to say the words "Something Something by Dan Brown-rip off"?

Don't flash me the cover. Just tell me the fucking title. I know--IT'S SO TAXING.

This isn't the fucking Library of Alexandria, okay? And you're drinking coffee with whip cream on top. Get over yourself.

If you didn't want someone to ask you about it then you shouldn't be sitting in the faux-intellectual/douche section at Starbucks with your SCARF ON INDOORS---

--and charcoal banana republic sweater hanging loose past the fingerless gloves you picked up off a delinquent cockney child from Edwardian England.


Tuesday, July 27, 2010

Sign Language

First of all....Not impressed, buddy.
You know how tough it is to ride a bicycle? Ask my 5-year old cousin; we just took her training wheels off last weekend.

You want to impress me. Ride this down San Vicente.

And cut the shit. Don't shake your head at me you pretentious sonofabitch. I see your helmet bobbing back and forth in condescension as I try to pass you. Ride near the curb, not the middle of the road.

I don't need to be 20 minutes late to dinner just because you want to pretend you're athletic in that spandex suit you bought. You know what? I've ridden a bike too. And I did it in regular clothes. Do me a favor, Boy Wonder, hug the sidewalk and leave the tights at home.

Or so help me God I'll run you right off this road like you were Brand Walsh.

"I want my bike! I want my bike!"

Also, do you think we know what those signs mean?

Are you telling me you want to make a right turn? Then why is your left hand still out? I know it's not complicated but I haven't had my morning coffee or a refresher course on bike etiquette since third grade.

The only people who know what those hand signals actually mean are other bicyclists.

And the back-up dancers from the Vogue video.