Thursday, January 28, 2010

The Planeteers Are Kind of Dicks

First off...why just Captain?

Was there no higher-ranking officer of Gaia's ranks to take on this mission?
Damn, that Thing-ripoff that had no pants and spoke like it had a stroke from Ninja Turtles was at least a General.

Does anyone else feel sorry for Captain Planet? He's basically a prisoner, summoned to reality ONLY when the Planeteers combine their powers.

Well, okay, but...where is he the rest of the time?
Some may argue that he lives a similar life to that of a genie in a bottle. One may imagine that then when he's not saving the planet, he gets to relax in a plush, Playboy-esque room of velvet, velour, satin, and lava lamps.

But what if we're wrong. What if he has to wait out the call in some S&M torture chamber out of some Clive Barker novel where the Captain is forced to find pleasure through hellish pain and subject himself to the whim of the nanonbites?

So while Wheeler is putting his best moves on that blond chick in the daisy duke hiking shorts (the sexual tension between those two is ELECTRIFYING!!!) poor Captain Planet is stuck reenacting the ship's log footage from Event Horizon.

Lastly, this show is bigoted, racist, and an example of first-world hegemonic superiority.
Not only are Earth, Wind, Fire, and Water a kickass disco band...

But they are some kickass elements to have control over. Superhuman even!
So of course Ma-Ti, the "latino hybrid character" who trawled through a river of mud and shit in the middle of the night, pursued by Border Troopers, getting separated from his family in the process gets....heart?

What the hell does that even mean? Oh, he gets to communicate with animals? Well, I never see him communicating with cool animals. Like a fucking cougar or bear.

It's always like a badger or squirrel. This poor sonofabitch probably has had to get so many rabies shots from being in close contact with diseased forest vermin for so long.

So while all the other "hip" Planeteers get to basically control weather and literally move mountains, they stick the foreigner with some esoteric, meaningless bullshit power.

Plus they make him do their landscaping as well.

If I were Ma-Ti, I'd just go straight back to the Home Depot parking lot, and wait for a better opportunity.

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

Keys to the Kingdom

If there's one thing I hate more than waiting in a line of absent-minded obese women ordering diet caramel whip cream dairy-based coffee beverages at Starbucks....

It's waiting in that line when I have to go to the bathroom, and there's a fucking flea-infested hobo in there bathing themselves in the toilet water.

If they beat me in there I know it's going to be a twenty minute wait, and when they finally do come out, that poorly-ventilated room looks and smells like an abattoir that was used as the basis of contempt for Sinclair's The Jungle.

You know what I love?
The smell of danishes and frsehly brewed coffee (or in Starbucks' case coffee burnt worse than a meth-addict short-order cook.)

You know what I hate?
The smell of bum piss spilt over the toilet seat, floor, and something in the sink that looks like a mixture of dirt, semen, and that one-eyed dumpster alien from Star Wars.

So I was thankful that Starbucks is now making the effort to add coded locks on their doors to keep out the riff raff.

Though...now where the hell do I go when I have to take a leak?

Shit! Starbucks...you bastards. I feel super-guilty now to just wander in to a random Starbucks to use the bathroom if I really have to go. Before it was my go-to place for random bathroom use, now I've been reduced to feeling like a fucking transient that has to leave his self-respect at the door and act like some god damn secret agent, typing in codes, faking perusing the menu, sneaking past Baristas.

The only thing worse than this is the Starbucks on Wilshire by the Grove which DOESN'T HAVE A BATHROOM!!

I've only been sitting here for two hours drinking coffee, lattes, and eating high-fiber muffins, I'm sure it comes as a fucking Brainteaser to you...

"Braingames is now.......oveeerr"

...that I now have to purge myself worse than the back-pressured pipes under the Sports Club in Goonies.

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

Potent Quotables for 800, please.

Oh, I didn't realize your email about your opinion on the Coachella line-up was the epigraph to an important work of fiction?

Oh, it's not? Then why did you add a quotation beneath your signature at the bottom?

Oh, because you're a pretentious jackass?

Ohhhhhhh. Okay.

Now, we all know I never finished my thesis for Dr. Jones' PhD program in Medieval literature...

"Let my armies be the rocks, and the trees, and the birds in the sky."
-Charlemagne


But I know you didn't either.

So do you think by adding some esoteric piece of wit you Bogarted off the cover of a 365-Quotes A Year desk calendar under your name is going to make people forget you're a fucking ritard.

Quotes are good for two things:

1-My court-appointed attorney to use sparingly in his closing arguments during my trial for kidnapp--er, romancing Marion Cotillard with rope and gag in the trunk of my car.
2- The epithet on your tombstone--one I hope is erected in the very, very near future.


-Ian Weinreich

"Insert ironic quote that I hope will
impress upon you how mature and
intellectual I can be here."

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

La Perfumerie

Listen Old Ladies,

An elevator is not much more than a small mausoleum. Except instead of seeing Lenin's body in repose, I have to listen to some asshole on his bluetooth shouting about how bad his fantasy football team is going to his fantasy friend on the other line.

But like a mausoluem, an elevator has no ventilation.

Nowhere for that acidic, putrid formaldehyde you call perfume to filter through other than my big, Jewish nostrils.

Perfume is supposed to be splashed on, not splashed IN.

Let's face it: You're ancient.

I understand that the odor of your desiccating organs and epidermal system wafts off your wrinkled, dry flesh like Metamucil powder caught in a strong wind...

And that you think bathing in perfume like it was gasoline and you're a protesting Buddhist monk with a penchant for self-immolation hides the Grim Reaper on your shoulder...

But it doesn't. Perfume is like my high school stalker Lawanda...

It leaves a trail behind you no matter how fast you run to the Paramus Municpal Court to file a restraining order.

This means that even after you leave the elevator, your stench does not.

I'm still smelling dead ovaries and osteoporosis mixed with Chinatown Chanel-knockoff an hour after you've traveled up to see the "girls" for your Mahjong tournament and to be served by "that colored girl" who you suspect steals money from your jacket in the coat closet.
"I don't care if Rochester can hear me, Eliza; All I know is someone or some thing has been pilfering food out of the trash heap by the stables and I can assure you 'twas not I."

A potpourri this does not make...