No Mr. Connery, that's "Therapists," not "The Rapists"

My internets isn't as connected as I'd like it to be these days, so the only access to the world wide webs is when I steal some precious, precious bandwith, or wander into an Uptown coffee shop for as long as I can stomach the patchouli stank, therefore I'm forced to truncate a few entries into one, so here goes:

"The Game Show"
I always used to tell people that I'd simply just win the lottery when they asked what I do for money if I were to pursue a career in the arts (Which is a question I get less and less the closer I stagger to thirty, because...I guess I'm doing what I'll do for money) Of course, winning the lottery was never really the plan, merely a flight of fancy on par with what I would do with the power of invisibility*. No, the REAL plan was to win all the money on a game show.

Which is why I sat in a three-hour line at Mystic Lake Casino for Netflix and Who Wants to be A Millionaire's special Movie Week! I felt like I was an American Idol audition, but replace "singing ability" with "goofy looking bastard-ness."

We were hauled into a room where we were given two tests, the general knowledge test and the movie knowledge test. The MC then delivered the most specific and detailed instructions on how to handle a Scantron test I've ever heard, and in one case, helped someone spell their name. My confidence soared, as I knew how to do all of this, and have only misspelled my name once in my life*.

The tests themselves struck me as easy, especially the movie one. Finally, wasting my life would pay off. The general knowledge test went better than I thought as well, and any questions I didn't know, I would talk it over with Meredith Vieria in my head. Afterwards, a gentlemen beside me consulted his Iphone for all the questions we were unsure of, and I was pleased to see I had guessed about 85% of them correctly.

Then, the list of those who passed was presented, and my number was not among them. I'm not smart enough for Who Wants to Be A Millionaire.

The noose was about five knots deep when it was brought to my attention that it's never revealed what the producer's criteria is, however, when the end-product is a million dollars, who would you want sitting in the chair? The one that got all the test answers right, or the one who thought Megatron was the bad guy in The Godfather?

Alas, my never being wrong has screwed me again.

"The Book"
I recently finished I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell by self-proclaimed genius Tucker Max. I’ll let the back-flap of the book tell you what the pages within contain:

My name is Tucker Max., and I am an asshole. I get excessively drunk at inappropriate times, disregard social norms, indulge every whim, ignore the consequences of my actions, mock idiots and posers, sleep with more women then is safe or reasonable, and just generally act like a dickhead. But, I do contribute to humanity in one very important way: I share my adventures with the world.

I hate this douchebag. I want to punch him directly in his much beloved dick. Here are a few of my reactions to a book I truly hated, yet didn’t, or couldn’t stop reading:

1. I realize that hating a writer whose intention is to be hated is falling right into his hands, but I hate him for different reasons. When a personality has such a vulgar persona, it’s usually an act. That’s the routine, the show. I realize that. Yet there’s many that don’t. He’s playing to the lowest common denominator, and those little frat fucks are gonna’ worship the dude who bangs a fat chick on a bet, and then throws her clothes out the window so she’ll leave, or upon hearing the news that he impregnated a girl who at the same was diagnosed with ovarian cancer, he had to “fuck it out” with the girl he had in the next room, while the pregnant girl cried in his living room.

2. He’s a liar. It’s human nature to deny one’s true state. If we’re hurt, we act like we’re not. If we’re an alcoholic, we vehemently deny it. So anybody that claims to be something is either a liar, or has some other agenda to tend to. A person can’t claim themselves to be creative, that’s just going out of their way to let you know they think they’re clever. When a girl says she’s complex, she’s not complex, she just wants an excuse to be a C-word. And when a guy in a bar tells hundreds of stories about how awesome he is, because of how drunk he got, or who or what he laid, or how he put some “poser” in their place, he’s really an insecure twat keeping a running tallying of how people out there like him, while at the same time being the only person who truly doesn’t like him.

3. This blog turned book, which has itself become a new bullshit phrase called “blook,” cements my theory that assholes rule the world. Not because of his exploits, but because of his exploitation of his exploits. This is some spoiled brat, who was bored by law school, and decided he had a calling in becoming a terrible writer. Now, his bullshit stories are being idolized by the drunken masses, and he got a movie deal, and he never has to worry about money again.

For all my problems with the book, I still bought it, and I still read it, so the asshole wins. I’m kinda’ worried about the influence this book will have on me, so before I go make a fat girl cry, and then use her tears as lube so I can nail her until she pukes, then rub her face in it, and somehow make her apologize to me, I decided to read something a little less hyper-misogynistic and/or depressing.

Then, in the first five pages of my next book, the girl is raped, murdered and dismembered. This is the fuel I’m putting into my brain tank.

”The Tribute”
Summer of 2008 has not been kind to comedy. Harvey Korman. George Carlin. Bernie Mac. And though, not as widely known as all those, Minnesota has suffered its own loss in that of Joe Kudla aka Snot.

Puke and Snot are a comedy team that began their little vaudeville act at the Minnesota Renaissance Festival, and have become a stable of that festival ever since. Theirs was the first comedy routine that I memorized, from the lines, to the delivery, to the supposed flub that causes both actors to break into “unscripted” laughter. These guys were pros, Puke, the more suave of the two making him the mentor, and Snot, the funnier, sloppier, cruder protege.

I would also run into Snot, this time as Joe pretty regularly at Shaws Bar and Grill on the religion that was Wednesday night karaoke. Joe performed two songs, and two songs only: “To all the Women I’ve Loved Before” and Bob Marley’s “Is This Love?”

I never spoke to him, save for the occasional raise of the glass after one of our American Idol worthy performances, and in a sense I regretted it, but I always regarded it as any other celebrity encounter, even though outside of the small faction of Ren Fest attendee’s in this or some other state, he was just another guy, and I looked on it as a pleasure to receive a rare performance outside of the pirate stage.

And despite not knowing him aside from his work, I feel as though that work warrants a raise of the glass, and an acknowledgment that the Ren Fest, Minneapolis, and the world itself, just got a little less funny.

So, thanks for the laughs Joe, on and off the stage. And sorry I keep calling you Snot when your name is Joe.

*I know a lot of people say locker-room, but there are a lot of fat people at the gym. Really, I think I'd use it to spy on other people and prove that I'm not paranoid, cause they ARE plotting against me.
** YOU try filling out all those forms when you were working at the Carlson school not getting mixed up!