I’ve been thinking here for awhile about what I could possibly write about.

Royal Weddings?  Timely, but I don’t understand this phenomenon anymore than you likely do (unless your Prince William, in which case I’d like to thank you for reading this, I’m flattered). I don’t really feel like going on a rant whose punchline is “wot is all this british nonsense?” Last time I did some asshole named Colonel Mustard murdered me in the library with a tea biscuit.   I can’t relive that.

There’s a whole lot of local sports happening at the moment, which is enhancing my sense of civic pride and unity with my fellow city dwellers (actually I don’t live in the city… I just hang out there. Whatever…). From the strange bicyclists riding by on their strange bicycles to the impatient dog honking the horn of the parked truck, sports make me feel closer to any guy, Tommy, Ian or Bobby, who walks by wearing the exact same shirt that I wear because the guy on the TV wears that shirt!

Success in the local sports can virtually guarantee high fives everywhere given the right look. Let this be your fashion guide as of 4/28/2011, with each look measured in high fives you could expect to receive in a night (On a scale of 1-5 high fives).

In the presence of those wearing Celtics/Bruins stuff, but not wearing it yourself: 1 Highfive (by association)

Celtics/Bruins Shirt: 2 Highfives (perhaps you prefer sleeves and cotton to jersey mesh, but it looks like you’ve just done the bare minimum.)

Celtics/Bruins Jersey: 3 Highfives (appreciated but commonplace.)

Celtics/Bruins Shirt/Jersey + Face paint (or dressing as green man): 4 Highfives (face paint shows the extra effort and that you’re eccentric in either a ‘I like to party’ or ‘I don’t like to drink but I still enjoy attention’ type of way.)

Celtics/Bruins themed Torso cover + Being a fat kid + basketball shaped hat + enthusiasm: 5 Highfives, a guaranteed place on any jumbotron, bountiful amounts of self worth, and a frankly undeserved potential lifetime of virginhood.

Additionally if you’re wearing a Celtics Jersey (3 Highfives) and run into a gal wearing facepaint and a Bruins Jersey (4 highfives) thats 7 total high fives! Double Bonus!

Any two 5 highfive deservers running into each other results in any neutral observer (or out of towner) concluding that they dwell among maniacs and cannot wait to tell everyone in their hometowns of Puyallup, Murfreesboro, and Mattoon about municipal overrowdiness.

Anything red soxy won’t be appreciated fully for another month.

Alright, that’s a lot and that’s my post.  If you’re still reading this, Prince William, mail me a corgi.

I’m totally that asshole pedestrian who’s not looking, in the crosswalk. The thing is, I am looking. And I keep walking. If there’s a crosswalk, that is. In a crosswalk with no traffic signal, pedestrian has the right of way, always. (I should get that on a t-shirt).

If there isn’t a signal, then yes, it’s j-walking. And there IS a small fine. However, the j-walking law isn’t enforced as much as, for example, the running-people-over law. So, Darwin’s a great guy, but any Arkansas judge will tell you, the law doesn’t care for him.

Back to the crosswalk: I make eye contact, so that I know the driver sees me, and keep walking. If they don’t slow down, and I just stare them down. They always stop, because waiting 3 seconds in their air conditioned rolling box is always better than hitting someone. This is especially true when it’s raining or snowing out, because if they hit me, they’d probably need to step out of their car. Ugh.

Occasionally, they’ll beep. One guy actually revved his motor, as though he was going to run me over if I didn’t hustle. In a burst of frustration, I kicked his bumper and gave him the finger. I immediately regretted it, fearing he would get out of his car, and kick me back. To my relief he just sat there angry, and drove off.

I mean, that’s what bumpers are for right? Getting kicked and such. I never understand when someone is upset about a scuff on their bumper, or a scratch on their iPhone case etc. It’s like buying a new soccer ball, only to avoid kicking it.

To the driver (usually a woman, never a cab) who forces me to hesitate, break stride, and have an awkward interaction with them over who is going to let the other one go. It may not seem this way because you see me wearing my iPod and mouthing words, but I have timed my steps to allow enough time for you to drive through the intersection without hitting me or changing speed. I am ready to walk right after you go by. Quit stopping and forcing me to be the asshole pedestrian. I don’t care who has the right of way, you ar ein a car, if we decided to let darwin decide who had the right of way, you would. So just drive. It is dangerous to stop short. What’s worse, it aggravates me. So just trust me. Drive through and let me walk behind the car. I’m not every other dick head pedestrian who isn’t looking. And if I was, and you hit me, then guess what. I deserved it for not paying attention.

To the guy at the convenience store that shames me into paying in cash. First off, I am paying you for a garbage granola bar and an arizona iced tea, not $100 of groceries. Apparently, your reasoning is that the credit people take a buck or some percentage of every card transaction. I come in to your  convenience store  trying to use one of the most convient things in society to pay for my food and you want me to go to the ATM, take the 2$ service charge (more than my shitty snack costs, by the way) to save you 35 cents. I hand you my card every goddamn day and you say “You pay cash?” I HAND YOU A CARD EVERY DAY! Do you think I’m just trying to fuck with you? I don’t carry cash you dick. Stop harassing me and give me my beverage and let me get on with my life. Is the 35 cents a day worth it to you? Because now I could walk in with exact change every day and you wouldn’t see a damn think but my plastic middle finger in the form of a credit card.

Urinal Flow Chart

To the guy who pees in the middle urinal when there are three. I’ve included the chart on the left to help you idiots. It really isn’t that hard. Here is a simple rule to live by: Don’t show random dudes your member. If we all had a bit more shame we would be a lot better off in the men’s room. This is not about anything gay or anti-gay. It is about you making everyone uncomfortable for no reason. Why would you urinate within a foot of someone? Why, given the choice, wouldn’t you try the urinal with the 4 foot buffer zone? Of course this could all be solved by every men’s room in the world having urinal dividers, but that would be too simple. Why spend the extra $40 as a business to make your male urinators comfortable? I’ll tell you why, because women don’t get it. they have two things that make them not care. First one is their “I don’t have to deal with it” attitude towards life. My Mother used to evoke this clause when she was eating a different dinner than us to stay healthy. I’m not going to see the benefits or the shortcomings so what is the difference to me. Second issue, they can’t relate! They get their own stalls in there. Sure there are 3 less toilets, but its a luxury model restroom. I wouldn’t be surprised if they had recliners in there.

Not quite its own person, but this theory applies on an empty T too. It is the same type of person who would pee next to you.

To the sober guy who is so excited to be sober he ends up being a huge asshole and/or cock block. It should be noted that I am frequently the sober guy. I am a big fella and it takes a bit to get me going, so lots of times I’d just rather have a few and save some money. However, this does not transform me into the colossal dick who decided that he is better than you because he politely abstained from having a few adult sodas. You aren’t partaking for one of a few reasons. A. you’re an addict. Great for you saying now, not great for everyone in the bar who now has to be alerted not to leave a drink unattended within 10 meters of you otherwise we are the asshole who set you back from 10 hours sobriety. B. you are driving. It is always admirable when a buddy is willing to take one for the team for everyone to be safe. But your job is not just to drive your buddies home, its to drive anyone home. What? Your friend has found an interesting mate at the bar and they want to head out early to her place? Tough break buddy, now you are driving there too. You signed up for this. Jesus created taxis for this reason. or C. you have no real reason. This is usually masked as “I have to work in the morning”. I’ve got news for you. Anyone who drops that line is going to be a deadbeat wingman or wingwoman. They are there to make you miserable, and God forbid you talk to anyone else but them, because they don’t want to make any friends. Just drop them off at work 11 hours early so you can do some work of your own.

To the people who aren’t reading The ManShark. What’s you’re deal? Everyone knows the internet was made by Al Gore to waste time. Nothing is a bigger waste of your time than reading and listening to us wax poetic about nothing in particular. Forward it to a friend, will ya? Whatever you do, keep feeding that ManShark.

The iTunes link here. You can always listen by clicking here.

I can get behind the internet streaming of live events. Screw cable.

I can get behind a full on beat down of terrible things.

I can get behind sweatpants… and into them.

I can get behind zombies.

I can get behind people who aren’t embarrassed when someone waves to them, then they wave back, only to find out that they were waving to someone behind them.

I can get behind people using that as an excuse to talk to the opposite gender.

I can get behind Catan.

I can get behind your Mom (eyo!).

I can get behind audiobooks. Reading with your eyes closed (and napping together as one).

I can get behind all sorts of innuendo. These are deep thoughts, and hard thoughts.

I can get behind Nintendo. They may not have the graphics. But since when do people care? It isn’t like they still roll 8 bit. It’s about gameplay. And they still have Zelda.

I can get behind alfredo sauce… in fact, I just did.

I can get behind the playing of indie music at bars. Who needs more Ke$ha? Give me The Strokes.

I can get behind gambling. How else would we care about American Idol?

I can get behind not sleeping. I mean really? You’ll get by with 5 hours. Quit bitching.

I can get behind fun ideas that aren’t fun.  Who’s to say what is fun and not fun? One man’s acceptance is another man’s anal…. no wait, that came out wrong (refer to #11).

I can get behind feeding this ManShark about once a week.

Which brings me to the whole point of this. Accents and regional language. Lets be honest, every time you hear something from where you are from you think whoever said it is wicked normal. And when you hear something foreign its hella homo. Apparently the backwards people who aren’t where I am from (or when I’m from, but we will get to that later) feel the same way and consider me wicked retahated.

Let’s take a quick look at regional words. This is a running list, if you have something to add then by all means leave a comment.

Hella (California), Wicked (New England), Bloody (Old England), Don-cha-kno (Minnesota*), Eh (Canada), Y’all (South), Howdy (Texas), Epic Fail (Douche bags)

*This is what I could best gather from a combination of Miracle, Brock Lesnar, and Bobby’s World.

Hipster Douche

Unfortunately the terribleness of the Newly Bastardized English Dictionary (someone get Webster on the phone!) doesn’t stop there. Some things are so epicly turrible (Thanks Chuck *wink*) that they somehow permeate all regions and dialects. We must stop all of this immediately. Somehow underground hipster culture has become the new fad. Every italic word here should never be uttered again unless, you know, you have to communicate with one of them (so yeah, never).

In fact, screw it. Lets take back the mainstream. Don’t let the regional hipster doufus du jour ruin our lexicon. Now that we, the intel, have become the minority. Those who refuse to dub the latest viral video with the terms “sooo epic”, “def rando”, and “super legit” can now be pushed aside for those who would simply send a link (not forward an email, this isn’t 1998) to a friend saying “watch this, it’s funny because the dog eats shit at the end.” isn’t it time for the tables to turn? The world and culture is cyclical. Just wait ’til we are all wearing those auto drying coats with malfunctioning sleeves like in Back To The Future in 4 years. 80′s style in a modern world.

Anyway, I am aware I have terrible grammar, and worse spelling. I do not consider myself a Grammar Nazi. I would be overjoyed to consider myself a new age vocabulary revolutionary. So let’s go with that for now. Until the next time I stick my hard and deep thoughts into your brain (hah, yeah), keep feeding that ManShark. We must all keep him alive.

This is a promotion of public safety awareness for the industry’s equipment. Everyone is invited to make this special week a huge success in cities throughout the U.S. and Canada. Safety Week provides a focal point for the industry, on a local and national level, to join together as individuals, companies and organizations and spread the word about public safety in the elevator industry. At the same time, Safety Week is an opportunity to celebrate the contributions made by the industry to the quality of life. Volunteers reach millions of riders with important safety messages in many locations during this celebration. - Elevator Escalator Safety Foundation (founded 1991)

Personally, I made this year’s Nat Double-E Safetay Week (as we say in certain circles) a huge success, by volunteering at my local subway station, with the aid -of course- of my $350 Safety Week Kit (What a steal! These are still available!). I set up camp at the bottom of the escalator, and spread the good word to my fellow Boston T Riders! It felt great to reach out to my community, knowing I was joining together with individuals everywhere, doing our part to spread escalator and elevator safety across this great nation, and parts of Canada.

$350 Safety Week Kit: Planning Guide, a table cloth customized with the EESF Safety Week logo, an EESF display banner, 2 Safe-T Rider DVDs, 5 Safe-T Rider posters, 500 Safe-T Rider Activity Books and 500 Safe-T Rider stickers. (EESF.org)

However, Kinko’s refused to sponsor the cause, charging me in full for my custom ‘Safe-T ‘ emergency flow charts (still available). Some people just can’t get into the true spirit of Escalator & Elevator Safety. And that troubles me on a deep patriotic level.

If it were up to me, every week would be National Elevator Escalator Safety Awareness Week. Instead, the national calendar focuses on trivial pursuits. African American’s get the whole month of February, for history! And Flag Day?! That’s an inanimate object! I think, as a nation, we need to step back and re-prioritize our national days of respect. Maybe even do some calendar re-arrangements.

The nation’s safety is at stake, and the Elevator Escalator Safety Foundation has to share its single week with Veteran’s day! They already have monuments! I think I speak for the entire EESF when I say, get your own day, Veterans! It’s just one stupid day. I’m sure you can squeeze it in somewhere else. In the meantime, the EESF is trying to make the nation safer. Maybe you should stop shining your purple hearts, and help!

I’m proposing year-round Elevator Escalator Safety Awareness. “According to industry experts, elevators and escalators are the safest form of transportation in the world,” reports Ashley H. Rains, EESF Public Relations director, in her 5 page article, Riding Elevators and Escalators Safely. Yet injuries still occur! People simply are not aware of the danger. Just yesterday, my right shoe lace came lose on an escalator and crept uncomfortably close to the end of the stairwell. Fortunately, I had the quick wit to slip my foot out before the event-horizon, and I abandoned the shoe altogether.

That is the readiness the American public needs to adopt. Why? Let me drop some data on you:

• Fact: Dozens of Americans deal with elevator/escalator related injuries or sickness on a monthly basis.
• Fact: In case of fire, use stairs.
• Fact: Elevators and Escalators are on the rise.

The threat is real. The solution is simple. Write to your local congressmen, make them aware of this important issue’s prominence, and ask them to promote year round safety awareness initiatives.

Ride safely.

And remember: when approaching a closing elevator door, leave it alone. Wait for the next one. If you’re on an elevator with violators of this rule, calmly step off, and report them to the EESF.

He’s got a little bounty hunter in him.
(Picture by Justin)

Here’s another RT; Acronyms are like babies. Just because it’s possible to create one, doesn’t necessarily mean you should.

The acronym feature of our language is abused. Many people assign acronyms willy-nilly (WN) just to create a heightened level of officialness (HLO), like they paid a registration fee, and filled out the necessary paperwork with the Acronym Registry (AR). These people just tack an acronym onto any old thing (AOT), as if we’re all taking notes. But we’re not. If I threw TICGB at you, right now, would you remember what it stands for?

It’s okay. It was a UA anyway.

Hollywood is a repeat offender of acronym abuse. A particularly unforgivable incident was The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, a movie Sean Connery would like to forget, but the worst part is the acronym designated to it: LXG. Does the title of a movie need an acronym? Ever? Maybe if you’re talking about the movie with your friends in the theatre parking lot, but not in the movie. The title screen makes one appearance, at the beginning. The audience can endure the heavy reading.

Kitchy acronyms that spell out words aren’t off the hook either: acronyms like YES, NOW, and STARS. Call these Vanity Acronyms (VA’s). Remember ‘DARE to keep kids off drugs?’ Of course you remember (unless you’re on drugs). Remember what DARE stands for? Neither do I (Drugs Are Really… Exhausting?). VA’s are often backward engineered acronyms. That is, the acronym was created before the words it represents were chosen. Backward Engineered Acronyms (BEA’s) are abominations against the very thing acronyms stand for: words.

I get it. We’re lazy and acronyms make writing easier. But acronyms aren’t for making writing easier. They’re for making reading easier. Acronym abuse befuddles that purpose, and actually makes reading harder. And it’s obnoxious.

Fact: An unnecessary acronym is born every 3 minutes.

I can’t get behind that kind of wasteful acronym production, when there are only 26 letters. Pretty soon, every combination will be taken. Conserve your acronyms. Let’s make it an RT.

-
Related reading:
Uncyclopedia: International Association For Important Unnecessary Acronyms (IAIUA)

Rounding out the number 70 spot on botd.wordpress.com‘s growing blogs of the day, The Man Shark! Right under Wilfred Mworia. Not bad, but we can do not badder.

Watch it, Milfred. There’s man shark in these waters.

I can’t get behind spike ball hair dues. Since when does this look good? Did I miss a vote, or is everyone drunk?

I can’t get behind taking the bus to the gym.

I can’t get behind password “quality.” I’ll decide whether my password works, not homogenize it to fit an arbitrary standard, making it easier to guess.

I can’t get behind wearing a watch. Really, there’s hardly a need to wear a watch, these days. There’s a clock on everything.

I can’t get behind regional professional sports fanaticism. A little enthusiasm is fine, but it’s not like the players are actually from your local region. It’s just printed on their uniforms.

I can’t get behind poor, impromptu photographs of prominent landmarks. It’s been photographed already, by professionals. The world doesn’t need your blurry, tour bus drive-by, version with a huge lens flare from the flash reflecting off the window. Enjoy the view. Google it when you get home.

I can’t get behind a movie trailer that starts with “from the director of Spy Kids.”

I can’t get behind chemotherapy for pets.

I can’t get behind more than one shower per day, tops. You’re not that dirty.

I can’t get behind the Bravo television network, and its multitude of reality shows about any old thing. Midgets? It’s a show. So you wear clothes? It’s a show. People living in a town? It’s a show.

I can’t get behind forensic science television shows. There’s about fifty of them, most of which are as predictable as Scooby Doo (Hint: It’s always the first person they meet, or the sleazeball nobody likes), and Discovery channel’s The New Detectives is all you need, for your dose of real forensic science stories.

I can’t get behind bags of Tostitos labeled, “20% MORE FREE FUN.” Air is already free.

I can’t get behind a beverage with the selling point “drinkability.” Edible is a requirement, not “the difference.”

I can’t get behind the iPod Shuffle. What’s the point of an iPod missing all its functions (except shuffle)? iPods can already shuffle, plus more. If Apple made the iPod Loop, suckers would still buy it.

I can’t get behind overdraft fees. Bank: “You have no money. Let me help. Now you have even more no money.”

I can’t get behind credit ratings. Credit Rater: “You haven’t superfluously billed yourself thousands of dollars on credit, or lived beyond your means. You’re not financially responsible.” (Alright, there’s a little sense to this system. But it still bites.)

I can’t get behind gym membership. It’s like checking yourself into a laziness rehab clinic. But they don’t keep you there, and charge you anyway.

And that’s what I can’t get behind, at the moment. This list is ongoing.

Evolushark, a blue shark uniquely formed by the word “evolution”, is a science mascot specifically designed to discourage conservative Christians from trying to inject creationism into public school science curriculum. By intimidating their mascot Ichthys, Evolushark symbolically warns conservative Christians that attempts to impose their sectarian beliefs on America’s secular society face strong opposition.

That’s great for Evolushark, but they overlooked the Man Shark. While it’s true that sharks are evolutionarily perfect, the Man Shark is the natural selection for an evolution mascot. Even flying shark was considered. How did the Man Shark slip through the cracks? I suppose it just happens.

“I am not a demon. I am a lizard, a shark, a heat-seeking panther. I want to be Bob Denver on acid playing the accordion.”

– Nicolas Cage

Over 60 feature length films under his belt, and Cage has yet to play a lizard, shark, heat-seeking panther, or Bob Denver. Though, he did manage to play a demon.

Scientist, fireman, treasure hunter, carjacker, con artist, Con Air-ist: these are the roles we’ve seen Cage fill, but there’s a sneaking resemblance between his diverse characters.

His characters are consistently quirky, middle-aged men -often eccentric- with awkward dispositions, and precarious hairdos. Cage often must save the day via some kooky method, like solving riddles, forecasting the weather, or spontaneously setting his skull aflame.

Sometimes he’s saving the future. Sometimes he’s saving the past. Sometimes he doesn’t have side burns. Sometimes he has a mustache. Sometimes he’s John Travolta. And one time, he was actually played by Tom Hanks (The Davinci Code‘s screen play has Cage written all over it). But make no mistake, Nicolas Cage is a man of many vaguely similar faces.

For example, in his latest movie, “Knowing,” Cage can predict the future, using a sophisticated numerical code. Can he crack the code, and prevent the future’s disasters? No. Seeing as, he failed to prevent the production of “Knowing.”

Wait a minute. Didn’t Nicolas Cage already do the whole ‘foresight’ rigmarole? Yes. In 2007, Cage starred in “Next,” the story of a low profile Vegas magician who can predict the future.

But let’s give the man some credit. Overlap is bound to occur between one actor and his constant barrage of hit-and-miss films. Sixty-three films in twenty-eight years, and seven more slated for 2009-2010, to be exact. Many people will see fewer films, in 2009-2010, than Cage will star in. What won’t Cage do? The Coppola heir must have some integrity. Right?

far left: Speckles, the mole, voiced by Nicolas Cage

This summer, Cage stars in “G-Force” voicing Speckles, the mole on a team of trained guinea pigs dispatched to stop a diabolical billionaire bent on taking over the world with household appliances.

Really? Really. And there’s more.

This fall, Cage plays Dr. Tenma, in “Astro Boy,” an animated adventure about a robotic boy, searching for purpose. Think “Pinocchio” with rockets. Dr. Tenma is Astroboy’s Japedo figure.

At least he’s branching out. When it comes to faces, Nicolas Cage knows what counts: quantity not quality. His reckless ambition to fill every feasible, often similar, role will continue to entertain audiences

Cage said it best himself:

“Hollywood didn’t know if I was an actor or a nut or if I was this crazy character I was playing. I had developed an image of being a little bit unusual, different and wild.”

There it is, folks. Straight out of the horse’s mouth. Let the case rest. But here’s hoping for that heat-seaking panther flick.

Settle for something realistic: beer.

We’ve all thought about downing a beer in the morning. A filling and un-sobering breakfast. The perfect way to start the day. But try reaching for cold one, and all you’ll get is cold looks. “Beer for breakfast?!” someone exclaims. Yes, beer for breakfast. And get out of my house.

Children eat sugar pastries for breakfast, so why doesn’t beer make the cut?

Compare the hard numbers:Beer: 1
Poptart: 0

Beer, for the win, with less fat, sugar and sodium, and more percent daily value of carbohydrates! Hell, a real s’more might be better than its Poptart counter part.

And don’t worry about tainting the sanctity of breakfast. Cap’n Crunch throws a beer down the hatch every morning, to sterilize the cuts on the roof of his mouth. And then there’s that silly rabbit, who’s only pleasure in life is coercing innocent children into feeding his Trix addiction. Not to mention, he refuses to wear pants. But enough mascot slander.

Go for it. Crack open that cold brew. You may offend a few nay-sayers, who demand “three good reasons!” But stay cool. I got you covered. (WARNING: Science content ahead. Just read the bold lettering.)

1. Beer reduces heart risk. A 12 year study(’82-’96), conducted on 2,235 elderly found that drinking a beer and a half per day reduces the chance of heart failure 20 to 25%. If anyone asks, pretend you know what this means: alcohol induces high levels of high-density lipoprotein cholesterol, a protective form of blood fat. Alcohol also raises fibrinogen-protein, raising your platelet count, preventing the clotting and stickiness of blood cells. Way to go science!
2. Beer makes you smarter. Dr. Joe Christian made 4,000 male twins drink different amounts of beer, over 20 years, and then gave them mental skills tests. The brothers who drank one to two drinks a day scored higher on the tests than those who drank less than one drink a day or more than two drinks. Moderate drinking was deemed helpful in improving memory, problem solving and reasoning ability. Another point for science. Bonus for using twins.
3. Beer has nutrients. While you may not know the exact merits of magnesium, selenium, potassium, phosphorus, biotin, folate, vitamin B6 and vitamin B12, they are good for you, and beer delivers them. Drink to your health.

Of course, this doesn’t mean the food pyramid should be replaced with the beeramid, but consider beer before you go out for pancakes. Just because it’s cooked in a pan doesn’t make it less of a cake. Syrup won’t drown the truth  (an area beer excels in).

The "miracle" walking on water.

Did you ever see Back to the Future 2? That floating skateboard Marty had: it hovered just above the ground, by magnetism -or something. Jesus was like that. – Prof. Religious Studies, Jaime Vidaurrazaga, Emmanuel College

You heard it hear first, folks. Jesus time traveled from the future. He’s no messiah, just a schmuck trying to put one over on the ignorant people of yore.

Jesus walked on water with his hover board, from 2015. He used his advanced knowledge and technology to perform all those miracles. That’s how he predicted, and feigned, his own demise. And he didn’t resurrect. He escaped back to the future!

Women anticipate Valentine’s Day, because, for one day, they get to pretend men are thoughtful, appreciative, and romantic.

Men fear Valentine’s Day. All of sudden, for no particular reason, February 14th hits and it’s this special occasion to celebrate. None of us see it coming. We can hardly spell ‘February,’ let alone know what to do.

Man: Happy Valentine’s Day!

Women: You didn’t write anything in this card.

Man: Ah-ha. It unfolds.

What the hell is a Valentine, anyway? Someone cheated at Scrabble, and now it’s National Holiday (89 points on triple word score).

The whole month’s a little strange. With 28 days, it’s like the cripple-month the other months won’t play kick-ball with. And every few years, February pathetically leaps to catch up, only fall back behind. Give it up, February.

And by twisted luck, it’s Black History month. For one month professional institutions must prove to the public, “Yes. We love African-Americans, too!” All the television networks run those 1-minute Public Service Announcements, competing to cover the most George Washington Carver peanut inventions by the end of the month. When March rolls in, the loser is racist

This same good-natured, yet flawed concept behind Black History Month shares the same flaw as Valentine’s Day. No one needs, nor enjoys, being told to express his or her appreciation. So Hallmark, forget the $8 folded paper, and stick to your strength: mellodramatic made-for-television movies.

In conclusion, women are racist.

Time to get down to business. Time to find a comfortable place to sleep. There must be at least seven of us, dealing with the same issue. Scrambling to stake claims on couches, floor real estate, and coveted beds (invite only).

An open couch! It’s too good to be true. I make my way over, trying not to draw attention to myself. However, I am not alone. A challenger meets me at the couch. His intentions clear. We size up the situation in spaghetti-western stare down style.

“Rock-Paper-Scissors. Best of three.” he states, as though it were law.

The contender inside takes over, “One game. Winner takes all.” Deaf with blood thirst, he ignores my conditions and begins gesturing his fist in an up-and-down motion, beckoning my own to oppose it.

“Rock. Paper. Scissors.” Fists fall. Damage dealt. A mighty stone obliterates my scissors.

“Rock. Paper. Scissors.” a small, gathering, crowd chants in unison. This time he makes the mistake of playing a paper. Sticking to my guns, I play another pair of scissors, splitting his paper like Moses to the Red Sea.

The crowd howls in upset. And two warriors remain focused, locked in the timeless battle between Rock, Paper, and Scissors.

“Rock. Paper. Scissors.” Que slow motion. The fists begin their final descent. -This is for the win. The couch. The glory. At this moment, in a flash of tactical genius, I realize he opened with Rock, and any seasoned Rock-Paper-Scissors contender knows Rock is for rookies. He must think I’m going with a triple scissor game plan, so he’s going to fall back on his Rock. I know it- The fists thunderously crash to earth. Two meteorites with the destructive power to wipe out a species of flying sharks.

The smoke settles.

Just as I predicted! Rock. I unfold my triumphant scroll. “Victory” emblazons itself in shimmering, liquid-gold across my champion’s manuscript, while dark horsemen of defeat trample across my opponent’s face.

The crowd releases a final climactic roar before dispersing into the night. The lad accepts his defeat with sport, taking the floor beside the coveted couch as I accept my thrown. We talk into the night, fondly exchanging notes on the heated bout.

We learned something that night. Rock-Paper-Scissors is not merely a light hearted game of chance, but an explosive last resort resolution reserved for only the gravest disputes.

Breakthrough cloaking technology in action

However, the technology remains fundamentally flawed. Expect a follow up article listed under:

“DUKE UNIVERSITY SCIENTISTS LOSE CLOAKING DEVICE“
]]> http://themanshark.wordpress.com/2007/04/21/duke-university-scientists-create-cloaking-device/feed/ 2 B. Hop. http://themanshark.wordpress.com/2007/03/21/beards-and-mustaches-hairy-situation-or-growing-trend/ http://themanshark.wordpress.com/2007/03/21/beards-and-mustaches-hairy-situation-or-growing-trend/#comments Wed, 21 Mar 2007 10:02:00 +0000 Brien Hopkins http://brienhopkins.wordpress.com/2007/03/21/must-stache/ ]]> Whatever happened to the hearty businessman who wasn’t afraid to let his beard grow out? Guys like George Zimmer, of The Men’s Wearhouse. Zimmer’s success grew with his beard. When he asserts, “You’ll like the way you look,” he’s not talking about suits. Zimmer knows facial hair is still in, and you can take his word on that. He guarantees it.

Yet, men these days are urged to shave off their facial hair. A wave of trendy metrosexuals continues to leave beards and mustaches all washed up. In recent years, facial hair somehow found itself on the bad end of a disapproving glare from society, cast off as the uncivilized byproduct of neglect. Somehow this natural process got lumped into the same category as leaving the seat up; but we shouldn’t be ashamed of our facial hair, men. We should embrace the palette of expression God hath gifted upon our faces. Gentlemen, it’s time to let it grow.

The mustache is a deep-rooted art form, with origins dating back to a time when man first grew tired of nicking his upper lip. One of history’s most distinct mustaches, the Handle-Bar mustache, carries a commanding message into the room. This is the frown shaped mustache sported by professional wrestling’s Incredible Hulk Hogan, and the Starship Enterprise’s resident Klingong, Warf. It eloquently announces to society how its bearer feels: pissed. These men are in a constant state of aggravation because the biker from The Village People ruined the Handle-Bar mustache for everybody.

Aside from mustaches, other forms of facial hair include an assortments of beards (If anyone inquires as to why I neglect to classify muttonchops as facial hair, I’ll say this; I tried muttonchops a few years ago, and it spawned a relentless maintenance operation, just a hairy situation. Besides they’re sideburns). The full-on beard casts an ambitious nuance on those with the patience and courage to embody its noble reputation. The beard is the choice facial hair variety of the greats: Jesus Christ, Abraham Lincoln, Santa Claus. A fine-trimmed beard proudly declares, “I’m brawny, but not barbaric. I’m daring, yet refined. My beard is my lion and I am the beast tamer.”

Men, facial hair is expression. In a world where men’s feelings are considered a joke, facial hair is perhaps our only emotional outlet. Don’t stand by and allow facial hair to become a lost art like the art of blowing dust out of an old Nintendo cartridge, or recycling the same T-shirt for a straight week under everyone’s nose. If a picture says a thousands words, facial hair sings those words. Stand up and proclaim with pride “I grow facial hair. Therefore, I am!” All men were created equal, with facial hair of all shapes colors and sizes. The Menaissance is upon us, gentlemen. Do something– by doing nothing; let it grow.

The only sensable explanation is that they already have.

My mother keeps shooting me strange smiles from across the room. I’m not sure if this is because she gets to play maternal mother, or she just enjoys seeing me in pain. After breakfast this morning, I climbed a flight of stairs, passed out, and fell back down them. At first I blamed the eggs, then I realized I had not eaten in over twenty-four hours. Dr. Bennet said I passed out because I have such a strong heart. I guess that’s why his profession is called a practice.

The Gillette Fusion

Count them: One, two, three, four, five blades. Is that possible? Is that ethical? The Bible speaks of seven deadly sins, and Gillette just committed the first five. We all knew this was coming, but not like this. Not now.

It doesn’t stop there either. The Gillette Fusion features a sixth trimming blade for beards and mustaches. Six blades? Gillette is playing God.

Gillette Fusion is a phenomenal novelty, but at what cost? We’ve created a twisted abomination of the shaving world. Yet, even whilst shunning this outrageous appliance, I yearn to try it. Like a new StarWars movie.

If you would like to learn more about the Gillette Fusion visit Casandra at www.gillettefusion.com -Guaranteed to be the most ridiculous website a man can visit.

I soon realized that I actually was a teenage mutant boy. Puberty ran its course like the Millennium Falcon through the Kessel run (which it remarkably managed in under twelve parsecs, I might add). My face looked like the war torn terrain of Yavin after the Galactic Civil War. I was forced to step down from my title of the Greatest Pokemon Master, and abandon my dreams of catching them all, to instead capture freedom in the pokeball that is America. Like a Slowpoke evolving into a Slowbro, I too dipped my tail into the cold, rushing waters of maturity.

And so here I am today, a grown level 19 PokeMan. Sure, I gained some increased constitution and dexterity, but that’s not what won me the duels of my past. Friendship is the trump card of my duel deck, and with it I can defeat any scheme planned by the likes of Kiaba, King Koopa and the Koopa kids, Team Rocket, Megatron, and evil Spock.

Just remember, that in this life, you’ve got to eat what you like, and even though things might get a little koo koo for Cocoa Puffs, you and the Cap’n can make it happen. So take a bite out of crime, because saving the planet is the thing to do. Just let all your powers combine, and the power will be yours. Go planet!

The thing I noticed while participating in the aerobic flurry of activities dotted along the trail was that nobody else was. Every Vita station all to myself. Imagine that. It’s as if people dislike exercise, or squatting over a patch in the ground, along a public walk way. Sure, I got a splinter in my left butt cheek, but I vita life on the edge. I grabbed that splinter by the tip and I was alive. When you see a vita course remember to make a pit stop, live a little, and get that exercise that you’ve been putting off the past four years.

We used to be hunter gatherers. If we wanted a boar for dinner, we hunted it down. Good exercise, satasfying, and so easy a caveman could do it. But Smarty Pants thought, “Let’s pen up the animals -a live stock of food- and slaughter them when we’re hungry.”

Seemed crazy enough to work, but he didn’t see big picture.

More food allowed an increase in caveman population. Those cavemen ate more food, and reproduced more cavemen, who needed more food, so on and so fourth.

Of course, all these new cavemen wanted their own caves, and a pair of those hip pants everyone was wearing. So Smarty-Pants built them huts, and sowed their fancy pants.

But Smarty-Pants couldn’t do it alone. He hired help, in exchange for services and goods -an economy was born. But the other cavemen grew tired and started a union. The cavemen got their fair share, their houses, and their pants. Society just kept on keeping on. Plumbing, the wheel, mail, banks, auto insurance commercials -the whole bit.

Today, cavemen work jobs they hate all day, return home, eat their food, take off their pants, and go to sleep. Mr. Smarty-Pants wasn’t so smart.

And pants aren’t all that either.

Tonight: Cloverhill Bakery‘s authentic BIG TEXAS Cinnamon Roll, the cinnamon roll baked with that indefinable Texan charm, in Chicago. I’m willing to overlook the $1.00 price if this roll makes good on its promise to be “BIG.”

But as it turns, The BIG TEXAS Cinnamon Roll is at best a MODERATE RHODE ISLAND Cinnamon Roll. The only thing “BIG” about it is the extensive list of ingredients, which somehow comprise “less than 2%” of the entire roll. Also printed on the wrapper, Cloverhill Bakery proudly emblazoned the highly coveted Automated Merchandiser Reader’s Choice “Pastry of the Year,” award for the 4th year running.

What is the Automatic Merchandiser Reader’s Choice? Where and how is this competition held? And how did this, at best edible, cinnamon roll win? How can anything from a vending machine even compete?

We can only imagine the award ceremony. A dusty old man, in a desolate warehouse, in Nevada mutters to a small crowd “And the award for Pastry of the Year goes to the BIG TEXAS Cinnamon roll.” Baking celebrities Mrs. Freshly, Aunt Jemima and that unsettling Quaker off the Oatmeal box roar in upset.

But seriously, since 1994, Automatic Merchandisers Reader’s Choice Awards have recognized excellence among the vending industry’s products. AM Magazine, the best source for vending industry information, describes the competition in their 2004 coverage, “The stakes are high, the action fast and furious, and the results always exciting.“

Every year, devoted vending machine pastry fans mail in nominations to the National Automatic Merchandiser Association to honor the year’s best pastry. In fact, this year’s competition received more nominations than ever before.

Projections predict this steady increase in popularity could see the Pastry of the Year Awards replacing the Emmy’s. And it’s no surprise, with historic events unfolding every year like, “Kari Nuts has emerged as a serious contender in the salted snack category.” Don’t miss what’s vending out this year.

For the latest Automatic Merchandiser Awards info, click here.

Concept Photography Leaked From Skywalker Ranch

       Recently, I was sent an E-mail or Electronical mail. E-mail allows a person to send another person a message electronically via the information super highway, the Internet. The future is now, and I need to start taking advantage of it.
 You see I never received this email because the email service CMA generously provided me did not work. I ignored the problem thinking, “Pfft, I don’t need e-mail.” I was ignoring the wave of the future.
       E-mail, when compared to plain old fashion mail mail, is superior in almost every way. Mail mail is a novelty losing its appeal. And the price of stamps isn’t getting any lower. It’s just a matter of time before the entire U.S. postal system goes down under. Not to mention the entire country if people keep ignoring problems like non-functioning email.
       Ignoring problems does not make them go away. What if pollution was ignored? What if the plague was ignored? What if even the holocaust was ignored? The world would have fallen into chaos and madness years ago. And then where would we be? Nowhere.
       That’s exactly where not checking my email got me. Now I’m stuck writing this no doubt morally important, but horribly written essay. Honestly, at this point I’d be generous to call this a step above rambling. Have you ever worn silk underwear? I hear it’s a dream. You know, underwear is really the bed sheet of the human body, but how often do you change your sheets? And you sleep with your sheets every night.
       Sorry, I’ve gone off on a tangent, but only to prove a point. Ignoring a problem, or even the thesis of an essay, doesn’t do anyone any good. Email is the wave of the future and I should take advantage of it.

Anyway, turns out the guy sent out an email, shortly after assigning the paper, saying we didn’t have to do the paper after all because he announced the wrong date for the meeting anyway. Of course I never got that e-mail because my school e-mail still doesn’t work.

“You and I make a good parallel structure”

“Here’s my thesis statement; let’s engage in sexual intercourse.”

“How’s this for a topic sentence? I find you very attractive. There’s a supporting detail in my pants.”

“I’m thinking of an action verb…”

“Let’s do some role playing. You’re the subject of the sentence and I’m preterit. What I say, you do.

“Your dress is like a good essay. Long enough to cover everything. And short enough to keep it interesting.”

Horribilis, indeed.

Today, he came barreling through the door and he’s so much bigger than me in comparison, he doesn’t even notice me lying on my bunk. He puts on some country music and starts singing along to a song called -get this- “XXL“. A fitting song, just barley though. Eventually he turns around to notice me lying on a bunk bed at eye level with him, so he promptly stopped dancing.

He’s gone now, scouting a marsh in Sacramento to hunt ducks or something. I tried to relate him via the Nintendo classic Duck Hunt to no avail. Maybe, I’ll give him some honey.

“How ’bout a quick forty?”

“Is it just my account statement, or do you look like a million bucks?”

“They should put you on a bill.”

“I’d like to open an account and make a deposit.”

“Here’s a free quote. ’10% depreciating interest per week, until I close the account.’”

“Ah, looks like the stimulus package is here.”

“How about you and me invest in some domestic mutual fun?”

“To think I was considering pulling out of this bank.