Whether you're into the Superbowl or not, you'll be talking about it because everyone loves the guy at the Superbowl party who says, "I can't watch American football. It's just not soccer enough." Eat your fucking Doritos, cowboy, and enjoy the fact that American football is just as much about the snacks and debauchery as it is about a bunch of men in tights bumping jockstraps.
Here are some things non-Superbowl fans can do on the Superbowl.
1. Say something about a Superb Owl.
It's truly the cleverest thing anyone has ever heard in 1996 when the internet first spilled into the homes of people dying to be clever to other people dying to cut-and-paste other people's cleverness. Clever is the sanctuary of the unfunny.
2. Talk about soccer
That image right above this? I don't even know if it's a photograph of soccer because I'm an American and I haven't watched the game. It looks like it involves people either shooting balls out of their ass or stuffing balls into their ass. You cannot talk about soccer as some kind of elegant and sophisticated sport in comparison to football when you are at a Superbowl party doing keg stands and dipping nacho Doritos into ranch dip. You're exactly where you belong, cowboy. In America.
3. Say you're only there for the commercials then complain about how the commercials suck
Of course they suck. Who the hell wants to be advertised to about the virtues of pistachios? I know pistachios are good but until they start dusting nacho cheese flakes onto the damn things, I don't need a commercial about them. I've never seen a commercial for Virginia peanuts and it doesn't look the peanut industry is in its death throes. You're there for the party.
CONFESSION TIME
I don't know anything about football. I could care less if the Seattle Super Sonics beat the Texas Rangers today. But what I do care about is tradition. And my tradition dictates that I make a date with the toilet tonight after a day of being confused and lied to. The toilet's a good date, too. You start by sitting on it and you end by falling asleep holding it.
That's okay because I've been sitting on news that can't be sat on any longer.
Double Life Press will be publishing my novella Death Thing in the spring.
After re-reading through it, I'm very proud of the work. It's a good grindhouse-y, pulpy, horror idea that I think is in damn good hands at Double Life and Craig McNeely. Dyer Wilk is designing the cover and if you're familiar with his work, you know that it should be a damn good one.
I'll be planning release parties in Austin and Los Angeles soon so if you know of any publications, blogs, radio shows, podcasts, etc that would like to cover, review, or interview me about the book - let me know!
I'll also be planning a sporadic book tour that will touch most corners of Texas and probably venture out to a few indie bookstores, cafes, and bars outside of Texas.
Greetings. I am here to review the movies you never admitted you don't want to see. So next time you're at a party and you have to fake you've seen movies to round off the edges*, let this be your guide.
INTERSTELLAR
This is typical Christopher Nolan stuff. It starts with a big idea and ends with an actor ejaculating all over himself about some nonsense nobody cares about. Nolan's Memento was a great piece of comedy because the whole time you have no idea it's just one long masturbation joke until the end with that expertly filmed bathroom shot of the main character looking at himself in the mirror. You realize, Oh! He's not squinting because he's trying to read his tattoos!
Nothing like a mirror to get in the mood.
Matthew McConaughey may have won an Oscar for the biopic of Dallas Cowboys' owner, Jerry Jones, in Dallas Buyers Club but we all know his best work was in a Lincoln commercial. He convinced me so thoroughly he was a douchebag and had no concept of the lines he was forced to read. He just reads them in a raspy voice and guesses as to what emotion to attach to them. Maybe he's brilliant.
Anyways, Interstellar is not what you think it is. It's a ghost movie that can never really decide on the metaphysical properties of ghosts. Are they supernatural? Are they echoes from a rip in space-time? Are they interdimensional beings just fucking with us? Nolan doesn't decide. He just flicks that little plot line into the story and bets on the fact that we, like rabid dogs, will worship his toes because of its complexity.
Interstellar was done before and it was done better. I've got four names for you. Tommy Lee Jones, Clint Eastwood, Donald Sutherland, and James Garner.
Republicans... IN SPACE
Motherfuckin' Space Cowboys, man. Space Cowboys was done without any of the pretension of Interstellar and all of the emotional impacts were delivered on the far less malleable face of Clint Eastwood.
Blah, blah, blah, Matthew McConaughey drives a Lincoln into an asteroid belt, warps to another planet, and sends one last text message to his daughter before the uncaring vacuum of space rips his face off his bones and turns his bones back into star stuff. The end.
STAR WARS VII: The Force Awakens
Before we begin here's a trigger alert: I do not care too much for Star Wars. Stop reading if you are tempted to commit violence upon my face.
Blue really accents Mars' more understated features.
I, like any other self-respecting American, am fascinated by space and the possibility of other worlds and the species that inhabit them so that we may exploit them for material gain, but apart from the visual aspect of Star Wars, I could never get into the story. There are good characters. There are good lines. I just don't get why Luke gave up on Leia just because she was his sister. Han Solo stared him down in a pissing contest and won. Hats off to Luke, though; I can't even pee in a public restroom.
I looked up piss shy and got this. If he can't pee while one man in vest rubs his shoulders and another stares at his ass, it must be because he's got an erection.
It's an interesting take J.J. Abraham's decided to go with for the Force Awakens. The story focuses on nothing in particular. It meanders through the daily life of a down-and-out failed writer as he travels from planet to planet looking for inspiration for his Great Tatooine Novel.
Along the way, he runs into women who try to help him but end up being related to him. He meets an older man named Handless Luke, they become lovers, but their relationship deteriorates over an imbalanced distribution of hand jobs.
Redesigned ewok.
Some guy walks around in a Darth Vader suit even though everyone knows the Jedi danced all over his body with a bunch of horny furries. Turns out the guy in the Darth Vader suit is just a metaphor for our unnamed protagonist's dark heart. It can only be defeated through love. But is he capable of such a force?
That force, my friends, awakens.
JURASSIC WORLD
Derpy, derpy, didn't you science folks think that maybe creating a dinosaur maybe wasn't so smart, maybe? Take that smarty-pants, evolutionists and global warmists.
That's the message of this movie. Science is big and cool and can do cool shit like make nuclear bombs and dinosaurs but when it all comes down to it, a snarky, smooth talking, pudgy white guy is smarter than all of science combined and it's all brawn over brains when a flock of fucked-up raptors is aiming for your nutsack. Aiming for your nutsack to cut it off with their big toe fang and eat it like chicken liver, if you didn't understand the danger.
There's a love story here, too. It's the tired old love story between a Hollywood production company and the car company that pays for this 120 minute commercial. Hey, now I know that when I'm being chased by Frankensteinasaur, only a Volvo has the steel frame that can save my eyeballs from popping out of my face while my skull is turning into a million little pieces of utter godlessness.
Heathens and hippies will call it Turkey Day or Tofurkey Day. It is not called either of those things. It is called Turkey Day. There's a war on our dignity akin to the war on Xmas.
Thanksgiving comes from the ancient ritual literally translated as "Stuff Your Fat Face With These Grains. There is a famine coming and this may be the last chance to experience flavor."
When the first honkeys arrived in America, they appropriated the holiday and changed the name to "Thanksgiving," as in, "Thanks for dying so easily, other people here."
Today we're inundated with articles about surviving Thanksgiving and neat-o tips and tricks about making a non-traditional, vegan, Wiccan Thanksgiving dinner made out of bean sprouts and baby blood on Salon.com. This begs the question: How do we survive Thanksgiving?
Thanks, grandma.
Easy, go out and murder a goddamn turkey, stick it in the oven, and listen to your friends and family talk about how good burning flesh smells. Then you eat the goddamned turkey and you say to the turkey, "Thanks for dying so easily, you damn bird."
While we're on the subject, birds are straight from hell.
Just look at the birds pestering you for garbanzo beans and kombucha while you eat at Whole Foods. They are ragged, their eyes are lifeless, and their bird songs sound like the worst metal band you've ever heard. Anyone who tells me birds are animals has obviously never eaten one. Birds are as dumb as carrots right up to the moment you stuff its head in your mouth and bite it off. They have no idea what fate awaits them.
There was an article recently about what other countries think Americans eat on Thanksgiving. It was enjoyable because we get so much crap for not knowing about other cultures but all of the people he called were clueless about our holiday. They were even perturbed that some American called them in the dead of night to pester them about their ignorance.
I've got news for the world. This is America and we eat EVERYTHING on Thanksgiving.
A traditional American Thanksgiving.
Thank you, Cheetos. You taste great inside a turkey.
Just in case you run out of Cheetos, keep some in the soap dish. #SurvivingThanksgiving
In other news, my good friend Elizabeth submitted a design to Threadless that was accepted. Her design is an homage to the Citizen Kane of our generation, Dazed and Confused. Vote for it!
I've been sick. Every year, without fail, I'll get sick two to three times in October and November. I've started to plan for it. I've dubbed it, "Flu Season."
Here are a few things I'm sick and tired of people saying to me when I'm sick and tired.
7. Is somebody at work making fun of you? They're just jealous.
Jealous? Jealous? Jealous of what, mom? Jealous that I can grow a beard? Let me tell you one thing, mother, my beard isn't some kind of fashion choice and it isn't some kind of personal statement. My beard is there because I can't afford shaving gel. I can't even afford Barbasol and they sell that shit for a dollar at Target! But you know what really gets me about this beard, mom? It's genetic. And I've seen the hairless Vikings on dad's side of the family so I can't blame him.
I blame you.
6. Sit up; it helps the phlegm stay out of your breathing stuff.
First of all, my breathing stuff is fine. I had them checked recently. The doctor said all I had to do was stop snorting Coke. He said there was no reason a carbonated drink should be in my nose. I'm working on it.
Secondly, I'm not going to sit here and not snopes the shit out of this old wive's tale. Guess what? Snopes doesn't say a damn word about it. There isn't even a page. So I'm just going to lay down like a fucking gangster while you heat me up some more soup, MOM.
5. If you're so sick, you should be resting. Get off the computer.
Oh, yeah? Well, I won't be able to take care of my mental health issues if I don't finish this blog post so why don't you go back to the 80s where you grew up and play with your rocks and Q-tips and listen to your Depeche Mode 8 track?
4. You're really mad, aren't you?
Mom, sit down.
I'm working on some shit right now. A lot of stuff is going on in my life.
I've got the sniffles.
AND I GOT A MOM CONSTANTLY ON MY ASS ABOUT EVERYTHING.
3. Andrew, Andrew, calm down.
Don't tell me to be calm. Don't tell me to be calm.
Where's my soup?
2. It's right here. Nice and warm. I picked out all the chicken for you.
What if I wanted the chicken this time? Did you even think of asking me?
1. Andrew, be careful, you're spilling soup all over yourself.
LOOK. I'M LAYING DOWN LIKE A GANGSTER. I CAN'T AFFORD BARBASOL. OF COURSE SOME SOUP'S GOING TO STICK AROUND. NOW RUN TO THE LIQUOR STORE AND GET ME SOME GATORADE.
Conspiracy theories. Everyone believes in at least one of them and believers will say, "I know conspiracy theories are nuts but this one, man, woooooo doggy, this one is real."
Let's look at the five times in history those dudes were right.
5. Santa Claus Doesn't Exist
Rumors swirled for years from older cousins and schoolyard bullies but it was hard to believe because, WHO ELSE HAS MOM'S HANDWRITING, KNOWS EXACTLY WHAT I WANT, AND LEAVES REINDEER SHIT ALL OVER MY CARPET?Santa, duh.
But it turns out the schoolyard bully was right about a lot of things. Santa's no exception.
I remember when I first found out Santa wasn't real. It was just a few years ago. I wished really hard for a brand new PlayStation and I was good all year. Then I got a letter in the mail from my dad that said, "Andrew, seriously. You have a job. You live in Texas. If you want a PlayStation, just buy one. You don't have to keep dropping hints to us over the phone and mentioning how good you are. Santa doesn't exist."
Then he hung up.
The world crumbled around me. I wanted to die. I shivered, naked, cold, and alone on my bathroom floor... without a PlayStation.
4. My neighbor, Jerry, is out to get me.
It started with the foot stomping all over the my ceiling. Jerry walks like he's got dicks for feet and the only thing that arouses them is banging them on carpet.
So he does it all night.
Then, out of nowhere, new neighbors come along and I'm positive their friends with Jerry. Their dog just barks like a maniac all night long while I'm just trying to sit alone in darkness and plot out a strategy to get Jerry out of the apartment.
Then I get a notice that my rent wasn't received. That's bullshit. Jerry took it out of the mailbox.
3. I'm still pretty pissed off about Santa.
You know, you live your whole life thinking one thing and then the very same people that spoon fed you this lie are the ones that tell you EVERYTHING YOU EVER KNEW IS A LIE.
What is it, dad? Is it also not true that I'm special and talented in every way? Then why don't I have a brand new PlayStation on the part of my apartment where there would be a fireplace if a fireplace was practical? Where's all the deer shit? Why do my cookies go uneaten?
2. Connect Santa and Jesus and... oh, shit.
IS IT TRUE? IS IT TRUE, DAD? IF SANTA (WHO GOES AROUND THE WORLD GIVING GIFTS TO ALL THE GOOD CHILDREN IN CELEBRATION OF THE GLORIOUS LIFE OF BELOVED LEADER JESUS CHRIST) IS FAKE THEN...
1. Dinosaurs are extinct.
When Jurassic Park came out fifty years ago, I was just a boy. Many of the school children would circle around me and ask me what I thought of Jurassic Park being that I was the only kid cool enough to have seen it before anyone else (I didn't tell them that I had to hold my mom's hand during the raptors in the kitchen scene because I scared my balls back into pre-puberty). Still, I was the cool kid.
I told them the graphics were great and one kid said, "Nuh-uh! They really used dinosaurs!"
Outwardly, I was like, "Bitch, please. You didn't even see the movie because you're so poor and you smell like your mom bathes you in her cigarettes, wine, and tears."
All the other kids laughed and I popped the collar on my jean jacket, turned my cap backwards, put on my sunglasses with neon frames, and strutted with the prettiest non-English speaking girl at the school, Elsa. All the kids laughed at the kid I made fun of because it was pretty much true that he smelled like cigarettes, wine, and tears but the tear smell could have been from his own.
Inside, I was dying. I knew he could have been right. I carried this inside me for years and years until yesterday, when I finally watched the extras on the Jurassic Park DVD. They didn't use dinosaurs.
