Sunday, April 20, 2008

My New Haircut: yinzer edition

(You really need to watch this to understand what's going on. It's only about two and a half minutes, go ahead. I'll wait.)

=======================================

[our hero is an overweight, bearded, middle-aged man in a dive bar wearing a clearly vintage Steelers jersey.]

You know what this is? This is my new fuckin' haircut. You know what that means? It means I'm gettin' laid tonight. My boys [inset of scene from a Steelers tailgate party], they all got the same haircut, they're all gettin' laid tonight. I'm gonna nail every broad that walks through that door. Broads love my haircut. And if they don't... trailer trash.

[points at camera and repeats from various angles] ... trailer trash. Trailer trash. Trailer trash. Trailer trash.

Yeah I'm wearing my Franco Harris jersey in the middle of April. That's 'cause the Steelers rule and everyone should know it.

I swear to God, one jag-off looks at me the wrong way, I'm startin' a fight. [A man wearing a Browns jersey walks by, earning a glare from our hero.] Yeah, keep walkin', jag-off!

[Cut: Our hero walks into a building carrying a case of Iron City on his shoulder.]

Guy at desk: Sir, you have to check in.

Hero: Not now jag-off, the Stillers game is about to start!

[Back at bar] Yeah, I eat Primanti Brothers sammiches. I eat that shit for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

[in bathroom, looking in mirror, face painted in black and gold] Yeah, it's gametime, we're in control, we're gonna kick some serious Bengal ass. Got my Lipitor... [picks up bottle, notices it's empty] Ma! Ma! Where's my goddamn Lipitor! I told ya to get my refill of Lipitor!

[in bar] Yeah, I grunt when I go lift at the gym. That's 'cause everyone needs to see how much the Steelers rule.

[in gym, on treadmill wearing Steelers jersey and Zubaz pants] Yeah... uh... Yeah... huff... wheeze... yeah.... [steps off, coughing wildly]

[back in bar] Hey buddy, two Iron Cities here!

[cut back to house, screaming each item from different camera shot] PIEROGIES! PRIMANTI BROTHERS! IRON CITY! EXTRA CHEEEEEEEEEEEESE!

[back in bar] Yeah, I'm getting ripped tonight. Gonna drink about five pitchers of Iron City tonight. I fuckin' SHOWER in that shit.

[pointing at camera from different angles and repeating] Iron City! Iron City! Iron City! Iron City! Iron City!

[Cut to hero chugging from remainder of pitcher, somehow not spilling a drop, then slamming it down on the table] Iron City.

Watch This Space...no, not THIS space, the OTHER space...

Y'know, if I was a gambling man, I'd say somebody's up to something. Of course, I'm that somebody, so betting on that would be like Pete Rose and the Reds all over again...

Saturday, April 19, 2008

Has Marcellus Wallace the semblance of a strumpet?

The
EXCELLENT
conceited Comedic Tragedie
of
PULP FICTION
By William Shakespeare
& Q. Tarantino

As hath beene acted sundry times publikely,
and in court before Her Maiestie
when nothinge better was availablle
and freshly imprinted with material
from the Director's
true and perfect Coppie.

Monday, April 14, 2008

The Book Of Sports: IT'S NOT FOR GIRLS!

Just posted on Project Gutenberg is a British book from 1852 called The Book of Sports, by William Martin. Of course these are all games intended for boys. Victorian girls didn't play sports, you jerk. They were busy embroidering or learning the pianoforte or some such nonsense. Sure, the crazy ones wrote stuff like Wuthering Heights, but that's why a strong upbringing in rigid gender roles was necessary, dammit. And I'll bet they didn't eat Yorkie bars, either.

Some of the entries are interesting for telling you the early history of familar games. (Did you know people used to call tug-of-war "French and English"? Does the French side not pull? Haw haw.) It's also absolutely hilarious how what are now the most popular sports in the world are brutally and dispassionately dispatched. For instance, this is the entire entry for golf (or "bandy ball"):

"This game is played with a bat and a small ball; and the game consists in driving the ball into certain holes made in the ground. Sometimes these holes from first to last, are at the distance of half a mile or even more from each other. There are many intervening holes. Those who drive the ball into the greatest number of holes, of course win the game; but the ball must never be driven beyond a hole without first going into it. If the ball passes in the way beyond a hole, the player is out."

I can't help but think they left something out. Football is in and out in half that space.

Even better, under the catnip-to-kids heading of "Dangerous Games", is the entry for Hopscotch(!):

"This is a silly game. It is calculated to wear out the shoes."

Can't argue with that logic. Mr. Martin also describes a version of follow-the-leader where the kid who trips up is called an "ass" and some other kid is supposed to hop on his back and ride him. If you call a modern kid an "ass", chances are you're about to invent a new type of dangerous game. Especially if he can find something heavy to hit you with.

The section on carpentry (CARPENTRY IS A SPORT! ADMIT I'M RIGHT!) is just breathtaking. The author is good enough to tell what tools you need to stock your workshop and what each is used for. Then, after the boy has begged all this stuff off his folks, when it comes time to put all this stuff to work, the chapter just stops. You turn the page and suddenly the book comes over all OOOOO, LET'S RAISE CHICKENS! CHICKEN FARMING IS A SPORT! ADMIT I'M RIGHT! What to do with all those tools and lumber the book just talked you into? Well, you can't expect it to tell you everything. Figure a few things out for yourself. Can't be a slug all your life.

There's also a section on gardening, which arguably is a national sport in England.

The whole thing makes me wonder if William Martin (or 19th century Britain, for that matter) took a suspicious view of idle amusement. Too much free time, sonny boy? Build us an end table. Instructions? That's a laugh. But you're a bright lad. I'm sure you can figure it out on your own. And if you can't, we'll apprentice you to the man down the road. No tears, now...we'll still see you at Christmas.

Sunday, April 06, 2008

Blogging may be hazardous to your health.

http://madconomist.com/blogger-dies-from-blogging-too-much-and-no-its-not-a-joke

Of course, the bloggers can work elsewhere, and they profess a love of the nonstop action and perhaps the chance to create a global media outlet without a major up-front investment. At the same time, some are starting to wonder if something has gone very wrong. In the last few months, two among their ranks have died suddenly.

Of course, with my being slothlike in posting at this here blog, that fate will not be my undoing. But the article does bring up a point about everything being a 24 hour news cycle and how that in itself is vicious to those who blog for a living.

Your Monday Sunday Morning Benediction for April 6, 2008

It's been a long, long time since I whipped one of these on you, oh nonexistent readership, but here we go. You probably don't remember how this works: a quote that is reasonably clever, snarky commentary, or the foundation for my own "cleverness" or commentary. However, I don't think I ever got around to a third potential category: free-standing ads for Kellogg's Dumb Flakes. Today, that changes. From Mike Gallagher's radio show (via Think Progress (via News From ME)):

“No one has supported President Bush on Iraq more than I have.”
-- John McCain
There we are...short, pithy, suitable for Cafepress t-shirts, bumper stickers, keychains, baby jumpers, and (of course) throwing it back in the candidate's face at inoppurtune moments. Have fun.

Friday, April 04, 2008

The Base Level Of Respect Will Be Enough

I don't know how I can introduce this clip from last night's Daily Show beyond Jon's word of warning after the break: if a guy on your show is reading a list of funny names, make sure the writers don't switch the list on you before airtime so you don't know what to expect.