Throwing Poo

Transcript of a Live Broadcast on WKYC Channel 3 News in Cleveland, Ohio

Anchorman: Let’s go to our roving reporter, Christopher Franz, who is LIVE at protest march happening at this very moment.

Anchorwoman:  Wow, that sounds exciting!

Anchorman: Shut the fuck up, Jessica.  Just stick your tits out and smile like you were hired to do.  Sorry, go ahead, Chris.

Chris Franz:  Thanks, Dan.  I’m standing here in front of the Red Lobster Seafood Restaurant in Rocky River where a small group of protesters from a group called, um, “Busybodies of Christ,” it looks like, have been marching and waving signs all afternoon. 

Anchorman:  What’s their issue, Chris?

Chris Franz:  Well, it appears they have a beef with seafood. *chuckles*  Shellfish, in particular.  Let me move over here and try to get an explanation straight from the seahorse’s mouth *chuckles*.

Anchorman (off camera):  Jesus, if he says another fucking seafood pun, I want someone to kill me immediately. 

Wait, what?  My mic is still on?

*ahem*  OK, Chris.  Be careful out there. 

Goddamn it, Larry! How many fucking times have I told you to turn (click).

Chris Franz: Uh, thanks. Dan. 

Excuse me, sir.  Chris Franz from Channel Three News. Can you tell me why you are here protesting today?

Protester 1 (holding a sign that says, “Hepatitis Is God’s Way of Punishing Sinners”):
Yeah, man.  We’re here to tell all the F.A.G.s that they are going to Hell for performing abominable acts against God. 

Chris Franz:  Fags?

Protester 1:  Yeah.  Feeders of Anti-Christian Gastronomy.  Or Forbidden Aliment Gorgers.  We couldn’t really decide. Anyway, F.A.G.s for short in either case.

Chris Franz: Let me see if I understand; you’re protesting against people eating seafood?

Protester 1:  Shellfish, dude.  Shellfish.  It’s all right there in Leviticus 11:9.

Chris Franz:  No kidding?

Protester 1:  Absolutely.  Many people don’t know it, but eating shellfish is the real reason why Adam & Eve were kicked out of the Garden of Eden.  The apple is a symbol for shellfish.  God caught Adam & Eve doing oyster shooters with Satan under the Tree of Knowledge.

Chris Franz:  Are you sure it wasn’t just an apple?

Protester 1: Of course. Ever hear of the ‘fruit of the sea’?  You see, to understand the bible, you have to understand what is symbolic and what is literal.  

Chris Franz:  And how do you know that?

Protester 1 (points to his head):  God tells you.

Chris Franz:  I see.  So do you actually hate those people in there eating shrimp?

Protester 1:  No. We hate the sin, not the sinner.

Chris Franz:  But I heard you yell at one couple that, wait, here it is, “You’ll be eating shit-covered scampi out of Satan’s asshole in hell!”

Protester 1:  I was talking to the sin.

Chris Franz:  Right.  I see you’re wearing a button that says ‘CRAB.’  What does that mean?

Protester 1: We were originally going to call ourselves the ‘Council for Righteous Aliments, Baby,’ but StarPhish thought it sounded like were we trying to find a cure for scabies.  Unfortunately, I’d already made the buttons.  You should talk to StarPhish, though.

Hey, StarPhish!  Come here and talk to this reporter!

StarPhish (carrying a sign that says “Meat is Murder”):  Don’t tell me what to do, Bobby!  You know I don’t like it when you do that!

Bobby:  Sorry.  Will you please come over here and talk to this guy?

(walks away chanting) Lobsterfest is a Satanic ritual!  Lobsterfest is a Satanic ritual!

Chris Franz:  Why are you here today, young lady?

StarPhish: Like, can’t you read the sign?  Eating animals is a sin, man.  You know, “Thou shalt not kill,” and all that.

Chris Franz: I think the commandment is, “Thou shalt not murder.”

StarPhish:  Meat IS murder, man.  Like I told you, read the sign.

Chris Franz:  So you’re protesting the eating of all fish, not just shellfish?

StarPhish: Shellfish is just the beginning for me.  I won’t rest until all of God’s creatures roam free and live in harmony with the vegan race.

Chris Franz:  So, will all the animals will be vegetarian, too?

StarPhish:  Well, they learned to kill from us, so they can learn to be vegans from us, too.  But we need to start by, like, setting a good example.

Chris Franz:  Right.  OK then.  And you, sir, what do you hope to accomplish here today?

Protester 3 (holding a sign saying, “Deadliest Catch – You Ain’t Kiddin’, Brother!”):  Um, I, um, you know, um…

Chris Franz:  Do you think eating shellfish is a mortal sin?

Protester 3:  Well, um, I’m kind of here with, um, StarPhish?

StarPhish:  No you’re not, Sheldon!

Sheldon:  No.  Right.  OK.  But still, kind of. 

StarPhish:  I’ve told you before, I’m with Bobby now.  Jeez.

Sheldon:  Yeah, well…forget this, I’m starving (drops sign and walks into restaurant).

Chris Franz: So there you have it, Dan.  ‘Busybodies for Christ’ protesting the eating of shellfish as an abomination against God.

Anchorman: Chris, to be fair, how are the representatives from Red Lobster responding to this protest?

Chris Franz:  Their official response is that Lobsterfest begins August 1st and all denominations are welcome.

Anchorman:  Thanks, Chris.  Good work.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

For me, heading into the weekend knowing that I have to attend church on Sunday is like spending two days peeling a giant Band-Aid off my brain.  Still, I wanted to try to have some fun, so Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. and I decided to go to a local “Party in the Park” festival, complete with greasy bikers, carnival barkers, and enough fresh stitches to start a sweatshop.

The festival was actually pretty fun; the weather was dry and cool, the live music was a interesting mix of jazz standards and alt rock, and there was an ample offering of both elephant ears and funnel cakes.  At one point in the evening, as Nerdy was trying to con a free facial from a local masseuse (insert your own joke here) and I was palming mints from the Shriner’s booth, a young girl tapped me on the back and handed me a tiny, pamphlet called “Doom Town.” 

Unlike most people, I will actually go out of my way to get propaganda of any type, especially religious.  To me, it’s like someone coming up to you and openly sharing how retarded they are.  That’s always good eatin’.

It turns out that “Doom Town” is an animated re-visioning of the story of Sodom and Gomorrah with a conspicuous emphasis on gay sex, footnoting the two obligatory bible verses against homosexuality: Leviticus 18:22 and 20:13. (I later found out that “Doom Town” is available online.  You can read it here, and I strongly recommend that you do.  It’s fantastic.) 

After a quick read of “Doom Town,” I suddenly realized how I would spend my time in church on Sunday morning: reading Leviticus in its entirety.  Despite my religious upbringing, we had never spent much time on the Old Testament.  But seeing as 10% of the population is being singled out based on this one book of the bible, I figured it was time to give it a thorough examination.  So, on Sunday morning, with my newfound booklet of enlightenment secure in the breast pocket of my sport coat and my wife’s bible tucked under my arm, I headed off to church to get my Leviticus on. 

Now, let’s forget for a moment about the mountain of translation problems and the ocean of inconsistencies in the bible.  Taken for its word alone, it turns out that “Doom Town” was right:  Leviticus 18:22 and 20:13 really do condemn homosexuality.  But that ain’t all it condemns.  No sir, not by a long fucking shot. 

What else, according to bible, is an abomination?  Here is a brief list:

Eating shellfish, pork or hasenpfeffer - Lev. 11:9

Getting a haircut - Lev. 19:27

Eating meat with blood in it – Lev. 19:26

Getting a tattoo - Lev. 19:28 

Women wearing pants - Deut. 22:5

Wearing a wool/linen blended fabric (Tasteless, maybe, but an abomination?) – Deut. 22:11

Murder scene sex – Lev. 18:19

By the way, no where in Leviticus does it qualify the seriousness of these abominations.  All require being cast out or killed.  It makes you wonder if God is Chinese.

Anyway, a few other biblical “facts”:

Burnt offerings are more gooder.  Only the best and no blemishes, please.  God is a very picky eater. 
- Lev 1:1 through 7:37.

MILF hunting is a capital offense – Lev. 20:10

Why John Bobbit will never go to heaven -  Deut.23:1 

Forget your rake in the yard?  Leave it.  God says it no longer belongs to you - Deut. 24:19.

In the military and don’t want to get sent to Iraq?  No problem. Just get married. – Deut. 24:5. 

Guys, if you get into a fight, make sure your wife doesn’t jump in and grab the other guy’s ball bag, or you’ll have to cut her hand off.  Apparently this was such a problem is ancient Egypt that God had to make a rule about it   – Deut. 25:11.

While it’s amusing that the same people who want to shield their children from sex education in the school are sending them out to delivery pamphlets about homosexuality, I have a huge fucking problem with intellectually bankrupt bottom feeders that selectively choose biblical passages in order to justify their prejudices. 

So, the next time someone comes up to you and denounces homosexuality, simply nod your head and then ask them to join your upcoming protests at Red Lobster and The Gap.  If that doesn’t work, just quote John 3:16.5 - "For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life, unless, of course, you’re a fag.”

NOTE: Before posting this, I did a google search on Leviticus and other key words like crazy, insane, and ridiculous, and found this very funny article from 2000 or so which basically states this case in a far more succinct and entertaining fashion.   Bastard!
 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:31 AM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

On Sunday mornings, my brother and I would lie quietly in the upstairs bedroom we shared, hoping that on that day maybe, just maybe, the inevitable call would not come.  The wind-up alarm clock on the small table separating our beds was both an angel of hope and a harbinger of doom; each passing minute increasing our hope that the moment of truth might pass unnoticed, and each minute bringing us closer to it.

I remember wishing that the clock was somehow slow, or that we forgot to wind it and the time was actually much later. Or maybe today is daylight savings time.  That one has saved us before.  When is that again?

A noise, some rustling downstairs, would snap us back to attention and we would freeze, fearing the slightest sound or squeak of a bed spring might give us up.  Maybe it was just the dog.   Maybe it was nothing.

Then, almost without fail, the thunderous vibration of our sticky wooden door being yanked open would echo through the upstairs like a quick roll on a kettle drum, filling us with dread.  My mother’s voice followed, like nails on a chalkboard, piercing the air and curling our feet.  

"Mike!  Pat!  It’s time for church!”

Only ten more minutes and we’ll be too late to make the service on time.  Lie still. Pretend we didn’t hear.  Pretend we’re sound asleep and maybe she will leave us alone.

 “Let’s go, boys!  Now!!!”

Suddenly and decisively, our hope for a lazy morning filled with Sugar Pops and Popeye cartoons was lost.  The only thing left to do was turn our futile attempt at passive resistance into petulant resignation. 

So it was for first eighteen years of my life, until the day I left for college.  Every Sunday my mother, a true believer, a born-again Christian, would drag us from the comfort of our warm beds to worship service.

Forget the dogmatic inconsistencies, the selective interpretations and the unapologetic arrogance; that is why I hate going to church.  I have a visceral reaction to it, like chewing aluminum foil or getting kicked in the yam bag.  If you want to get me into a church, there had better be a damn good reason.  A wedding, a funeral, a giant meteor plummeting towards earth; these are reasons I will consider.  And there better be an open bar afterwards.

Needless to say, when the call came late last week alerting us that Nerdy Squirrel’s mom was going to be honored at her church on Sunday and suggesting we attend,  my reaction was less than enthusiastic.

“How about if I just let you punch me in the face?”

Nerdy frowned.

“Or your mom?” I pleaded.  “She could punch me in the face.  You know she’s always wanted to. How about that instead?”

“I go to stuff for your family all the time”

“Not church,” I argued. “Depositions, infectious disease inoculations, psych wards, sure.  But never church.”

“I don’t like it either, but we’re going,” her tone implied that the conversation was over.
 
As if overcome by some childhood demon, I went silent, standing motionless until she brushed past me and left the room.   Once out of sight, I slunk off into the bedroom and quietly reset the time on our alarm clock. 

To Be Continued…

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 07:14 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

Thoughtgangsta
The other day I was flipping through the channels and happened upon a stand-up comedian on BET.  As is the case with nudity, midgets, or elective surgery (if my wife would just let me subscribe to the Hustler Channel, I could finally enjoy all three together), seeing a comic always relaxes my kung fu grip on the remote. 

After a couple of lame jokes, this comedian launched into a “You might be ghetto if…” routine.  My initial reaction was outrage; this fucking hack is ripping-off Jeff Foxworthy!  Then, after a moment of clarity, I wondered why, when there are so many great comedians out there, this hack would rip-off Jeff Foxworthy (best described by Greg Giraldo as looking like one of the Village People on casual Friday).

To my surprise, however, the mostly black crowd really seemed to love the bit, and I have to admit that the “…you think putting batteries in the icebox recharges them,” and “…you have more than ten uses for Vaseline, one of which is shining your shoes” lines made me chuckle.   

Now, my understanding of the recently imposed racial newspeak is that if a minority is making derogatory jokes about his/her race, it is OK to laugh as long as you don’t laugh louder or longer than the person of that minority nearest to you.  Still, I began to feel a little self-conscious, which in turn sparked anger and self-loathing (well, fanned the flame of my persistent self-loathing is probably more accurate). 

Despite my own strongly held beliefs on the matter, it appears that Big Brutha is starting to get to me. 

My case for and against Obama
If I had my choice, Joe Biden would be the Democratic candidate for President in 2008.  Regardless of my personal opinions and/or positions on any give issue, Biden is arguably the most qualified person for the job. Unfortunately, my choice is entirely unrealistic because Joe doesn’t have $20 million to spend on sound bites lambasting his opponents for funding public rape rooms, endorsing cannibalism, and putting the drugs back into our classrooms.

Of the viable Democratic candidates, Barack Obama is the most interesting choice. Forgetting the war, social security, global warming and health care – and really, who doesn’t want to at this point – an Obama candidacy interests me because of what it could unintentionally do for race relations in this country. 

Polarizing issues are defined by their extremes, and the only effective way to address them is by moderating the extremists, thus creating a climate for civil, pragmatic discussion.  The mere existence of President Obama would minimize the argument of race-baiting extremists on the one side who preach to the masses that the man is keeping them down.  If a black man can get a job as President, he can also probably get a job doing anything else.

On the other side, within a few months the fear-mongering racists would have to explain why the first black President hasn’t had P. Diddy remake The Star-Spangled Banner or pimped-out Air Force One, let alone enslave the white man, pillage his personal property, and rape his fat wife.

In middle America, I believe racism is mostly a product of fear and ignorance.  Of those that are racist, I would bet that they have never really known any black people.  If that is the case, then the prolific presence of an intelligent, charismatic black President the likes of John F. Kennedy should slowly begin to chip away at prejudices and misjudgments. 

Unfortunately, the problem with this whole scenario is that it only takes one redneck with a Browning BAR rifle kneeling in a Book Depository to destroy it all, bringing racial tensions to explosive levels.  For that reason alone, an Obama Presidency just might be too risky.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 10:03 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

Today I turn 43.  While that might not seem like much of a landmark, 43 is officially closer to 45 than it is to 40.  So as of today, I’m not just over 40, I’m approaching 45, and will soon be on my way to 50. 

Christ, fifty years old.  I can hardly bear it.

Anyway, in celebration of my slow march towards death, I thought I would share two jokes that have been hanging on my bulletin board for over a decade.  I guess I find some comfort in the fact that old things can still be funny.   

The following is supposedly an actual essay written by a college applicant to NYU who was subsequently admitted.

3A. In order for the admissions staff to get to know you better we ask that you answer the following question:
Are there any significant experiences you have had, or accomplishments you have realized, that have helped to define you as a person?

I am a dynamic figure, often seen scaling walls and crushing ice. I have been known to remodel train stations on my lunch breaks, making them more efficient in the area of heat retention. I translate ethnic slurs for Cuban refugees, I write award-winning operas, I manage time efficiently.

Occasionally, I tread water for three days in a row.

I woo women with my sensuous and godlike trombone playing, I can pilot bicycles up severe inclines with unflagging speed, and I cook Thirty-Minute Brownies in twenty minutes. I am an expert in stucco, a veteran in love, and an outlaw in Peru.

Using only a hoe and a large glass of water, I once single-handedly defended a small village in the Amazon Basin from a horde of ferocious Army Ants. I play bluegrass-cello, I was scouted by the Mets, I am the subject of numerous documentaries. When I'm bored, I build large suspension bridges in my back yard. I enjoy urban hang gliding.

On Wednesdays, after school I repair electrical appliances free of charge.

I am an abstract artist, a concrete analyst, and a ruthless bookie. Critics worldwide swoon over my original line of corduroy evening wear. I don't perspire. I am a private citizen, yet I receive fan mail. I have been caller number nine and have won the weekend passes. Last summer I toured New Jersey with a traveling centrifugal-force demonstration. I bat 400.

My deft floral arrangements have earned me fame in international botony circles. Children trust me.

I can hurl tennis rackets at small moving objects with deadly accuracy. I once read Paridise Lost, Moby Dick, and David Copperfield in one day and still had time to refurbish an entire dining room that evening. I know the exact location of every food item in the supermarket.

I have performed several covert operations for the CIA. I sleep once a week: when I do sleep, I sleep in a chair. While on vacation in Canada, I successfully negotiated with a group of terrorists who had seized a small bakery.

The laws of physics do not apply to me.

I balance, I weave, I dodge, I frolic, and my bills are paid. On weekends, to let off steam, I participate in full-contact origami. Years ago I discovered the meaning of life but forgot to write it down. I have made extraordinary four course meals using only a mouli and a toaster oven.

I breed award winning clams. I have won bullfights in San Juan, cliff diving competitions in Sri Lanka, and spelling bees at the Kremlin.

I have played Hamlet, performed open heart surgery, and have spoken with Elvis.

But I have not yet gone to college.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:10 AM | Permalink | Comments (11) | TrackBacks (0)

July 19, 2007, outside Crunchy Blue Commando’s Mansion.

Quiet!  Quiet, please.

Given the overwhelming public outcry and relentless hounding by the media, I have decided to break my silence and discuss my recent departure from The Peevery.  Hopefully this will put an end to all the breast-beating, candlelight vigils and public urination that has been taking place in front of my home since the announcement. 

Seriously, just look at what you savages are doing to my landscaping.  Do you think my hedges just naturally grew into the shapes of the Seinfeld cast?  Huh?  Thanks to stupid Wolf Shitzer over there, it now looks like Elaine dropped a deuce right where she is standing.  Jesus, dude, how much corn do you eat?  In fact, why don’t you do everyone else a favor and stay in the Situation Room until you get that incontinence under control.

And my lawn!  Do you people have any idea how much cross-cutting it took for me to mow that image of Christ into the grass?  Now it’s ruined and I’ll probably never sell my house to some inbred hayseed on eBay for triple the price.  Thanks, assholes. Thanks a lot.

Let’s get to the matter at hand.  Despite all the swirling rumors, I left The Peevery on my own accord.  I was not forced out due to my alleged addiction to blue Skittles, the 20/20 expose on my underage Filipino man-servant, Ricky Ricardo, or the severe depression I recently suffered as a result of numerous failed attempts to clone Gene Gene, The Dancing Machine.  While these personal challenges have not made my life any easier, they also have not affected the quality of my work.

My primary reason for leaving The Peevery has to due with my desire to focus on several new writing projects.  First, I will be regular contributor to Amazon book reviews as well as providing satirical content for Anonymous Coworker and Assclownopolis.  While some naysayers have made the semantic argument that my contributions are merely “comments,” I prefer to think of my words as a necessary cog in the well-oiled machine of modern literature.  I guess I’m just a glass-is-half-full kind of guy in that way.

Second, I have recently learned that Netflix subscribers can now login to the website and watch eighteen hours a month of movies directly on their computers.  Well, being as I am the proud owner of such a computer, it would be foolish for me to not take full advantage of this elite membership perk. 

Finally, let me say that I have no regrets about the year I spent with The Peevery or my decision to leave.  Now, if it suddenly gets national recognition and all the Peevers become famous, someone may need to die so I can get my position back.  Given the choice between being a celebrity under investigation for murder or the blogging equivalent of Pete Best and Henri Padovani, I’ll choose the former every time.

That’s all I have to say on the matter and I will not take any questions.  And for Christ’s sake, Wolf, pull your pants up and get the fuck out of my bushes!

end of transcript

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 11:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

Transformer Explosion Rocks Manhattan
Gee Whiz. I hope it wasn’t Optimus Prime who exploded.  He’s my favorite.

Republicans Block Vote On Troop Pullout
So I guess Republicans are like the fat friend that always keeps the good-looking troops from having any fun.

Scores of Bodies Pulled From Brazil Plane Wreck
I don’t follow this sport, but my guess is that the scores were along the lines of:  Fuselage Fragment – 1, Body – 0; Seatback Tray Table -1, Body – 0; Deceleration Sickness – 1, Body – 0.

Bush Will Work With Congress On Student Loans
That’s good.  I think Congress should lend Bush some money so he can go to college.  We probably should’ve done that a few years ago. 

North Korea Nuclear Talks Eye Goals After Shutdown
I have no idea what this means, but my eye goals are: 1) don’t go blind; and 2) avoid sharp objects.

Disappointed in this post? Yeah, well, they can't all be gems, for fucks sake. Imagine how I feel.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:02 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

As my grandfather said, "Always quit whatever you start."

Wait, maybe that was "Never quit whatever you start."  Oh well, I guess it's too late because I already quit and he's been dead for years. 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 12:47 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Cop A Feel

For my upcoming birthday, Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. bought me tickets for the Police reunion concert tonight.  Even though Sting is a complete tool – I hope he has finally removed that fucking lute from his ass – I have always been a huge fan of the Police.   Along with The English Beat, the Talking Heads and the Ramones, hearing their music always summons my undergraduate years at Kent State during the early 1980’s. 

Like masturbating or discovering huge sums of cash, nostalgia is one of those things I’d rather not experience with other people around.  Music has always been a powerful emotional trigger for me, and seeing a band that provided the soundtrack during my first experiences with beer bongs, interesting women, LSD, and self-esteem is likely to drum up some raw feelings.  Convening with my past is one thing, doing so in an arena full of balding, forty-something yuppie assholes sipping Chardonnay and muffin-topping over their faded blue jeans is another altogether.

I mean, how can I be expected to enjoy remembering who I was when I’m surrounded by reminders of who I am?

P.S. Favorite Police Song and Favorite Police Video

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 12:44 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

When it comes to DVD rentals, Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. and I are like Switzerland; we’re neutral observers in the war between Netflix and Blockbuster, and wish merely to profit from the resulting carnage.   Lately, though, an increasing number of reckless incursions by the imperialists at Blockbuster may force us to finally choose sides.

We love movies.  Since we don’t really watch television, N.S and I will easily go through three or four movies a week.  When Netflix was introduced a few years ago, we thought is was a brilliant idea and immediately signed up.  Since then, the company has always delivered what it promised and we have no complaints whatsoever.  However, we will still occasionally head over to our local Blockbuster store if there is something we suddenly feel compelled to watch, like Ernest Goes To Brunch or the Full House box set. 

Once it became clear to the fascist Blockbuster empire that little start-up Netflix was viable threat – a realization that, in my opinion, took an embarrassingly long period of time – they began attacking.  (I enjoy imagining a board room full of fat, stupid Blockbuster execs shoveling handfuls of Milk Duds and JuJu Bees into their bloated faces as they laugh off the idea of movies by mail).  Mighty Blockbuster’s initial Shock & Awe campaign developed a similar service, offered free trial periods, underpriced their competitor, and inundated the countryside with propaganda.  Surely it is not too far fetched to speculate that the “Mission Accomplished” banners were ready to be hung in the Blockbuster board room shortly after the campaign began.

Unfortunately for them, despite a massive firepower advantage, Blockbuster failed where so many superpowers failed before them: winning hearts and minds.  Netflix was the underdog, the innovator, the party of the people.  When Blockbuster greedily overtaxed citizens with late fees, Netflix eliminated this practice altogether.  When Blockbuster censored titles, Netflix offered unlimited freedom of choice.  Even though Blockbuster has now begun adopting many of these practices, the citizens of the world know that Netflix was the catalyst for real change. And the executives at Blockbuster have come to accept that their plans for a quick, overwhelming victory were ill-conceived, and a long, hard slog lies ahead. 

The new Blockbuster tactic is to use their existing boots-on-the-ground to gain converts one at a time.  Every time we enter our Blockbuster Store, we are literally accosted by the store employees in attempt to sign us up for their movies by mail service.  On a recent visit, after learning we were Netflix subscribers (a response we had hoped would finally make them leave us alone) the store manager recently began lecturing us about the evil ways of their competitor.
 
“Do you know that the people at Netflix have a party every time a Blockbuster store closes?” he asked us with a wounded look on his face?  

That sounds a bit too much like “The Jews eat babies,” “Illegal immigrants are rapists,”* and other desperate lies designed to incite hatred for political purposes. Ham-fisted attempts like this to gain the high moral ground only serve to push us further away. 

Given the turn they are taking, I wouldn’t be surprised to hear Blockbuster threaten that if we don’t support their company, a strip club, complete with rape rooms, will rush in to take their place once they’re gone.  And, once again, they will have chosen the wrong tactic to persuade me.

* Pat Buchanan on Meet The Press back in May 2007.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 03:26 PM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (0)

Saturday night Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. and I arrived at Hollywood Video (HV)in the culmination of our citywide search for disc three of Rescue Me, season 1, our latest obsession. 

As we’re checking out, the HV cashier asks I we would like to donate a dollar to the Starlight Children’s Foundation. N.S and I have both worked for non-profit organizations and, despite what you might think, this has only made us more skeptical, if not cynical.  There are (arguably) good causes and there are good charitable organizations, but they are not always one in the same. And then there are the scams, intentional or otherwise.  As such, we do not give money to organizations we do not know.  Not even a measly dollar.

So I asked the cashier what the Starlight Children’s Foundation does.

“It’s to help sick, little children.”

In the world of charity work, 'sick, little children' is truly a hack bit.  It’s the equivalent of a joke about women who like to shop and men who scratch themselves.  If Bill Engvall starts a charity, it would be to help 'sick, little children.'

“Oh,” I exclaimed, nudging N.S., “It’s for sick children, honey. The little ones.”

N.S. politely told the cashier no and watched me out of the corner of her eye as I gave her a disapproving look.

“Hmph!,” I huffed and turned to the cashier.  “Can I have a sick, little children brochure to go, please?”

 As we’re walking to the car, I read the cover of the brochure out loud to N.S.

“Hollywood Video and the Starlight Children’s Foundation are dedicated to improving the lives of seriously ill children through the power of entertainment.”

“No fucking way!” she blurted.  I love this woman.

“Yep.  Improving lives with the power of entertainment.” I raised my hands to the heavens and roared, “The almighty power!”

“Holy crap.  What a bunch of tools.”  Again, more love from me.

‘Improving lives’ is such a grossly naïve idealistic and presumptuous thing to intend, let alone put in a brochure.  Even in an organization like my employer, one that is attempting to cure a horrific, fatal disease, we don’t presume to improve anyone’s life.  Prolong it or make it easier, but not improve it.  An individual life can’t be measured like the energy efficiency of an electrical appliance or the cleaning power of laundry detergent.

Speaking of power, what in name of Blue Collar Television is the 'the power of entertainment?'  Did I not read a Tony Robbins book or something?  Is it the power to sit on your fat ass and stare at colored pixels?  Does it have something to do with scientology (No, I’m not going to capitalize that crazy shit.)?  I like movies. I like music. I like Rescue Me, season one, so far.  I like entertainment.  However, in my experience, the only power entertainment has is to help me avoid doing the shit I really ought to be doing.  

Inside the brochure, what you learn is that Hollywood Video and the Starlight Children’s Foundation are actually doing.

“In hospitals across the country, Hollywood Video is building Starlight Fun Centers: mobile entertainment units equipped with a DVD and Nintendo Game Cube.”

H.V. is 'building' a television on a cart in the same way that you might build a peanut butter and ketchup sandwich.   First, it takes the same amount of effort.  Second, they’re looking at their leftovers – outdated copies of DVDs and video games – and saying, “We’ve got all these movies and they’ve got all those sick, little children.  Let’s clumsily jam them together and shove it down everyone’s throat.”

To be fair, for a chronically ill child, a moment of normalcy or at least some distraction isn’t a bad thing.  I’ve not even against H.V. attempting to find a creative way to write off their used inventory.  But they better not brag that they are improving lives and they damn sure better not ask me to pay for it. 

The only real value in charity work is outcomes, not intentions. H.V.’s Starlight Children’s Foundation is not a solution to a need, it’s a marketing gimmick to get a tax write-off and build goodwill.  What worse is that H.V. is blatantly using of emotional and sensational language to convince people to purchase their shoddy, shallow product. 

Now that I think about it, maybe that truly is the 'power of entertainment.'

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 10:03 PM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

Here are a few video picks to enjoy this 4th of July when you're in the hospital waiting room while your stupid pyro kid/brother-in-law/spouse is getting his fingers re-attached.

Music

Health Education

Public Speaking

Humor

Family Values

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 01:29 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Successfully plotted to have Dick York replaced on Bewitched because, according to J. Edgar Hoover, he “acted kind of queer.”

Infiltrated “comedian” Gallagher’s road crew to steal and exploit his exploding fruit technology for military purposes.   The obtained knowledge served as the initial basis for the “Star Wars” missile-defense system.  Unfortunately, after spending billions of dollars, it was determined that the enemy could safeguard their missiles by simply covering them with sheets of plastic.

Performed an illegal lobotomy on a young researcher named Brit Hume, unwittingly setting the stage for his future career as a Fox News broadcaster.

Recruited radio personality Rick Dees as a covert agent and used his cover to test mass hypnosis by inserting subliminal messages in his song “Disco Duck.”  The experiment ultimately failed when the population began to retch violently and stab sharpened #2 pencils into their ears whenever the song was played.

Turned Jefferson Airplane into Jefferson Starship, and watched idly as the nation mourned.

In the mid 1970’s, used cutting-edge bionic technology to develop an actual Six Million Dollar Man (The television show was CIA propaganda intended to gauge the public’s acceptance of the secret program and to persuade future funding from congress.)  Unfortunately, government waste being what it was/is, six million dollars was only enough to pay for a bionic elbow and one testicle.  Other than being an exceptional tennis player and gratuitous sport-fucker (even by 1970 standards), the actual “super agent” proved to be of little use.

UPDATE: Added link to the real song "Disco Duck" for young people like ACW who have no idea how truly fucking awful the seventies actually were.  Click at your own risk.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:20 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

“While we grieve for our friend, George, and his untimely passing, let us remember that the Lord works in mysterious ways, and that he has a plan for all of us.

"And now, let us here from George’s longtime roommate, Crunchy.”

A few muffled sniffles carry across the quiet room.

"Please, please, take your seats, no applause is necessary. Ha ha.   Anyway, um, let me just find my speech.  Now where did I put that damn thing?  Oh, here it is.  (ahem)  Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness the holy matrimony...uh oh, wrong speech.  Just kidding, folks.  Remember, the first three letters of funeral are F-U-N.  Am I right?

"Seriously, what can I say about a guy like George? Well, I could say that he was a brilliant inventor, a great author, and a fantastic cook, but then I would be a liar. George was none of those things.  He liked to eat bugs, had absolutely no command of the English language, and the only thing he ever invented was a gelatinous hairball that could choke a fucking horse…oops, sorry Reverend. 

"What I can say is that George liked to sleep.  A lot.  I mean, Jesus, I’ve never known a guy that slept as much as George, and I’ve had roommates that were potheads and mental patients.  The guy could be walking across the room, stop, and just fall asleep right there on the spot.  As far as George was concerned, narcoleptics are a bunch of subconscious tourists.  His ability to sleep was his defining quality.  It’s also probably why he hated loud noises so much.

"Like the rest of us, though, George also had his personal struggles.  His lifelong battle with loose anal glands made it hard for George to maintain friendships, not to mention clean underpants.  Ha ha.  Seriously, it really was awful.  George could lay a stink on you that would make your eyes bleed. You just had to believe in your heart that he didn’t mean it.  

"He also has his demons, which, unfortunately, were the reason he was taken from us so early.  Nobody likes to talk about it, but George was an addict.  Plain and simple.  It started early in life for him when he began scratching doormats.  Some behavioral experts like to say that this is a gateway activity, and that if George had gotten a handle on this, it might not have escalated to scratching rugs, woodwork and, ultimately, our brand new furniture. Unfortunately, his indulgent upbringing did not provide him the kind of self-discipline that is a precondition to changing individual behavior. 

"Only when the final upholstery damage had been done did George finally realize the error of his ways, but by then it was too late.  So desperate he must’ve been to end his evil, destructive habits that he chose to hurl himself against the wall repeatedly until he lost consciousness and died.  While it remains a mystery all to us, including the fine inspectors from the Animal Protective League – several of whom are here today taking notes -  how a cat could grasp the concept of suicide, let alone perform it,  I’d like to suggest that instead of focusing on the terrible ending, we should take heart in the fact that, in the end, George sacrificed himself so that others could relax and watch television in the comfort of nice new furniture.  In the words of the really cool Federation assassin in the film Serenity, which is based on the brilliant but commercially unsuccessful series Firefly, ‘This is a good death.’

"Anyway, for those of you who are religious, George is in a better place now, where the vacuum cleaners are silent, the bugs are juicy, and everything is covered in carpeting.  For the rest of us, well, he’s just dead.  I hate to end on a sour note, but I’m not changing my philosophy just to bandy about some pedestrian, greeting card banality to all you suspicious fucks.

"Back to you, Rev, and sorry about all the F-bombs.  Peace!"

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 07:41 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)