…where Carlos Mencia continues to be on television, but the Asylum Street Spankers have to settle for YouTube.
Seriously, where’s the justice?
I am a complete and utter softie when it comes to puppies. If I could, I would get the puppy suit that Andy Richter once wore on his show: a giant overcoat covered in pockets, each filled with an adorable (thought probably terrified) puppy. They just make everything better.
Which is why I’m going to be using the Daily Puppy Widget whenever I write about something that infuriates me. Not as a prophylactic against the fury, but as a soothing balm to ease my jangled nerves and focus my words into a clear, cogent point with the heat of a thousand dying suns.
Plus, c’mon…puppies.
So, what would schadenfreude taste like?
Apparently, it’s “dark. Rich. And oh so bittersweet.”
So, the kitchen sink backed up yesterday. This seems to happen every year, almost around the same time. The days are getting shorter, the tomatoes are giving their last fruit, and the kitchen is filled with loose pipe and my furious obscenities as I snake out a year’s worth of…
Well, I’ve never known the technical term for what lives inside pipes. Mung is a better term for that combination of dirt and grease and oil that gets in your drivetrain. And it’s not’s exactly excrement (thank you God for making sure it’s the kitchen sink and not the toilet that backs up), though the color and smell are just as evil as night soil. No, it’s something alien, something wrong, something that should probably be studied by the Defence Department as a non-lethal weapon, because I’m pretty sure if someone started flinging bucketsful of pipe glop at me, I’d want to stop fighting just to bathe myself in Doctor Bronner’s with a vinegar chaser.
And, of course, I didn’t fix the problem. The kitchen smells like ass, my hands smell like ass, the tools smell like ass, and some guy with loose pants is going to make a couple hundred bucks tomorrow. I swear, I should’ve been a plumber.
Part of being a recovering Catholic means that there are some things that are so drilled into me that I’m not sure they’ll ever go away. I still have a thing for ritual. I still have respect for nuns (especially if they teach. Especially if they teach something other than religion). And I’m still a glutton for punishment. And since self-flagellation isn’t good for the complexion (it might improve circulation, but, oh, those unsightly discipline scars), that means I listen to talk radio instead.
We have a surplus of on-air bile in Los Angeles, but my favorites for when I want to feel the hate are the crew at KFI. I’ve written about them before, though not in detail. The 7pm pass-off from John & Ken to John Ziegler is an especially magical time, like watching the changing of the guard at Buckingham, except the guards have been replaced by drunken Florida State communications majors, the palace is a bar on Wet T-Shirt Night, and the military commands are now a chorus of WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOs and Show us your tits. There’s something about how mean they are and the casual nature of their animosity towards, well, everybody that makes me glad they’re too unambitious to run for office. Because they’d harness the Stupid Hate Vote like nobody’s business.
Last night, however, I got to hear something wondrous: the sound of jackholes eating their own.
The SciFi Network has done a lot of stupid crap. Axeing SciFiction, for starters, without giving the site a chance to make money. Putting on pro wrestling, that’s another dumb move. And don’t get me started on Mansquito.
But when they do something right, they do it really right. Like this: ten streaming Battlestar Galactica shorts, all leading up to the season premiere. Nothing advertises a product like the product itself, and after a summer of B-movies, we get a sweet, sweet taste of action. Now, if they’d only let people download and spread ‘em around…