Funny. I had thought her new look was familiar. I just couldn’t place it until now.
Of course, it could have been worse. She could have copied that dude from the Operation game.
Check out the onesheet display poster for the new Aqua Teen Hunger Force flick.
We’ve missed a heck of an opportunity, folks. A heck on an opportunity.
I’m talking about the commercial for the new Ford Edge. You’ve probably seen it. It’s memorable. Why? This is an automobile that is so amazing and edgy that it can DRIVE ON THE EDGE OF BUILDINGS! Of course, it can’t. Not really. And the commercial even takes a moment to say just that. Look closely, at the bottom of the screen, about 6 seconds in. There’s a warning: “Yes, this is a fantasy. Vehicles can’t really drive on buildings.”
Blast it all! This is the missed opportunity. For had the carmakers and the admakers seen fit NOT to clue us in to one of the most basic laws of physics, then someone may have actually tried to duplicate this feat of four-wheel prowess. And to that I say, “Fantastic!” Sure. I think any idiot who believes that cars can drive on the edge of buildings should be allowed to try it. That way, we can weed them out of the gene pool with the utmost expediency! It’s Darwinism at its best, people. I mean, if there is a blowhole so bereft of intelligence as to believe that if he gets into his new ride then he can go cruisin’ atop skyscrapers, then I sure as heck don’t want him marrying my daughter and continuing his lineage into the next generation. I don’t even want him to adopt. I want him voted off the planet pronto. And allowing his own stupidity to do the job works great for me.
Of course, a few of you are certain to point out that this warning is merely there to avoid lawsuits. Because you know that, as sure as sugar sweetens, the moment this moron takes a Thelma and Louise off the Chrysler Building his family would have some shyster filing a suit in federal court. And that may be ultimately why our species is doomed. If justice were honestly what fueled our society and we really wanted to ensure that humanity was composed only of those fit and deserving to carry us forward into that Brave New World, then the moment a lawsuit like this was brought to light, a judge would go: “Some buffoon drove his car of the top of a building because he saw it in a commercial?! Well, if he hadn’t have done that, he would’ve drank Liquid Plumber or tried to stop a train with his teeth or something. The ad’s not responsible for his demise; his stupidity is! Good riddance to bad rubbish. Case dismissed!”
That’s the world I wanna live in! The one where imbeciles are allowed to make the planet a better place by simply leaving it.
I was lingering around the dairy aisle in the Kroger a while back. It’s not something I’m wont to do. I’m lactose intolerant. Not that I can’t eat dairy – I just don’t like it or have the patience for it.
Anyway, I started looking at the ice cream, noting the various brands and flavors and such. Ben & Jerry’s, Healthy Choice, Sealtest. And then I saw an off-brand of frozen confection that looked somewhat interesting. I dunno, the packaging seemed unique or something. My eyes landed on one container in particular. It was made by Valley Rich. I read it once. Twice. Three times. I couldn’t believe that I was reading it right. It just seemed so odd and out of place.
Superman flavored ice cream.
Not Superman Brand. Not Superman-Inspired. No, Superman FLAVORED. It supposedly had a mixture of banana, strawberry and something called Blue Moon, if I recall correctly. (Blue Moon?! What the hell?) But, there it was, right there on the label. Superman flavored.
What’s the deal with that? Did I miss a memo? Did somewhere along the line we, as an ice cream-consuming society, decide to name this triad of tastes after the Man of Steel, kind of like that bland Strawberry-Chocolate-Vanilla concoction that some dyslexic named after a former Emperor of France? If so, then who decided that the Metropolis Marvel would taste like this? Has anyone, aside from Lois Lane or maybe Krypto the Superdog, actually licked the Last Son of Krypton? Wouldn’t one of the world’s preeminent super-heroes taste of something more dynamic, more daring, like Chunky Monkey or something? Does DC Comics know about this? Does Nietzsche?
Superman-flavored ice cream.
That’s just wrong.
A word of warning. Never haggle with a girl scout over the cost of Thin Mints. They budge on price as much as a Saturn dealer does. Plus they get stroppy when you try to pull the Jedi mind trick on ‘em. “I think these cookies are $1.50 per box and not $3.” Nope, doesn’t work. And they are much shorter than you are, so when they kick – ouch.
Not saying I got into a scuffle with a gaggle of Brownies outside Borders Books. I’m just saying it wasn’t the best week ever.
Quick! Click on this cartoon. You won’t believe your eyes.
This is the actual, unaltered Hi & Lois strip that ran on February 7, 2000 on funny pages all across the country. Honest!
Just set aside the boundary issues they have in the Flagston household for a minute. (Seriously! Who showers with the bathroom door wide open – aside from creepy uncles and online coeds you have to pay to watch?) The joke that’s being made here is obviously … well, you know. Chip is a teenage boy who likes to take looooong showers. Wink wink. What other possible gag could Browne be going for here? Check out the kid’s smile … his relaxed posture … that frenzied lather action at the crotch. He’s not making subtle references to the Teapot Dome Scandal.
Tsk. And people complain about Doonesbury.
What’s on my mind? What have I been watching? What have I been doing? What have I been talking about? The Hot Ten will bring you up to speed.
NJ CIVIL UNIONS. The Garden State makes it legal for same-sex couples to get a civil union. A major step forward for civil rights. The downside is you gotta be in New Jersey to do it.
NON-BINDING RESOLUTION. The political equivalent of holding your breath until you turn blue – or bitching about the cool kids in school on your MySpace page.
COACH K’S 700TH VICTORY. A coaching milestone. Duke should be proud of this paragon of coaching virtue – urp – oh crap, I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.
THE DIXIE CHICKS. Fresh off a multiple Grammy win, the trio finds itself still banned from many Country stations. Who knew rednecks could hold a grudge for so long? Anyone who’s ever mentioned the Civil War in the South, that’s who!
TAINTED PEANUT BUTTER. Sometimes I feel I’ve got to run away, I’ve got to get away from the pain that you drive into my colon with salmonella-contaminated creaminess.
NAPS & CHOCOLATE. Turns out both are good for you. Awesome. If they add comic books and fear of commitment to that list, I’ll live to be a zillion!
ANNA NICOLE’S BABY’S DADDY. Who is the father and does it matter? I mean, really … can any answer ever honestly hope to ensure a stable, non-therapy-laden future for the kid?
ASTEROID HEADED FOR EARTH. It may strike in 2036. NASA is already constructing a two-dimensional triangular ship that fires blasts from its nose. Everyone! Start saving your quarters now!
NORBIT. What fresh hell is this? Dammit, Eddie! I’m still recovering from The Adventures of Pluto Nash and Daddy Day Care.
BRITNEY SHAVES HER HEAD. Uhhhhh. So now the carpet can match the drapes?
I have a confession to make. I know it’s wrong. I know I should probably be ashamed for doing it. I know that my friends will more than likely not support me when they find out.
But I can’t help myself. I just enjoy it far too much. And, yeah, I’ll admit that I don’t care whether it’s looked down upon, whether people admonish me or whether anyone will ever truly understand. So there. It’s what I am, part of me, that which makes me who I truly am.
So, I’ll say it. Own up.
I like Ace of Base.
Call it innocuous Euro pop. Call them a cut-rate ABBA. Call me a silly prole who wouldn’t know good music from a hole in the head. Go on, I’ve heard it all before. Doesn’t matter. I love the Swedish pop foursome, their jumpy triple bass sound, their chart-friendly combination of pop and reggae. From The Sign to Don’t Turn Around, I just cannot get enough of Jenny, Malin, Jonas and Ulf. When I hear their songs on the radio, on TV, wherever, I dance, I sing, I jive and get down in a manner unparalleled with any other pop supergroup. Britney doesn’t do it for me, not like that. ‘N Sync leave me cold in comparison. Not even my obsession with The Knack and Rick Springfield measures in pure intensity to my longing for Ace of Base.
Oh, sure, the band’s continued inability to negotiate English-language lyrics with anything approaching subtlety is notorious and, outside of Cruel Summer, 1998’s Flowers was a disappointingly bland affair, not to mention their stateside popularity may be solely attributed to the heavy PR push of both distributor Arista and then pop-video record company lackey MTV, but, hey, their transatlantic chart success speaks for itself, as do multi-platinum albums.
So, scoff if you will. Mock if you must. I stand firm. I stand tall. I stand by my Tech Noir foursome.
Ace of Base, you rock!!
Well, maybe “rock” is too strong of a term.
Ace of Base, you promote generally healthy pop attitudes with your wholesome club-happy hits!
Uh … man. Do you think there’s a twelve-step program for this type of ridiculous addiction?
I recall my first love as if it were yesterday. I even remember when I first laid eyes on her. March 15, 1977. A Tuesday. Love at first sight, yes, of course. And forever after.
I was young, naive, eager to believe of possibilities both tender and daring. She was older, more mature, scintillating, magnificent, amazing. A Grace Kelly charm with a raw beauty and spunky coquettishness beyond my wildest imaginings. Perfection.
And yet, sadly, it was an unrequited love, as are most, truthfully. I knew from the start that our love could never be, not really, not how I wanted and not how I imagined in that tiny place inside where heart, mind and soul merge.
Over the years, we grew apart and, ultimately, as loves past are wont to lean, I lost track of her. Certainly, I wish her the best, hope that she’s happy and fulfilled, wherever she may be. And, often, in those silent moments of reflection when I’m left to myself and my thoughts and memories, I recall her with great fondness and ponder what might have been.
And so, with a misty eye and a swelling heart, I just wanted to take a moment to acknowledge my first true love: Nancy Bradford, fifth oldest sibling on “Eight Is Enough.” Happy Valentine’s Day, Nancy. A very special part of my heart will always be yours.
And happy Valentine’s Day to you folks too.
Maybe I’m just spending way too much time watching Boomerang but I think Ranger Smith should’ve used aversion therapy on Yogi Bear like they did to Malcolm McDowell in “A Clockwork Orange.” Then we’d have no more incidents like the time Yogi and Boo Boo stole the picnic baskets and savaged that couple while crooning “Singin’ in the Rain.” And that, my brothers, is true ultra-violence to send a nice, warm, vibraty feeling all through your guttiwuts.