Au de Jedi.

What does Star Wars smells like?
I bet it smells like a nerf-herder. Nothing in the Star Wars Universe smells good. Do you think Luke Skywalker smells good, growing up on a farm on a desert planet? Luke reeks of permanent ass-sweat. Obi Wan too. That old bastard wears a dark robe with a hood in 150 degree heat. It's like finding a rotting old piece of ham behind a radiator. Chewie smells like a wet dog mixed with caked shit. Chewie is naked. Have you ever seen his asshole? No. Why? It's covered in hair. Every time he takes a shit, he shits all over his ass-hair. You can't wipe that away. He has to shower that away, and he's an eight-foot tall beast covered with greasy hair. He doesn't shower. Hans Solo? You can smell his S.T.D.s from outside the cantina. Same with Lando.
Darth Vader? He's a burnt, rotting corpse inside of a tin can. His entire body is a mass of pussing lesions. He smells of motor oil and the Holocaust. The only shocker in the entire Star War series is how Luke didn't puke when he pulled off his father's mask and breathed in that perfume.
Even the Death Star reeks. It's a completely man-made construct, with vents leading down to a trash compactor that's a muddy pit of garbage with some unknown, segmented one-eyed beast roaming freely around. That probably explains why all Storm/Clone Troopers wear full masks.
Princess Leia? Remember when Luke rescued her from her cell on the Death Star? Did you see a toilet in that scene? Did you see a toilet in the entire Star Wars saga? No. She was going in the corner.
Yoda? He lives in a swamp, and he's ancient. He's fucking green, for God's sake. That might not even be his original colour.
The worst? Jaba the Hutt. You can't tell me that a thousand-pound slug with a lust for slave girls doesn't smell like seven layers of hell stuffed in a burito and left out in the sun.
A Star Wars perfume is the anti-sex. Even if it's intended for children, that fragrance will linger with them for the rest of their lives. No matter what their sex, even the wild beasts of the forest will not rut with them, no matter how popular their character in Twilight is.

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If You’ve Got an Issue, Here’s a Tissue.

My connection speed while playing Call of Duty: World at War online was so terrible I couldn’t barely play over the last five day, which incidentally counted for double exp. points as part of an event. I thought this was an issue with my wireless router, but as soon as the event ended, I went from one bar to five, so I was getting edged out by the sheer volume of players, which according to the stats wasn’t anything spectacular. There could have been an issue revolving around the downloadable content that was just released, and which I paid for, but could barely use because of a slow connection.
Because of this, I went back to other games, like Fable II and GTA IV: Lost and Damned. I finished every mission and race but one. In Fable II: I levelled my secondary “Evil” character up through the remaining post-endgame quests and unlocked the final Achievement for Knothole Island. However, the game froze on me twice due to playing it from the disc. I had erased it off of my hard drive to save room, which was a mistake. After re-installing it, all those issues vanished. It reminded me of how many game in the past year have been released “broken,” like Fallout 3, Spore, Fable II, etc., etc.
Even playing the extremely mediocre Family Game Night trial on Live Arcade caused a freeze when I selected, “View Room.” This isn’t even a game. It’s the framework for a game.

Comicdom I

Over at a website I frequent called toplessrobot.com a question was posed, “What is the worst single issue comic you’ve ever read?” A daunting question if there ever was one, especially given all the issues I’ve poured over the years from my adolescence to adulthood. The example given for worst issue by the blogger is issue 10 of “Secret Origins,” by DC Comics, featuring the Phantom Stranger, dated Jan. 1987.

Shortly thereafter, I came across the exact issue via a torrent by pure happenstance. Perhaps another reader of this blog posted it to back the article’s claims. Or else it was perhaps of the author of the comic and the coinciding popularity of one of his projects. The author’s name? Alan Moore. Author of the Watchmen, the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, V for Vendetta, From Hell, and Hellblazer. I mention these works because every one of them have been turned to film. Audience will know “Hellblazer,” better as, “Constantine.” Six comics, six movies; two of which were terrible.
It is because of these works, and many others, that Alan Moore is one of the most respected writers in the industry, despite his certain eccentricities and his failure to “play ball,” as it were. While having huge commercial success in Hollywood, Alan distances himself as far as possible from his movie adaptation, often times trying to sabotage or ignore the productions.

So a man who tries to approach the ridiculous topic of men in tight spandex upper-cutting crooks and criminals in a thoughtful, and intelligent manner must be above reproach.
Wrong.
“Secret Origins,” issue 10 is an example of how one author can fall into the dangerous traps of placing one’s face firmly between their own butt cheeks and proceeding to immerse their entire heads into their rectums.
I'm only four pages in, and I'm already finding it abhorrent with it's obvious use of parallels between the "Subway Angels," (a rip-off of 80's style Neighbourhood Watch gangs with an attitude) going down into underground New York to find new recruits vs.. Ertigan the Angel trying to win support in Heaven for a rebellion against God pre. Satan getting cast into Hell. "Angels" and "angels?" Rebelling? Going into the hellish "underground?" That's only four pages. That's a short amount of time to get so far, far up one's ass.
The fact that Phantom Stranger is dressed in a blue suit with a flowing cap and gold clasp and chain walking around the streets of New York at night and no one seems to notice, or care, or mug him for said gold clasp is quite astonishing.
There's been a recurring trend in comics for decades now with writers involving the homeless and "Chuds" in their stories. It goes beyond the Morlocks in X-Men. I once read a hardcover Spider-Man novel featuring Venom (which is probably still in my possession somewhere), which is centred entirely around Chuds. I can also remember a Venom mini-series where he goes underground and becomes some sort of protector of the Chuds. Then there's Spawn, (*shudder*) who's the protect of all these bums in whatever the hell that alley was called. The common theme is how the writers build up some kind of sympathy for the plight of the homeless, then instil a sense in you that you should put your comic down and take to the streets to help these poor, innocent people... who will probably stab you. Now, this is a noble ideal: but it's an ideal firmly imbedded in one's ass. The writers, thusly, -if they can even be called that- have their own heads in their asses.
Secondly, if you're trying to retell Paradise Lost, and you're not John Milton, or an English teacher teaching their class about John Milton, you probably shouldn't attempt it. You also probably shouldn't add small "b"-List super heroes like Phantom Stranger and Ertigan the Demon to the story as well.
Further proof of bad writing is immediately evident on the second panel, which features the word: "jive." I realize this is written in 1987, but still... but still…

Beyond that, the artwork is commendable, especially for the title page. The moody subways setting adjacent to pages of Heaven show a broad range. It nearly redeems the subject matter at hand.
All in all, it looks like Alan Moore was trying to stuff 20 gallons of shit into a one gallon milk jug.
This pretentiousness frequents many of his works. Take for instance either “The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen,” or, “From Hell.” Both works borrow classical characters like Allan Quartermain  and Jack the Ripper. Now: a comic author working for a major company by necessity must borrow another’s character and make it their own. If you’re writing for the Amazing Spider-Man, odds are you’re going to have to put Spider-Man in there. Alan Moore does this with every character he can find, or get his greasy hands on. He’s basically a home wrecker of fictional characters.
Then there’s the subject matter he often implants in his comics to make them, “edgy.” Most writers just slap in some scenes of extreme violence. Maybe some major character dies, or the protagonist comes within seconds of killing someone with their bare hands. Alan Moore puts rape in his comics up the whazoo. How much?
The Watchmen: super hero on super heroine rape.
The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen: man on Invisible Man rape.
From Hell: rape and murder.
V for Vendetta: attempted rape of a 16 year-old.
There’s more, of course, but I can’t be bothered to find it all. He even wrote a series where classical children’s characters like Alice from Wonderland and Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz went around fucking everything. I’m sure there was some rape in there as well.

A Sad and Lonely War

I’ve been playing Call of Duty: World at War all day, because there’s very little else to do. I’ve been playing new map packs and trying to bring my level back up. Somehow I managed to pull of a 23 kill streak with a tank. I have no idea how that compares to everyone else. I’m guessing the best someone could get in a ranked match is 60.
I’m noticing a lot of lag, though. Yesterday, I couldn’t do better than a yellow bar. Today, I’ve got three green bars, but as I’m shooting point-blank at someone with a heavy machine gun, they’re walking away unaffected, and then they one-shot kill me with some puny rifle. Then I get to watch myself die through their eyes in the post-action camera, and it’ll show me a completely different version of events where my gun is pointed somewhere off in the distance and I only get one bullet off instead of the fifty-seven I actually shot. Or else I’ll watch their bodies shake from the bullets I’m pumping in them, but they miraculously get a kill-shot off.

The Whitest Kids U’Know vs. Kids in the Hall

I’ve finished watching nearly every available episode for The Whitest Kids U’Know, which is criminally not available on my TV listings. The comparison to the Canadian comedy troupe Kids in the Hall is considerable. Both troupes, like Monty Python, are male dominated affairs where the male actors often portray even the women, like in classic Shakespearean theatre, only somehow more gay. As I write this, I’m watching Kids in the Hall actor Scott Thomson, a gay male, mounting his straight male counterpart, who is dressed in drag. Comedy ensues.
One of the main difference between the two is how they approach the topic of women. Kids in the Hall are reverent of women, who often seem like they’re impersonating their own sisters and mothers. The Whitest Kids U’Know treat women like a different species. Phrases like, “knuckle sandwiches,” come into play. Strangely, though, the Whitest Kids U’Know look better in drag. Wig technology has come a long way since the early 90’s.

Game Night

For some reason, the connection speed on my 360 is terrible tonight, which means I can’t play the new maps I just downloaded for Call of Duty: World at War. It’s basically the ideal time to play: everyone is on equal footing as they learn how to exploit the new terrain and there’s double exp. points to be earned. I just traded in all my previous exp. and weapon upgrades in order to earn Prestige Level 1. According to a Achievement pop-up, if I level up to 65 nine more times, I can unlock game points. That’s not happening in this life, or the next. I was pretty choked giving in my favourite weapons and going back to basics just so I could have my ass kicked for another 35 levels until the good stuff makes itself available.
I also downloaded the Hasbro Games Night after seeing that it was, “free.” I was hoping for Xbox to finally throw me a bone and give me the equivalent of a browser game for free, but instead I was treated to four “trial games,” such as Yatzee, Battleship, Scrabble, and Connect Four. The complexities of keeping your ship placement a secret from your local Player 2, etc. in Battleship is solved by a screen popping up to tell you to look away. There’s also about fifty pop-up screens explaining the extremely basic controls, such as pushing the left button will move your cursor to the left. Each game only gives you a few minutes of play. They games themselves cost 800 points apiece, which is the equivalent of $10.00. Meaning: It costs $40 to buy all four of the available games, plus there’s three more games yet to be made available, but will likely cost the same, meaning it costs $70 to buy all the games being displayed at the moment. You could nearly buy all the real board games for that amount.
Sadly: I have Scrabble in a box across the room, but instead I’m playing it on my 360.
I purchased Fire Emblem: Shadow Dragon for my DS, and it’s kicking my ass on Normal. It’s a turn-based strategy RPG. The problem with the game is that death is death in the game, meaning the characters you lose in battle are gone. These characters also have a place in the story: so if you have a certain character, you might engage an enemy of the battlefield and convince them to join you instead of fighting. Don’t have that character? Then you can’t get the new character. It also forces you to kill some of your characters at certain points. So you obsess over keeping every one of your characters as safe as possible for the whole match, forcing you to reset when you misstep.

CONSPIRACY!

Tom Hanks and Sean Penn. Both Best-Actor Academy Award winners.
What did they win their Academy Awards for? Playing retards and gay guys.
Tom Hanks: “Forest Gump,” and, “Philadelphia.”
Sean Penn: “I am Sam,” and, “Milk.”
Other parallels? As retards, they both struggled with their rights to raise children. As gay guys, they both deal with issues of their own morality and being ostracized from society due to their sexual orientation.
Fact: Being an intelligent man playing a loveable retard, or a straight man playing a gay man will get you an Academy Award. Being a woman playing anything will get you paid less.

That's not a gun in my pants, that's a sword in my belt.

LiveJournal Tags: beltswords

Did you know that you can create new invention simply by rearranging words in an existing products? That's what the makers of the belt sword did. It's not a belt for your sword like back in olden days, because that shit doesn't cut it in the 21st Century. This is a new product, featuring revolutionary scrap sheet metal technology. It's a belt that bends around your waist, ready to be released at a moment's notice, or without any notice at all when you bend over to pick up the newspaper and it rips out of it's sheath.

In the realm of concealed weapons: there are swords in canes. Putting a sword in a belt is the next logical step.
Honestly, though, this is the worst thing since sliced bread. First off: why do you need a sword, especially one that's going to break in ten seconds? Is it for self defence? What kind of fucked up fantasy world do you live in where you have to constantly fend off attacks with a sword? Here's what would happen if you ever pulled out a belt sword in public: you'd be killed. Either the guy trying to mug you is going to kill you, (because it takes like 1/2 a second to get over the surprise of someone pulling out a sword, and another 1/8th of a second to squeeze a trigger) or the cops will just shoot you later. You might even kill yourself, because this thing doesn't look safe at all. What are you going to do: just casually kill someone and then put the sword back? You don't think anyone would get suspicious seeing some dude all decapitated (assuming this piece of crap can cut through a neck, or even pierce the skin) and then seeing you all covered in blood? What about a sword-on-sword fight? Your piece of tinfoil isn't going to cut it, Aragorn.

You can't even L.A.R.P. is this thing. Do you think your D.M. is going to allow belt swords? Fuck no.
Do you think you're going to sneak this thing on a plane? You're going to have to take your belt off for the metal detector, and no matter how dumb that lady from security is, she's going to take one look at that belt and cuff you.
Also: Why are you trying to sell sword using trannies?

Are you trying to feature one of the belt swords advantages? Do-it-yourself sex-change operations? Because let me tell you: This sword will cut your dick off. That blade is coming out right above your Doc Johnson and the Boys from Berlin, and it's not going to get along with them. Not at all. You shouldn't be surprised when you're trying to impress your friends in their parent's basement by showing them your new toy, and your dick comes flying off. After all, you're whipping out a piece of razor-sharp sheet metal from around your waist, and you're a bit of a fatty.
What happens if it's Thanksgiving: you've just finished dinner and you're leaning back in your chair and undoing your belt buckle. All of a sudden, your sword springs out of it's own accord and spikes through Aunt Gertrude's eye. Me: I'd play it cool, and ask, "Where the fuck did that sword come from? It must be ninjas!" Then, pretending to fear for my own life, I'd make my escape. Your Cousin Billy saw what happened, though, and he'll have to be dealt with: only, your belt sword is in your Aunt's face. What do you do now, hot shot? What do you do?
Shoot the hostage.

Prestigious!

Having just reached the highest level in Call of Duty: World at War online, as well as having beaten the game proper, here's what the game has taught me about World War II:
-The greatest threat to our soldiers during combat was having their dicks ripped off by rabid dogs.
-Many veterans were, in fact 12 year olds, who would proudly proclaim to their comrades that they were drunk.
-Tanks could be circumvented merely by jumping over exploding tank shells.
-The Japanese had developed a secret technology that allowed them to merge into rocks, whereas the Germans could hover in midair, high above the battlefield.
-Being shot wasn't that serious, and in fact a soldier could fully recover by crouching down behind a crate for a few seconds.
-Russians, Germans and Japanese all spoke fluent English when ordering their troops.
-While many soldiers were equipped with headsets, none of them used this technology to coordinate an attack, and instead chose to place their mics near speakers blaring, "I'm on a boat!"
-Women did not exist during this time.
Fascinating, don't you think?

Bastard Fish

We decided it was high-time that the boy have his own pet, so we went with something small. A 5.5 Gallon Tank and two small feeder fish, which were named Dorothy and George. Promptly and within the space of a week, the fish began to die. Red spots appeared on their scales. We got medicine which we administered in the correct doses, and I cleaned the tank on a more than regular basis, removing 25% of the water at a time. Still, they continued to die. Their tails were eaten away. Red spots gave way to white fungus growing off of their fins. Near the end, Dorothy couldn't swim anymore, and hence couldn't eat. I tried extraordinary measure to try and save her, by placing her in a separate bowl with a higher concentration of medicine, and held her in the fish net near the surface to try and feed her, but to no avail. Soon I had to explain to the boy that his fish had, "Left," to which he asked, "Where?" to which I replied, "Away." George meanwhile looked like he could make a recovery, he was swimming, if a bit erratically, and his fungus had cleared up. The next day, it was back, and he was much in the same state as Dorothy. I tried another water change to see if it would help matter, along with additional beneficial chemicals I had not previously used, like Cycle and Waste Control. It died shortly.
After completely washing every inch of the tank and it's ornaments, we went out and got two new fish, slightly larger. One was orange and white, and one was white. After about three hours, I passed by the tank, seeing only the one fish. I tried searching for the other, but reasoned it must be hiding. Another hour later, I come by again, and look more closely this time. The fish is found lying on the floor, quite dead. It had leapt from it's bowl, which is quite the feat considering there's an inch or so between the surface of the water and the edge of the aquarium. So in the space of three weeks, I've lost three fish. In the past, I've had fish which live nine years past their expected life spans, but I guess I don't have the magic anymore.

Bearrorism

It has come to my attention that wild bears roaming deeper into the cityscape in search of food has become an increasing problem as of late. Cute news stories about bears opening doors to enter Subway restaurants end tragically with said bears being shot. I say that these animals need not be destroyed needlessly, nay, for they can aid us in our struggle against terrorism.
The idea is simple: bears, in bear suits. You remember the bear suit, of course, and probably the man who made it. This is not a suit in the guise of a bear, but rather a hand-crafted suit of armour capable of taking a bear swat to the face and leaving the wearer intact. Yet, the suit it cumbersome and heavy, and it's better suited for a creature of greater strength, like say: a bear. An armoured bear is the ultimate weapon. In the history of Man Vs. Nature, no man has ever taken down a bear without a knife, a bow, a gun, or perhaps a rock. What happens when those weapons become useless? The bear wins.

So why not let them win? We should be capturing these beasts when they trespass on our land, then equip them with special armour. What comes next is pure genius:
We fly them to Afghanistan, but not before we deliver a special care package of salmon, berries, and honey. Terrorist will collect these items and retreat with them back into their caves. Then we drop the bears. The bears will naturally seek out a cave to make their new dens. There, they will find terrorists, heavy and groaning with Pacific fresh salmon, and dripping with honey.
All hell breaks loose. Bears 1/Terrorists 0.
But what of the greatest terrorist of all, Osama Bin Laden? Better yet, call him, "Salmon Bin Laden", which is what we will tell our alpha bear we've specially trained to seek out and destroy him. This bear will have the most advanced armour know to man, and shall be dubbed, "Iron Bear." A bear is one thing: a bear with a flame thrower and jetpack is another.

If you think this is just shameful animal cruelty, think again. 1: The bears are protected with armour. 2: The bears are being fed a delicious meal. 3: The bears get their own caves to live in.
After all, what's the worst that can happen?

Bombo!

As I predicted, the inaugural episode of Late Night With Jimmy Fallon was decidedly unentertaining. As with all traditional late-night talk shows, it began with his monologue. An overexcited audience immediately threw him off his game with an energy he couldn't match. He joked about people being more excited hearing him mention their own home states than the jokes themselves, and he was right. I remember laughing once, but I can't remember what I was laughing at: him, or the jokes.
For his house band, he has The Roots. While that's a coup, they seem oddly out of place next to Fallon, a lot like Jay Leno was with his original band leader. The difference is The Roots are more than willing to participate with Fallon's shennanagins. With Leno, you could never tell if he was about to be stabbed or not by a man trying to break free from Uncle Tom's cabin.
The set looks like it was stitched together from rejected SNL sets. If you look at Saturday Night Live over the years, you'll know that the main stages have never looked good. The set designers are obsessed with making the studio look as gritty like back-alley New York as possible, to the extent that there's street lights, subway signs and giant exhaust fans everywhere. Jimmy Fallon's set goes one further by setting the stage under a bridge. You'd almost expect a rat to crawl out. The Roots have to play on fire escape, like they're in West Side Story. It's not a place someone would want to be for overly long.
For some reason, they had a sketch about one of their demographics, blonde mothers, which seemed funnier than it was. It could actually pay out if they continued with it and explored weirder demographics, like EMO kids, or Japanese school girls.
Afterwards, the show turned into a bad night at the club, with a contest for studio audience members to lick something for $10. It reminded me of one of those douchebag club hosts that always have some weird game to play, and it only serves to distract people for a few seconds from the fact that the music sucks, the drinks are overpriced, and all the girls are lucky the lights are so dark.
Then Jimmy got to the guests. The first was Robert De Niro, who despite being in a sketch with Jimmy appearing later on, (which was terrible), seemed uncomfortable to be there. Or perhaps he was just acting that way. He is Robert De Niro, after all.
The next guest was Justin Timberlake, and Van Morrison, but we all know that everyone after the first guest is just filler. Jimmy got Justin to sing something goofy, and I completely tuned out when the band came on.
The whole thing is pretty standard fare, in a world where late night television had gone completely stagnant about fifteen years ago. Jimmy hasn't brought anything new or exciting to the equation, just the same old formula, with a complete lack of expertise.
You know what blows my mind, though? When you see Letterman bomb a joke, and it's still awkward. If he didn't have Paul Schaffer to turn to and laugh it off, he'd have another heart attack. The guy's been in the industry since forever. He does the same thing every night. He's a pro, and he still stumbles. Jimmy's just a rookie by most standards. When he bombs a joke, it's painful. He hasn't learnt that magic technique to turn to whoever's closest, and make some mocking comment about how bad the joke is. He needs a sidekick, just so he can look over and say, "What'd you think of that one? Nice suit. I didn't realize Wal-Mart had formal attire."