How I Lost My Glass Eye

    How I Lost My Glass Eye

Being who I am, I've always had trouble with my memory, both short term and long term. I keep forgetting little things like where I left the keys to my truck, where I parked, and the fact that my driver's licence was been suspended ever since I backed into a police cruiser. Then there's the more important factors to my life that you would think I'd remember after all these years. I still can't remember what date my wife's birthday is, or my girlfriend's, for that matter. Sometimes I even forget their names, or worse yet, I get them mixed up during the height of passion. It's been the cause of great embarrassment on my behalf. Fortunately, I'm an alcoholic, so the mistake is usually blamed on my slurred speech. As a result, no one listens to what I have to say, especially my wife.
Since we take the trivialities of life for granted, so much slips by unnoticed. What I suggest is that we pay closer attention to our actions. Otherwise, we might end up hurting the ones we love, or in my case, my wife.
Case in point, there was an incident a while back in which I "forgot" that I had the safety off on my gun. I was "cleaning" it when I "accidentally" shot my ex-wife in the leg. Needless to say, she was pretty upset, which is why, I suppose, we got divorced. Now, thanks to a court order, I have to pay her alimony. I also have to keep a distance of five hundred feet from her at all times.
On a separate occasion, I was working as a courier when I to forgot to make a special delivery. Even though I left the cooler in the back of my truck, I can clearly remember saying, "Screw the kidney patient, I'm gonna have me a drink."
Another time, while I was in a restaurant (Hooters, to be precise) a man seated at the table next to me started to choke. I couldn't remember the Heimlich manoeuvre, but I did remember seeing an episode of M.A.S.H. once. Using my knife, I plunged a hole in his trachea, opening up an air passage for him to breathe through. After saving his life, the bastard thanked me by taking me to court. To make a long story short, I lost the case. Now I have to keep a distance of five hundred feet from him at all times. The moral is to never help anyone.
Yet, of all the things I've forgot, I never expected to forget where I put my glass eye.
I have a glass eye, or at least I used to. It's a memento from one of my ex-girlfriends. When you cheat on a woman, make sure you don't cheat on her in her own apartment, because in the right hands, a pair of nail clippers can do a lot of damage. I told my wife I lost it in a bar fight, but I think she figured out what happened when a prostitute involved in the incident came by the house to see if I was okay, and to get the money I owed her. Fortunately, I knew her pimp, so I got off with a severed ear. The doctors were able to sew it back on, but it's crooked, so I wear my hair long when I don't have to cover my bald spot. That's basically why you should never tell a prostitute where you live.
I might know where I lost my eye. I recall I was at a party the previous night, but I don't know who's house it was at. Since I woke up in a puddle of my own vomit, I suppose I must have been drunk, which really goes without saying. There's this little trick I do at public gatherings where I pop out my glass eye and replace it with an olive, or an onion from my martini glass, depending on which I'm served. It stings a bit, but it always gets a laugh, especially from optometrists. I don't know why that is. I must have given a performance, because when I picked myself up off the bathroom tiles, I discovered my eye was missing and there was some salt lining my empty socket.
Of course, the question still remains, "Where the Hell's my eye?"
The real problem, as I see it, is locating which house I was I was at. My girlfriend should know, but I'm not supposed to call her after three because of her "fiance." Apparently, a purely sexual relationship just isn't what she's looking for. Some women don't know what they want. Looking at my watch, which I stole from my girlfriend, I can see it's four o'clock. My wife would be busy with phone sex line, so I couldn't call Betsy even if I wanted to. I missed work again, but that's nothing new. Besides, I'm a lawn care specialist, so no one really cares whether I show up or not.
I got on the case after having breakfast, which consisted mainly of Lucky Charms and vodka, mixed together in a cornucopia of flavour. I wouldn't have had to make it myself if my wife would get off her ass and cook me some toast. When I confronted her about my dilemma, she swore at me, or at the man on the other end of the line, I'm not sure. I try not to pay any attention to her, since I don't want to get too attached.
Getting in my truck, which was impounded several times, I drove around for an hour or two, drinking from a bottle of tequila I found under the seat, before I remembered what I was looking for. Then I forgot again, so I went to a strip club. After I was kicked out by the bouncer for inappropriate misbehaviour, my memory came back to me, so I climbed into my truck and continued my quest. I saw a place I recognized so I went up and rang the doorbell, after running into the mailbox. I had a vague recollection of myself urinating in the rose bushes beside the house while clad in a soiled toga made from some kid's Power Ranger bed sheets. That could have been last night or last year, however, so I wasn't sure if I was at the right house.
After an hour and a few rear-ends later, I stumbled upon the house. Literally. I ran over the mailbox.
Ringing the doorbell, I found nobody was home, so I broke in. I discovered many mementos from the previous night, but not a single glass eye. It wasn't long before the police came by, so I stuffed my pockets with as much stuff as I could and got the hell out of there.
After ditching the cops at the mini-mall, I went home with a broken heart. I'd lost my lucky eye, the one I'd stolen from an old Vet at the pub when he passed out.
I took most of my anger out by yelling at my wife, who managed, as usual, to win the argument. Taking what little pride I had left, I retreated to my bathroom to take care of some business and recollect myself. She hadn't cleaned the floor since I'd gone on my futile hunt, so I had to step very carefully. As I was making my passage to my throne, I spied something lying in the bottom of the porcelain bowl.
Reaching into the cold water, I pulled out my eye. It must have fallen out while I was purging myself. Cleaning it off on my shirt, I popped it back in, happy as can be.
So I guess it's true what they say, "It's always in the last place you look."

Poor Perception

LiveJournal Tags: Transformers,toys

I went into Toys ‘R’ Us today and saw this:

This is Perceptor, the nerdiest Transformers of the 80’s. In a elite robot fighting force made up of flashy sports cars, boom boxes, and dinosaurs, Perceptor transforms into a microscope/telescope (*NOTE: Toy does not actually magnify.*) This comes in “useful” when the Autobots need to look at something under a microscope and don’t have immediate access to one aboard their futuristic intergalactic spaceship. Of course, being robots, they have robotic eyes, and could try looking at the object of their scrutiny without accessories as an alternative. It’s a good thing too, because I’m pretty sure that long shaft you have to look down is his robo-cock. As a telescope, he’s able to detect the Decepticons as they buzz overhead in their golden spaceship shooting lasers, before he turns tail and runs. Unfortunately for Perceptor, very little in the Transformers Universe is subtle enough to require his particular brands of skills. For instance, in Transformers: The Movie (not the Michael Bay live-action version) Perceptor uses his microscope to run a medical scan on Optimus Prime, and comes up with a sad diagnosis. “Really Perceptor, Optimus is going to die? I couldn’t tell by that HUGE GAPING HOLE IN HIS CHEST.” Honestly, Perceptor, if you want to see how deep it is, stick a finger in. His methods as a doctor are suspect, much like Dr.House.

None of that matters, though, since Perceptor is still a cool figure. He has three different modes, and he’s been re-released in original die-cast style. I picked him up, but there was no price tag on the shelf, because it’s a retail outlet. So I went over to the scanner, thinking maybe I’d get him if he was under the $29.99 range that most of the deluxe Transformers hover around. No such luck, this bad boy will set you back $49.99 CND. Fiddy dollars! For THIS!

Notice how the second transformation looks NOTHING like a telescope, but this is what you’re told to believe.

You have to realize, as a figure, he’s not much bigger than your hand. That means he’s no bigger than the new Michael Bay Transformers figures in blister packs for $10-$15 a pop. So what makes him so special? Is it because he’s a re-release? Is it because of the die-cast metal? Is it the snazzy packaging? Is it because he’s Toys ‘R’ Us exclusive?

You want to know what’s “worth” that much? This:

Soundwave. He’s another 25th Anniversary re-release that’s around the same price point at $68 on amazon.com right now. You know what the difference between him and Perceptor are though? Aside from being totally bad-ass, Soundwave turns into a boom box that spits out tapes that transform into animals. That excuses the bullshit pricing, so your geek-friends aren’t going to punch you for buying him. Some might even try to rub their dicks on it.

The Tomorrow Show

So Late Night TV is in it’s death throes, and you, the viewer, are to blame! Or perhaps it’s the weak monologues. Honestly, I think it’s because David Letterman likes to put his weirdly shaped penis into anything and Jay Leno refuses to retire/die. The news that Jay Leno would be leaving the Tonight Show created hopes for a new late night dynamic that would reach out to younger audiences, only he decided to move his show, lock stock and barrel to a time slot that was an hour and a half earlier. Conan, meanwhile, struggled to modify his program for an older audience of people who go to bed at 12:35. Fallon made the sad mistake of being Jimmy Fallon. Assumingly, there’s a program that follows Fallon on NBC’s schedule, but it remains unseen and unknown. Basically, NBC has three hours of talk shows. Three programs that are indistinguishable from each other aside from the host’s individual disfigured visages. What the hell did they think they were going to fill this time with? The three talk shows all have the same daily source material for jokes, creating repetition. There’s only so many movies coming out in one given week, leaving fewer celebrity guests. It’s a formula for failure. You know how it goes: the earliest show gets the best guest because there’s more people awake and watching. By the time the second guest of the first show arrives, married couples start humping. By the time the musical guest comes out, they’re asleep. That leaves two whole hours in which no one is watching. Through this hand-me-down effect, Fallon’s interviewing the guy who made his sandwich that afternoon.

Face it: Late Night TV just can’t deliver. The creme-de-la-creme of A-List celebrities either refuse to do talk shows or else tour once or twice a year. There’s only so much going on in a day to make fun of in your monologue. The only time there’s good material is when there’s a scandal, or else an election. The skits are under-rehearsed because you’re doing a show a day, and the best comedy flows organically. The hosts and staff work five days a week, and they can’t afford to take sick days, or extended vacations because it affects the whole show.

So it’s no wonder that Conan didn’t make a big impact when he traded up. The last year in particular has been a depressing one with all the doubts about the economy. Plus everyone knew Leno was coming back. Leno’s audience followed and waited for him. Plus Leno refused to bring anything fresh to his show, so he bored the audience. Even if there were laughs, his crowd had to wait through the local News before hitting Conan. That effects the chuckles. Fallon didn’t even factor in.

It’s kind of sad, because Conan was so awkward and interesting when he first appeared all those years ago. He was the black horse. People were all wrapped up in the Leno/Letterman feud that no one counted him, so there was a lot he was able to do under the radar. Now he’s being forced out.

If Leno had some sense, he’d quit. There’s a reason he “retired” in the first place, and the lure of an earlier show was the only thing that brought him back. So why would he stay on after they put his show back to where it was? Nothing’s changed at that point. Conan’s the only one with balls and common sense by saying he’ll back out entirely. He’s got millions of dollar, and mansion and a family. He can afford to take time off. Leno’s afraid of downtime, though. He even tours on weekends. Why? Because when he’s left alone at home with his cars, he realizes how empty his childless lie of life is.

Movies I Can’t Finish

Street Fighter: The Legend of Chun Li:
I saw the original 1994 Street Fighter movie starring Jean-Claude Van Damme in theatre with my two best friends. We were all rabid Street Fighter fans, and what we saw resembled nothing like the product we had come to enjoy. Our fan favourites, Ryu and Ken were comic-relief, while Guile was missing his trademark hair, and also he was Jean-Claude Van Damme. Raul Julio, a fine actor, played M. Bison as his final role. As a result, his soul can never find relief, and wanders the Nether planes eternally.
Still, this movie was closer to what Street Fighter represents than the Chun Li movie.
I can’t really describe how bad this movie is, but I must try.
I will begin by explaining a little about Chun Li, the video game character. She’s a Chinese police officer trying to avenge the death of her father by entering the Street Fighter tournament, hoping to face M.Bison in the final match. She’s known for her incredibly thick thighs and having her hair done up in buns.
Now: Chun Li in the movie is played by Kristin Kreuk, the chick from Smallville, whom is not Chinese. In fact, she was born in B.C., which makes her as Asian as I am. Maybe there’s some thin sliver of Asian genes in her past, but by looking at her, you’d never know. She looks nothing like Chun Li much in the way that Jean Claude looked nothing like Guile. They try to explain away the fact she’s not Asian in the movie by making Chun Li half-Asian, which to me, is a little racist. It’s like if Colin Farrell played Genghis Khan.
Speaking of the Irish, M. Bison is Irish in this movie, but was born in Hong Kong and raised in an orphanage. Okay: so if he grew up in an orphanage in Hong Kong, why does he have an Irish accent? Accents are not genetic.
Michael Clark Duncan, of course, plays Balrog, as Michael Clark Duncan has been type-cast as every burly black dude in every movie ever.  Here’s some of the movies he’s been in playing a big black guy: Racing Stripes, A Night at the Roxbury, Daredevil, The Scorpion King, Armageddon, Striptease. Oh, and The Green Mile. So yeah, this movie isn’t really a step down for him.
The movie also has genuine Asian people speaking genuine Asian languages as well, but here’s the thing: Chun Li will ask someone a question in English, and they’ll answer in Chinese, and they understand each other perfectly. Then, after hearing this person speak Chinese, and being able to speak it fluently as well, she continues to speak English. WTF? I know with most movies there’s a debate over whether or not to use subtitles, but no matter what the situation is, it’s going to bring the viewer out of the moment. Mixing and matching like this is just confusing as a decision.
Okay: so here’s the plot to Chun Li. M. Bison kidnaps her dad, and she’s got to get him back, so she goes underground and joins this secret society. If you’ve seen Batman Begins where Bruce Wayne goes to live on the streets of Hong Kong until he get picked up by a secret clan, it’s exactly like that.
She’s trained by a man named Gen, who’s a caricature of every Kung-Fu master in every bad Kung-Fu movie, only with a bad teenaged moustache. He uses the phrase, “You need to let go of your anger,” about twelve times, which only serves to make me madder. He’s able to conjure up energy bolts from his hands. Now: up until this point in the movie, there’s no indication that there’s any kind of mystical power readily available to the characters, so you’d think this would completely blow Chun Li’s fucking mind. I know I’d probably shit myself if I saw that go down. Only, she’s slinging energy balls seconds later during the montage. You know what pisses me off, though? Her energy ball is red. It’s supposed to be blue. She’s not Sagat. There’s the obligatory blindfold scene from Bloodsport, and then she’s good to go.
There’s a lot of characters I don’t recognize in the movie, like these two cops supporting the movie with a completely unnecessary romantic subplot, and M. Bison’s female goon, who also happens to be a lesbian, but still somehow romantically linked to M. Bison. Chun Li decides to take her down first, by seducing her in a dance club and luring her into the bathroom for what one would assume would be some hot lesbian sex. Only it turns into an overzealous catfight. Basically, Chun Li is gay-bashing this woman. If a straight man beat up a gay man in the men’s washroom, it would be a hate crime. The fight continues out on the dance floor, with the legally required swinging-kick-around-a-stripper-pole routine. Then she uses a real move from the Street Fighter game, the ridiculously named, “Spinning Bird Kick.” In the game, the move is an excuse for the player to try and look up Chun Li’s skirt. In the movie, they try to over-explain the name. Chun Li’s father gives her a special medallion before she’s kidnapped, of a bird that spins. I should mention now that it’s taken a minimum of ten years now before Chun Li even attempts to rescue her father, or even investigate his disappearance making this the slowest rescue ever.
Meanwhile, M. Bison has his own montage, showcasing how evil he is. How evil is he? He kills his pregnant wife with his bare hands in some confusing way. All you see is him reaching off-screen and a splatter of blood shoot out into his face. Assumingly, he has just ripped his unborn baby out of his wife’s womb. How that works exactly, I’m not sure. If he’s that good with his hands, maybe he should have become a midwife instead of a criminal overlord.
That’s about as far as I got before I became ill, because watching this movie is like staring into the sun.

The Teen Titans VS. the World Trade Centre

LiveJournal Tags: comics

FORESHADOWING!

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