Friday, June 23, 2006

A Cause That Matters

The world is a messed up place. A lot of people need help, and there are a lot of good causes that need monetary support. I know what everyone is thinking. “I’m just one person. What can I do to help?”

Well, there are plenty of things you can do to make a difference. For example, organizations like PETA are always looking for members and volunteers to go out and blow animals. They hate it when animals suffer, so they send out dedicated, loving people to suck animal genitals. It shows the animals that they are loved and equal in value to human beings.

If animals aren’t your thing, certainly you’re willing to do everything you can to save the environment. I mean, if you don’t care about the environment, you’re a fucking monster and that’s all there is to it. There are many SUV-burning organizations you could support with your hard-earned money. Or, just to help the environment yourself, you could shit in paper bags instead of wasting water crapping in the toilet like a human being. Just burry all those bags in your garden—instant fertilizer!

Even though Hurricane Katrina happened quite a while back, and even though the federal government and caring people everywhere gave New Orleans billions of dollars to repair their mismanaged, destroyed city, they still need your help. You can always send money to help the Katrina victims. In fact, Mayor Nagin lost a game of dice last night and needs some pocket money. Please, people, give till it hurts.

You see, there are plenty of ways to make a difference. Whether it’s taking a face full of animal DNA; covering your property in bags full of your own shit; or drinking ten gallons of water a day so when global warming melts all the ice on the entire planet, maybe, just maybe the water levels will be slightly lower, everyone can help.

While these causes are all worthy of support in their own way, a new cause has come to my attention that is possibly the most worthy cause of all.

Dustin Diamond, Saved by the Bell’s Screech, needs our help. Unless he is able to raise $250,000 he is going to lose his house. As someone who was entertained by Screech’s wacky antics for years, hell, and still is to this day, I want to do my part to help this American treasure. In the past I posted Saved by the Bell haikus I wrote while drunk in Las Vegas. Today, I have written a special haiku for Dustin Diamond:

Screech is fucking cool
Dustin really needs our help
We can save his home

While this humble haiku won’t help Mr. Diamond directly, I think it will help people understand the severity of his situation. I know there are a lot of other charities out there, but this is Screech, people! Motherfucking Screech from Saved by the Bell! He had a robot and was fascinated by bugs and shit. Regardless of what anyone else ever says, Screech owned Bayside; not crafty Zach, not mullet-headed Slater—Screech was the man.

Like, remember the time Screech was helping Kelly out with science so she would pass the big test? Godamn right you do. Or how about the time he got struck by lightning and could see the future? And, of course, we all remember the time that Screech beat that fucking commie Russian at the big chess tournament. It’s simply a fact: Screech is the man.

Unlike all those other chintzy charities, when you help Dustin Diamond—also a talented stand-up comedian—you don’t come away empty handed. To help save Dustin’s home and give back to the man that brought Screech to life, all you have to do is buy a shirt. And let me tell you: It’s a sweet fucking shirt. Not only is the shirt cool as hell, it also shows that you support Dustin Diamond’s right to live in a house. Plus, it’s only $15.00! But wait, there’s more! For an extra five bucks, Dustin Diamond, a.k.a. Screech, will sign the shirt!

It’s only $20.00, folks. I have a drinking problem and even I can afford this killer shirt. If you’re like me, you’d punch a nun in the mouth and kick a baby in the head to help Screech. Unfortunately, that won’t do any good right now, but getting a shirt will. To help Dustin Diamond keep his house, please click on the "Save Screech's House" banner in my links section. Thank you, and God bless America.

Friday, June 16, 2006

Oh Boy! Another Movie I Won't See

I was watching Attack of the Show yesterday, much like I do Monday through Thursday, when, unfortunately, I was exposed to some of the “plot” from The Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift. Lately, the movie has been getting plenty of hype from AOTS. Thanks to such thorough coverage, I now know what drifting is; in turn, I also now know that I don’t give a shit about drifting.

Making an entire movie about drifting is like trying to make a two-hour epic about something you coughed up a week after you quit smoking: It may look cool, but it’s not nearly interesting enough to make a movie about. Well, that’s what I thought until I was bombarded with Tokyo Drift’s storyline. I didn’t bother watching most of G4’s coverage, but I’ll give you the gist of what I heard.

Some American guy gets shipped off to Tokyo to avoid jail time for illegal street racing. Great idea, brainiacs! Sending an illegal street racer to Japan—where a lot of this modified car racing got started—is like sending a baby rapist to the maternity ward.

Needless to say, he gets involved in the underground racing scene. Except the racing is different than what he’s used to. In Japan, drifting is all the rage, and that shit’s hardcore, yo!

As I understand it, the American guy thinks he’s hot shit, so he challenges a guy to a drift-off (or whatever the fuck they call it). I’m guessing the American guy loses and some rice rockets get all smashed up. Not only does he lose the race, he also makes a powerful enemy: D.K., short for Drift King (god help us, I’m not making this shit up). And like everyone else in Japan, Drift King has ties to the Yakuza (Oh snap, dog! Gaijin done fucked up now).

At this point, I realized that watching Tokyo Drift will make your brain commit suicide unless you take a break to read a book halfway through.

I’m guessing the movie is a whole mess of drifting until the end of the film, at which point the two rivals—American guy and Drift King—have to either drift race each other or someone else to avoid getting killed by the Yakuza. I think the Yakuza boss is also Drift King’s uncle or something. There might be a love triangle involved, too; I don’t know. This movie looks even worse than the first two films, which, in all fairness, I admit I never saw, either.

These movies just aren’t aimed at my demographic. These movies are made for the Asian kids in sideways hats who hang out at the open-all-night Mexican restaurant by my house saying shit like, “V-Tech, Dog. V-Tech. Let’s race, bitch. I’ll take you out!” These creatures of the night eat burritos and compare spoilers in the parking lot, talking plenty of shit and trying to organize illegal street races. I’m not sure that any of these kids ever actually race or not, but I’m pretty sure they’ll all see this movie…three times. I, on the other hand, will not see this movie because it looks more retarded than a flipper baby with a hairlip and a snaggletooth.

Wednesday, June 07, 2006

Viva Las Vegas

Much to my readers’ disappointment—yeah, I’m real sure—I haven’t posted anything for a while; fact is, I’ve been out of town.

After quitting a job I would compare to shoveling flaming sand on sodomites in the inner ring of the seventh circle of Dante’s hell (and, of course, instead of being guided by Virgil, I was bossed around by a yappy, incompetent Frenchman) I decided to head to Las Vegas. Las Vegas is the perfect place for someone like me for a number of reasons.

For one, you can drink and smoke damn near anywhere. This always amazes me, because in California people are so anti-smoking, they literally walk around in bands of four or five, waiting to crucify anyone who lights up—bastards.

And don’t even get me started on the anti-alcohol fascism in California. The last time I was at the beach—where a new law had just been passed prohibiting alcohol consumption on said beach—I witnessed a policeman giving a homeless man a ticket for drinking a beer. That’s right. They were fining a homeless guy. In Las Vegas, however, I spent most of my time walking around swilling Wild Turkey, and no one looked at me twice. Even playing Metal Slug in the Luxor arcade while as drunk as a Massachusetts senator didn’t phase anyone.

I must admit, I have quite an affinity for video poker. Sure, most guys play poker at the tables, but I try to avoid human contact as much as possible. Besides, I won over two-hundred bucks playing video poker while enjoying six or seven double scotches. It doesn’t get much better than that.

It was a great and highly successful trip, and I’ll try to post something angry and virulent soon. In the meantime: viva Las Vegas.