I wish there were reasons to blog.

Perhaps the Blog has run it's course, or Facebook has stolen it's thunder, but I'm wondering whether this medium is still raking em in.

I just blogged, for the first time in months, and that is sincerely all i could come up with.

Lame.

Anyhow, I'm off to watch Battlestar and eat pizza. Because that is what men do.

Deadwood Drinking Game that ain't for Pussies!

…All right fellers, after an exhaustive search for a good game online; i realized I’d have to devise one that didn't suck. So here it is.

"The Deadwood Drinking Game that ain't for Pussies".

What you need:

deck of 52. (*or 54, see below)
bottle of your favorite hooch. Whiskey preferable. 20 proof and up please.
Shot glasses or wee 3 ounce paper cups.
DVD of 'Deadwood'. Any episode will do.
pad(s) of paper and pens.

First, line up your glasses and cue up the DVD. Dealer deals one card to everyone.

Show your card. Here’s how it works. There are four suits; each one signifies a curse word or set of curse words.

Hearts: 'cocksucker" and ‘shit’.
spades: 'fuck' and it's derivatives like 'fucker' and ‘motherfucker’, ‘fuckface’
diamonds: 'asshole' and any other masculine insult like 'prick', Jesus Christ, etc.
clubs: 'whore' or any other feminine insult like 'cunt' or 'bitch'. Also, ‘piss’.

Gets better. The card you are dealt also determines the AMOUNT you drink each time the word is spoken. As such:

aces: full shot glass. Pray you don't get ace of spades.
10,j,q,k: 3/4 of a shot
6,7,8,9: 1/2 a shot
2,3,4,5: 1/4 of a shot

*54-card extra regulation: Get a Joker; you drink at every curse word, a quarter shot. Might as well start writing a will.

Now, you still have a wee bit of a chance. You can get one re-deal if you do not have an ace. If you have an ace, well, 'deal with it'. You are stuck. Everyone else can get another card and test their luck. If it's lower, great, but remember... you keep the original 'curse word' you were dealt with in the first hand. The new card can only change the amount of booze you have to imbibe, my friend.

Now, use the pad of paper and write your word and volume of your shots as you watch the episode. trust me, after a half hour, you'll be forgetting how much you drank, how much you are supposed to, your name, where your pants are and why in tarnation you were doing this in the first place.

You can time it a few ways. Re-deal every 20 minutes or determine it based on the amount of times a certain word pops up. Trust me; the guy with a full-shot 'fucker' is going to want to switch up after 10-15 minutes or drinks. If you keep this poor bastard going for the whole hour, you are going to have to hide his body afterwards.

If you want to prove that you ain't no pussy, then deal once and deal with the consequences.

Use the pads to keep track of the words. Later, probably the next day, you tally it up based on number of words times the volume in the glass per round, and the winner, obviously is measured in ounces. He gets a bottle of anything he wants as a prize, or some such. Maybe you can pitch in and buy him a new liver.

Waste, American-Style

Chris Jordan knows a little bit about waste and decadence.

Seems like everywhere the poor guy looks, he sees the effects of our causal, flippant throw-away society, as well as our inability to sense the true scale of our collective footprint. In his 'Running the Numbers' series of images, painstakingly assembled from large quantities of smaller images, he hopes to set the scale and perhaps finally aggrandize our perception of the issues of our consumptive demeanor. We consume almost everything in vast and staggering volumes. From the artist, a point:

"Statistics can feel abstract and anesthetizing, making it difficult to connect with and make meaning of 3.6 million SUV sales in one year, for example, or 2.3 million Americans in prison, or 426,000 cell phones retired every day."

Humanity suffers from a catastrophic near-sightedness combined with a deific sense of self-importance, the results of which clog our waterways, render our air unfit and have hastened a holocaust of epic proportions toward endemic, and environmentally important, species. Perhaps, by showing the statistics the way they really should be seen, visual, tangible, one man can truly begin to make a difference by setting a perspective shift in motion.

Running the Numbers
An American Self-Portrait

More Dreck, Bollywood Edition. Tights, Camera... Aspirin!

Well, in addendum to my previous post about the glamourously horrendous and miraculously profitable Bollywood industry, I submit the following. Incredulous comments to follow.

...

I mean, what the fleshy pink hell was that?!!? Oddly enough, you cannot look away. I dare you. Go, ahead, try. Even if you vomit, you will most likely end up doing so on your keyboard, as YOU WILL NOT BE ABLE TO LOOK AWAY. I wonder what their powers are? Perhaps he can bend steel, but not as well as he can mangle a note. I think her power is merely 'Arse Wiggling' and 'Warbling'. That is the biggest 'S' I have ever seen on any iteration of Superman... and those legs! The man looks like a blue popsicle (OR 'ice lolly' as they say in the colonies), those gams look like they've been stripped of all flesh and left reedy and skeletal. Dig those orthopedic shoes, Supe's gotta be comfortable with all that standing akimbo in the face of danger, ya know.

If given the opportunity to have my sole 15 minutes of celluloid fame, and the only two choices allowed were between having to effect the above routine, costumes and all, or fellating a goat on a bed of nails, covered in honey and hungry ants with three shaven chimps beating me with split bamboo rods in the midst of a hurricane in a razor blade factory, i'd most likely choose the goat. Less humiliating, and they'd let me kiss the bloody goat.

She has a nice arse, though. That's meant as a compliment. Gotta love the ladies. And their arses.

Worst Dreck Ever, The Celluloid Edition

I take it back. 'mad Love' was not the "worst ever" pile of craptacular celluloid nonsense. The Drew Barrymore dreck-fest may be worthy of the pungent pantheon that the following clips command, but it merely holds the sweaty jock straps and sits on the bench as the following Heavyweights thunder and pound ample chest for the masses.

Why am I not suprised to find Bollywood fare in and amongst? That particular industry is a scourge on celluloid and nerve endings everywhere, and needs to be stopped, no, destroyed with a fury currently unbeknownst to man. Then we can all 'almost-kiss' and break out into high-pitched song and pseudo-synchronized dance to celebrate. To quote the venerable Hicks from the near-Shakespearean 'Aliens'(1986), "Best to nuke it from orbit, only way to be sure."

Indeed.

True, Fascinating and Useless Entertainment Facts and Trivia.

Rob Zombie, the director and musician with a goulish bent, responsible for some hair-raisingly brutal and twisted aural and visual treats, apparently began his entertainment career as a production assistant on Pee-Wee's Playhouse.

Anyone who has seen the children's show in question will probably not find this news to be all that shocking.

Rob's remake of the John Carpenter cult classic, HALLOWEEN, will be in theatres this August.

Kelly Clarkson! Kelly F**king Clarkson!

Kelly Clarkson has a new album or something, maybe it's a diet video, or some pilates thing coming out soon. While I find her music puerile and vomit-inducingly bad, filled with banal, prepubescent navel-gazing idiocies, I have found that one kernel of goodness. Within the video below lies a gem of a realization.

She actually admits, for the world to hear, that her music is indeed SHITE. well, call it paraphrasing, but when an 'artist' freely and openly admits that nobody likes her caterwauling, and even her friends and handlers openly despise her ouvre, then I think the term 'shit' is aptly and rightly appropriate. Thus, pay attention to the front end of the following interview:

Kelly Clarkson excited over upcoming summer tour

Well, I may not be a musical genius like Yo-Yo Ma, or David Lee Roth, but I think that when a musician actually admits to her utter crappiness, it's time to hang up the hair extensions and take a final bow.

Got that, Ashlee?

The Quotable Chicken

"When I was kid, I was told i had something called a future."

Do parents still tell such horrible, horrible lies?