Wing-Nut Of The Week: Jesus Hates Metal

Finally, someone is willing to stand up and speak some truth about the evils of metal and electricity. Airplanes, streetcars, jewelry, money, power lines ("metal troops of the electric beast") -- all these things go against God. Also, electromagnetic fields cause diabetes and "femdom" among men, George W. Bush is the Antichrist and glasses make you bald (don't I know it!).

I know, I know, it's a lot of truth to absorb all at once. So let's start at the beginning: the periodic table. You probably think of the periodic table as just some annoying, dorky thing you had to learn once in school, then forget completely. As opposed to, say, The Beast of Revelations. But that's only because you still need to be schooled in numerology and the Bible. See, it's all about the Transition Metals, which "have one mind, and give their strength to the beast." Also, seven and ten seem to be important, somehow.

In the beginning the electric metals were bound up and buried in the pit of the earth. So it was that almighty God delivered loving messages to help protect the people. They should not make worship of false idols or they would burn in the fires of hell, however, they took the metal from the earth and built electric metal structures. They dressed their bodies in electric metals and enslaved the people with electromagnetic chains.

The quantum-electromagnetic structure of life was hidden from their eyes and they built rockets and electric motors. They engineered the disease and had no eyes to see the quantum-electromagnetic fires in which they burned. Of the second coming, the lamb would come with his Holy Scepter and open his little book, giving unto the world his divine staff, that all truth would be revealed.

So, how does all this metal really affect our lives? Here's a little sampler pack to get you started down the path toward enlightenment. You'll learn the basics about "dragons of the sea" (flying beasts which breathe fire and "like punching holes in the atmosphere"), "600-volt crooked scorpions" (streetcars), handcuffs, dental fillings, and "electric metal women in sexy lingerie." Also, the Antichrist (George W. Bush):

The antichrist loves all the things which hurt you. He is a cowboy who keeps the horses. He tramples in the stinging nettles of the thicket, a walker in the bush. He loves blue jeans, oil, war, dragons, and destroying the environment. He speaks with a forked tongue and cannot be trusted.

And coffee:

Convenient liquid metal for the average human borg. Top up your nickel and copper levels with this easy to drink gluck. The water is pushed through copper pipes and heated around a nickel heating element. The coffee is ground with a metal blade for added electric metal zing. In electric cities, they drink the coffee and then they go off to work in metal towers overcome with vector spikes from elevator and boiler room motors. Oh joy, what fun it is living in slavery to the beast.

But oh, there's more. Much, much more. Like this completely scientific study on "femdom." Apparently dominant females and submissive males cluster around areas with the most electromagnetic activity. Of course there's no indication of how we came up with this "femdom percentage deviation" number, but I'm sure that's totally been peer reviewed.

And it makes sense, if you think about it. Where are all the strip clubs in your particular town? I bet they're near metal, aren't they? Maybe even near the airport, or the local military base? And what's in the strip club? A metal pole! And strippers totally wear jewelry and underwire bras. What's a bellybutton ring but a bull's eye for Satan's electromagnetic perv rays?

But wait, the science continues ... In a study of "computer-using males," an irrefutable causal link was found between eye glasses and both gray hair and balding. Okay, so it was just a study of 628 people who voluntarily uploaded high-resolution pictures onto this guy's web site, but still -- you've got to extrapolate, people. That's how science works.

Also, you should know that diabetes is caused by space shuttles taking off from Cape Canaveral. And, to a lesser extent, airplanes.

So, by now, dear reader, you're probably wondering: Who's the hero behind these revelations? Who should I thank? Well, I'm glad you asked. His name is Christopher Peter George, and he is your new Messiah.

As May day approached they called all the children into the gymnasium. They would choose a May Queen, her ladies in waiting, and a page boy. As I sat quietly the headmaster called out to ask who should be chosen as page boy and the entire school began to chant my name. I was overwhelmed. At the time I didn't understand why all these boys and girls would call my name. So it was I would carry out my duties and serve her. Walking proud upon the stage I would kneel to one knee as I presented her crown on a cushion. As the women of the village cheered the white horse began to pull the cart through Kingswinford. The May Queen sat up high toward the front. The ladies in waiting sat in a circle at her feet and I sat at their center.

So, you see, of course he's the second coming of Jesus Christ. He was picked as the May Day page, for God's sakes! In England, that's, like, a really big deal, like being the first guy in your group of friends to smoke pot or lose his virginity.

I've got to be honest: I kinda tuned out on his story after that. It's really long and boring -- I mean, really, that May Day thing is about the most exciting thing that happened to him, except he got some eczema on his elbows, and they moved to Canada, but then went back to England, and he got really good at pool and started doing some computer programming.

By the age of fourteen I had been playing pool for some seven years and I would travel by coach to attend tournaments. By this time I had begun smoking and on occasion I would enjoy a drink with my heavy metal friends. I could often hold the pool table all evening, without losing a single game against all challengers. A dark night would come to pass and I would put my pool cue in the case and I would begin crying of the cold night rain. I would never really play again. The sound of the rain was a million voices declaring the end of winning and I was overcome with unbearable sadness. A great journey would soon begin.

After that, he broke his leg or something -- as the Great Spirits foretold! -- and then he got a blonde girlfriend, but he kept having dreams about a black-haired angel, and also -- just like Jesus! -- he became a carpenter. And now he travels the world using his divine staff to preach the truth about metal. So, congratulations Christopher ... you're this week's Wing-Nut Of The Week.

The Stars! They're Just! Like Us!

For those of you who do not have the privilege of having Us Weekly delivered straight into the magazine rack to the right of your toilets (I have no idea how the Post Office does that, but great work, USPS), I'm going to perform the public service of posting my favorite part of this important national news magazine: The Stars, They're Just Like US!

For those of you shamefully unfamiliar with this important and revealing contribution to our national consciousness, each week (duh) US Weekly publishes pictures of various A, B, C, and D-List celebs engaging in some type of behavior that is so common as to render them Just Like Us.

Personally, I appreciate the basic sentiment, which seems to be that, despite its aggressive and constant star-whoring, Us Weekly is really here to show us that, deep down, The Stars aren't actually beings from another planet who have arrived, Thetan like, perhaps, to occupy physically superior bodies that slightly resemble our own, but with bigger boob parts, larger head parts, perkier nose parts, and rounder buttock shaped parts.

No, Us Weekly, seems to be telling us, The Stars are actually just human beings who also wear shoes and eat food and are subject to the same trials that plague you and I, like the occasional need to walk, or shut our car doors, or ingest water.

With that said, here are this weeks reasons why The Stars are, in fact, Just Like Us:

THEY LOVE THEIR NEPHEWS!

Case in point: Beyonce holds baby nephew in pool.

Revelation: Even though they are superior in every way to you and me and all other nonfamous human beings, The Stars are not immune to the occasional bout of affection for a blood relative, assuming there are enough photographers in the vicinity.

THEY EAT PRETZELS!

Case in point: Carmen Electra holds large soft pretzel while walking down street.

Revelation: Despite the physical and moral superiority of The Stars, they must also eat food. And walk on the street. They must also hold food, unless they are P. Diddy, in which case they hire a guy to hold the food while they eat it. And Carmen Electra, we know P. Diddy. P. Diddy is a friend of ours. And you, my friend, are no P. Diddy.

THEY STEP ON ONE SHELF TO REACH ANOTHER!

Case in point: Winona Ryder stands on supermarket shelf to reach top supermarket shelf.

Revelation: The Stars are tiny, tiny little elfin people, with huge, perfectly shaped heads.

THEY JET SKI!

Case in point: Sean Penn and Robin Wright Penn on wave runner.

Revelation: The Stars also enjoy having fun. On the water. Someimtes. And sometimes Sean Penn takes a break from Acting, and from being a sanctimonious prick to ride around on a wave runner with his wife. Unless, that is, he's doing Research for some Important Role. You know what, shit, that's probably it. Never mind. Not all of The Stars are actually like us.

THEY GROOM THEIR PUPS!

Case in point: Jessica Alba pets dog.

Revelation: Even though the fact that they owned by The Stars might lead one to believe that The Stars Dogs are physically superior and impeccably groomed by Jonathan Antin and his band of merry hairdressers, they are still dogs. Other Revelation: Jessica Alba's Dog probably has a better life than you or me will ever have.

THEIR LACES COME UNDONE!

Case in point: Luke Wilson ties shoe.

Revelation: Despite their access to money and power and clothes that cost more than you will make in the next ten years, The Stars shoes are also occasionally tied with laces, and sometimes the people who tie The Stars shoelaces for them neglect to tie the shoes of The Stars tightly enough, and The Stars are forced to take matters into their own Star Hands, later on in the day. Needless to say, The Stars suffer this humiliation with good humor and pluck and the knowledge that soon they will go home, laces tied neatly, and hurl cell phones at the people who tie The Stars shoelaces.

Wing-Nut Of The Week: Morrissey, Prophet

So, last week's debut of this feature proved to be a little rocky. Just an hour or so after I made fun of Fundamentalist Advice Columnist Debi Pearl, a string of tornadoes ripped through Iowa City. Coincidence? Maybe, but this week I'm not taking any chances. I figured it was time to choose a less controversial target, or at least one without the power to direct the winds.

When I first heard the theory that Morrissey (of Smiths fame) had predicted the death of Princess Diana nearly eleven years before her tragic car accident, I laughed it off as just another crazy conspiracy theory -- you know, like the Moon Landing Hoax, or the Masons secretly controlling the universe, or the alien sex slaves Donald Rumsfeld keeps in his toolshed.

But now that I've dug a little deeper, I think this guy makes some really convincing claims -- you just can't argue with this kind of airtight logic:

--In 1986, the Smiths released The Queen is Dead, and -- get this! -- eleven years later the actual Queen was dead. Or, well, a princess, but hey -- close enough, right? Even Nostradamus was only batting like .600.

--For the cover art of The Queen is Dead, Morrissey chose French actor Alain Delon. Eleven years later, the first announcement of Diana's death came from ... wait for it, wait for it ... another French guy named Alain (Dr. Alain Pavie)!

--Morrissey named The Queen is Dead after a chapter title in the Hubert Selby novel Last Exit to Brooklyn. Brooklyn, as we all know, is in New York. When Princess Di's car crashed, it was in an underpass tunnel heading toward the exit to the Avenue de New York.

Convinced yet? Oh, there's more.

--Morrissey started the album with audio from a film, The L-Shaped Room. That film was about a woman -- played by Lesley Caron -- who moved from France to England. After Diana died, her body was moved from France to England! As if that weren't enough proof, Lesley Caron and Princess Di were both born on July 1!

But the shocking non-coincidences don't stop there. Here, as the French would say, is the piece d' resistance (piece of resistance):

--The song "There is a Light that Never Goes Out" is about two people ... on a date ... at night ... in the city ... driving in a car ... fantasizing about being killed by a car crash (for the sake of argument, let's just ignore for a moment that whole "double-decker bus" thing) ... gripped by fear in an underpass!!!!

Game, set, and match.

There's more, and still more. But really, if you're not convinced yet, you clearly know nothing about sound reasoning and causation. You're probably one of those arrogant assholes who still doubts the existence of the Loch Ness Monster, or thinks you can swish Coke and Pop Rocks around in your stomach without exploding.

Probably you're saying to yourself right now: Mike, that sure is airtight logic, and I'm so glad you've exposed this totally undeniable causal link to me. But how did Morrissey know Princess Diana was going to die? I mean, sure he's a great singer -- he's all moody and has cool hair and looks nice with his shirt off -- but is he also some sort of crazy mystic or all-knowing seer?

I'm glad you asked, friend. Just check out this totally straightforward and not-at-all-confusing explanation that links Morrissey, aliens, the Jodi Foster movie Contact, vegans, Herman Melville, and my hometown of Pensacola, Fla (Shout-out to my peeps! P'cola in the hizzouse!)

Unfortunately, this story has a sad ending. Despite all these compelling facts, the world just doesn't want to listen. As David Alice puts it in his final post on the subject:

"I've presented 20% of the evidence of the Diana-Morrissey Phenomenon. Knowing that the remaining 80% of the evidence is the same quality as that which has already been presented and ignored, I logically conclude that the world won't listen to it either. It is a curious fact that the Smiths' album at the heart of the Diana-Morrissey Phenomenon, The Queen is Dead,was immediately followed by a Smiths compilation titled The World Won't Listen."

Curious indeed, David. But hey, nobody wanted to listen to Leonardo DaVinci or Columbus or Ben Franklin or whoever that guy was who told them the earth was round and electricity would light kites on fire. As the cat on the poster says: Hang in there, baby. And if it's any consolation, you can at least tell your friends and neighbors that you've been chosen as the Barrelhouse Wing-Nut Of The Week. Your tinfoil hat and a coupon entitling you to a half-priced Cinnabon (airport locations only) are in the mail.

Everything is Better with Snoop

Even Literature. Snoop Dogg is publishing his first novel, Love Don't Live Here Anymore.

"Snoop, by nature of what he does, is a storyteller," says Kathleen Schmidt, vice president and director of publicity for Atria Books, a division of Viacom's Simon & Schuster.

You think it'll be written in the Snoop languizzle? Let's hizzope so.

If "My Humps" Wasn't Evidence Enough

...that the Black Eyed Peas are absolutely the worst hip hop group of all time, and I'm including Funky Bunches and Da Bands and any other P. Diddy contraptions in this list, this should clear it up: they're touring with the Pussycat Dolls.

Now, the Pussycat Dolls are not a band. They are a clever marketing ploy. Actually, the Pussycat Dolls to begin with weren't very original: just an overly choreographed PG-13 rated burlesque show, pretty much what you'd see if you concentrated on the young bodies gyrating behind Britney Spears or Janet Jackson or any other pop confection. But the Pussycat Dolls as a pop group are kind of like if there was a pop group called "Hooters" or "Applebees."

I'm a white guy from Pennsylvania, so my hip hop cred is not so strong, but I do know that touring with "Hooters" or "Applebees" is, well, just about as real as being a white guy from Pennsylvania.

And while we're clearing up Black Eyed Peas related issues, I'd like to say that Fergie is what we call "camera angle hot." Sometimes, pretty hot. Sometimes, suspiciously like a cabbage patch doll. Where she falls on the scale generally depends on the visibility of the abs.

And that's my weekly post about what's wrong with music.

The Golden Age of Reality Television: A Conversation with Our Future Grandchildren

Someday, when we're sitting around the retirement home, trying to figure out if we've pissed ourselves, and where we are, and who the fuck is stealing our candy bars, our little grandchildren will settle in on our knees and they'll say, "is it true, Grandpa?"

And we'll say, "What? Who are you! I'm scared. Is what true?"

"Is it true that, way back before we watched television through the cell phone implanted in our heads, there was this thing called "Reality TV?"

And we'll rumple his little blond head and say "Yes, it's true, little Timmy. Your grandpa here actually lived through the golden age of reality TV."

"What was it like, Grandpa?" Timmy will say.

"Oh," we'll say. "Let me put it like this. You know some people who are, well, douchebags, right?"

Timmy will nod his little towhead.

"And these douchebags, they'll do just about anything for attention, engage in all manner of douchebaggery -- crying, shouting, getting in trouble, saying things they well know are not true, making the smallest little thing into a huge deal, right?"

Again, Timmy will nod, for although we are far into the future, people are people, and despite all our technological advances, douchebaggery remains unchanged. "I do, grandpa, but I don't like those people. I don't think I'd like it if the TV in my cellphone in my brain played shows with those people."

"Well you see, Timmy, that was the amazing thing about the Golden Age of Reality TV. We didn't know it when it started, but soon enough it was obvious: douchebags make for great TV."

"But..."

"I know," we'll say. "It seems downright illogical. Crazy, even. If somebody is a douchebag, a whiny, crazy, attention-whore, then why in the biscuits would I want to follow them around everywhere, watch them whore themselves all over god's green earth?"

"Why, grandpa, why?"

"I don't know, Timmy, I don't know." And we'll shake our heads ruefully, smiling about the good old days, visions of Flavor Flav, Jonathan Antin, and those jerkoffs from Paradise Hotel lurching drunkenly, spitting on each other, and crying publicly in our heads. "There was this one douchebag," we'll say, "a hairdresser. He was on this show called Blow Out. Now this guy was not somebody you'd want to hang out with in everyday life. He made every situation into a full blown spectacle. It was all about him. He cried at the drop of a hat, he said douchebag things like I...am...hair... or It's my name on the bottle, not your name! or I'm trying to stay in the moment. Don't forget about hair. Don't forget about hair.

Now, a hairdresser, talking about hair all the time, crying over bottles of expensive product with his name on it, charging 500 dollars (back in the day, this was a lot of money) for a haircut, and fighting with everybody in his path, you'd think that might be a terrible thing to watch, something they might use to punish people with, right?"

And Timmy will make a face. "Yuck."

"That's exactly what you'd think. But you'd be wrong. For some reason, it was fascinating. The more this douchebag teared up and yelled at people, the more he crawled up his own self-absorbed ass, the more fascinating he was to watch. Swear to god."

"I don't..."

"And there was this other guy, name of Flavor Flav. He was a rapper, at one point, believe it or not, he was a kind of scary rapper, or at least, he was in a scary group of rappers who were really angry about all kinds of things they had every right to be angry about. But this man, this Flavor Flav, he got his own reality show, where he had to choose from a bunch of kinda ugly and simple douchebaguettes (copyright douchebaguette owned by DaveMerica, Inc.) who all wanted, supposedly, to be his girlfriend."

"Why supposebly," Timmy will say.

"Supposedly. And the reason I say that, is what these simple ugly girls really wanted was just to be on television."

"On television, but why. Anybody can be on television."

"That was what made it so interesting, Timmy. There was this one girl named New York."

"But that's not a name."

"That was one of the things that was so interesting. You see Flavor Flav, because he couldn't remember all their real names, he just gave them names of his own. That way, he could remember them, since they all kind of looked the same in an ugly, simple, slutty kind of way. Anyway, these was this one called New York...wooo-weee...was she a piece of work: ugly, crazy, chubby. But with all kinds of misdirected self-confidence, enough so she had herself convinced she was going to win. Why, she had herself so convinced she was a brilliant gorgeous catch, she almost convinced Flavor Flav."

"She did? But how?"

"I don't know, Timmy. I don't know."

"So did Mr. Flav marry this New York?"

"No, Timmy, in the end he just chose the hottest girl who seemed the least crazy. You see, that was the thing about reality TV, when it came down to it, it wasn't really real."

"So why did they call it reality TV?"

"Well, because it was mostly real. It was unscripted."

"What's the difference?"

"Well, that's what everybody started wondering around about...oh, I'd say maybe 2006, 2007, we'd say, hell, if reality TV has writers and editors and some of these shows are just plain fake, then what makes them different from the other shows? And then a show came out called "So NoTORIous." It starred this plastic daughter of a very rich and powerful man, and it kind of followed her around, and it was supposed to kind of make fun of the fact that she was half famous and half plastic and that she wasn't so smart, and even though her daddy was really famous and powerful, that she never really turned out to be much."

"That sounds terrible."

"It was, Timmy. Good god, it was terrible."

And you'll both sit there uncomfortably

"Have I pissed myself Timmy? Do you feel any moisture," we'll say. Little Timmy will shake his head. "Well, that's when it hit us: either TV had to be real or fake, or at least it had to feel like one or the other. That So NoTORIous show, besides the ridiculous spelling of the name, you see, it just felt like a regular show that they were making up as they went along. And it was not funny. Sweet Jesus was it not funny.

It was kind of sad, but not sad in the way, say, New York was sad. Not serious and crazy sad, standing in line at the 7-11 and getting into arguments about "yeah, you know you want it" and "I keep it real" sad, turning your half a five minutes of fame into a half a porn career sad. It was just sad that they had done such a shitty job, and that the show was so stupid, and you almost felt sorry for all the people, even the half plastic and all stupid girl, until you realized they all probably made a whole bunch of money making that terrible, terrible, lousy, shitty show."

"So they weren't douchebags enough?"

"Oh, they were plenty douchebags enough. That Tori girl's nose in itself was douchebag enough to carry five seasons of reality television. If they followed her around for real, it might have been great. But because they followed her around for fake, we never got to see how she was a douchebag in real life, and so it was just kind of sad and boring and a huge waste of money. Do you see what I mean, Timmy?"

"I think you did piss yourself now, Grandpa," Timmy will say, getting up gingerly and wiping his pants.

"Damn that Tori Spelling," we'll say. "Hey, look in my drawer, tell me how many candy bars are in there."

Wing-Nut Of The Week

As much as I’ve enjoyed plumbing the depths of America’s great PR machine, lately I’ve been feeling the need for a change. So I’m testing out a new Friday Feature* -- Wing-Nut Of The Week. If there’s one thing this great nation of ours has in spades, it’s the crazies -- unshaven crank addicts holed up in rural cabins with 800-page manifestos and stockpiles of semi-automatic weapons … elderly ladies with tinfoil hats and weird ramblings about the Apocalypse … Tom Cruise. I’m guessing the challenge each week will be picking just one.

So, without further ado, on to this week’s winner. Congratulations, Debi Pearl, you’re the Barrelhouse Wing-Nut of the Week!

Regular readers of Ann Landers, Abigail Van Buren, or Carolyn Hax will find nothing new in this letter to Ms. Pearl, an “advice columnist” for No Greater Joy Ministries. A woman writes in because she’s concerned about her married friend. Her friend's husband is verbally and possibly even physically abusive, has had multiple affairs and uses their child to “manipulate situations and hurt the mother.” Her question: what should her friend do? A part of her, of course (the sane, rational part), would like a divorce. But she’s having doubts.

Ann Landers (or whoever actually writes that column these days) would simply pull out file folder #47, “Getting Rid of Your No-Good Man,” do some cutting and pasting and call it a day. But not our Debi! Because, you see, “The Scripture makes it very clear how God feels about divorce, He hates it, it is an Old Testament passage, but God has not changed His mind.” (Wacky punctuation hers, not mine.)

So, that’s the advice: stay with the abusive husband, unless you want a good smiting. But the situation’s not completely hopeless. According to Debi, God occasionally strikes men dead if they’re evil, so the wife might try that route -- pray for some lightning storms or maybe a plague of locusts. In the meantime, just ask God to “take you to a place of sweet loving kindness in the midst of your turmoil.”

Apparently, getting smacked around hurts much less if you just close your eyes and go to your happy place.

Oh, but there’s more. Of course there’s more. Debi says the woman can win her husband over by showing him what a sweet, submissive wife she can be:

He will hear and see her cheerful countenance. He will notice her willingness to help and forgive. He will see her giving up her rights and not taking offense when he knows he has wronged her. He will see she honors him, obeys him, treats him with respect, and serves him with a non-rebellious, non-resistant attitude. He will see her spirit is not raging outwardly in emotional fits or inwardly in silent brooding of hurt, but her spirit is quiet, restful, and peaceful. He will see she doesn't puff up and talk incessantly in criticism of him—or others. He trusts her. He knows she is not going to discuss him with her pastor or friend. He sees she is wise with what little money he gives her.

Did you see how casually she tossed in that last point? Not only should you ladies take whatever abuse your husband sees fit to dish out, you should also be grateful for whatever small scraps of his hard-earned money he budgets for your silly little woman-needs.

And just in case you think this is simply an isolated incident, here’s another choice letter from Debi. The writer is understandably tired after mothering eight children -- four of them in the past two years. Her body is “worn out” and she dreads “coming together” with her husband. But this Fertile Myrtle doesn’t want to use birth control, instead relying on “God’s plan,” which is apparently for her to shoot out baby after baby until her body falls apart, and she and her husband are financially and emotionally destitute. Her husband wishes she’d just get a damn diaphragm already.

Debi’s advice?

The Bible clearly teaches that your husband is your head. He has the rule over you. You are to submit to him, obey him, honor him, and never usurp authority over him. I fear you have not submitted, not obeyed, and not honored. … The Bible does not state that it is sin to use natural means to space your children, but it does state it is sin not to obey your husband. He should have the final say in birth control, unless he would employ a method that would abort a fertilized egg. It is your duty to trust God to direct your man.

Got a question for Debi? Sure you do. You can write to her at ngj@nogreaterjoy.org.



*Yes, I know it’s still Thursday night, but that’s close enough.

How I Creeped Out Thirty Girls In My Quest To Meet Your Mother

Is anyone else watching that show How I Met Your Mother? When it debuted in the fall, people were hyping it up as the next big thing in sitcoms -- though, to be fair, when Two and a Half Men is consistently recognized by critics as the best your particular genre has to offer, being called "the next big thing in sitcoms" starts to sound like rather faint praise.

The show has its moments, mainly because Doogie Howser -- or, Neil Patrick Harris -- is pretty funny as a materialistic, sexist, high-fiving horndog. Also, that tall drummer guy from Freaks and Geeks plays a fairly amusing goofball do-gooder. And Allyson Hannigan is hot.

But the show's protagonist -- fuck. Every week he does at least five or six things that make me want to punch him in the neck. He's this annoyingly sensitive man-child whose conception of romantic relationships seems to have been forged on a steady diet of Hallmark made-for-TV movies and Love Is cartoons. So he's always glaring meaningfully (and creepily) into women's eyes and talking about his soul mate or "the one" the way Harold and Kumar talked about White Castle. I don't even know if he has a job. Also, he looks kind of like Jimmy Fallon.

The premise of the show is that the narrator/protagonist is telling his young children the story of how he met their mother "back in 2005/06," so periodically there's a Wonder Years-style voiceover, or even a shot of the kids sitting on a couch and listening to the tale. Of course there are a number of problems with this setup, not the least of which is -- holy Lord, this sure is the longest anecdote ever told, and those sure are the most patient (or perhaps heavily medicated) kids in the known universe. Also, the dad apparently likes to tell his kids about how much of a drunk he and his friends used to be, how he had some one-night stands (interspersed with the aforementioned glaring-deeply-into-the-eyes). Eventually, maybe there'll be an episode in which the kids get up off the couch and scream "Jesus Christ, pops! We don't want to hear about this shit! Get to the fucking point already!"

Lately, the guy's been dating a pastry chef who, frankly, is just as annoying as he is, so maybe they're a good pair. When they finally decided to sleep together, their foreplay was to sit on the couch -- glaring deeply into each others' eyes, of course -- and say things like "I want to know your soul." Who says shit like this? Other than serial killers and pedophiles, I mean.

So why do I keep watching? I think I'm just hoping for the eventual episode in which the douchebag protagonist gets hit by a bus. Or maybe the twist is that there IS no mother, that everyone he knew got so sick of his constant whining and soul-mate searching that they refused to talk to him. So now he's kidnapped these kids and chained them to the couch, where they're forced to listen to his stupid story. Now THAT would be entertainment.

Spat on the Hat

You may have seen this already, but via Gawker there is a great post that reprints a Park Slope parents' listserv argument about a missing "boy's" hat. Highlarious.

In other disturbing news, I hear that Park Slope parents are known for bringing their young'uns to bars, as if they were pets or something. This heinous practice has apparently spread to D.C.; a good friend informed me a few weeks ago that she was not allowed to smoke at a bar around 11pm on a weeknight because a toddler was in residence. We need to nip the bud on this practice right here and now, or I fear we may be witness to a generation even more self-absorbed than the Boomers, if that is indeed possible.

Worst. Title. Ever.

I haven't actually seen the movie, but Lucky Number Slevin strikes me as the wrong choice for a film title. One of its problems becomes obvious as soon as you try to type it out -- my computer doesn't have an "upside-down 7" key, so am I supposed to type an uppercase L? Or lowercase? Or maybe just a 7? Who knows? Also, the title sounds really silly out loud.

Anyway, this got me to thinking: what are the worst movie titles of all time? The ill-conceived, the embarrasingly hokey, the too cute or too gross or too obvious or too confounding?

I'll suggest a few, to get things started:

--Gigli. With all the attention being paid these days to "word-of-mouth marketing," you'd think the studio's publicity department would have insisted on a name that people actually knew how to pronounce.

--Ballistic: Ecks vs. Sever. It's been a few years since it's release, and I still have no idea what this movie is about. Nor do I have any desire to find out.

--K-Pax. Sounds less like a movie than like a high-powered serum to get rid of unsightly herpes sores.

--Teen Wolf Too. Actually, this space is reserved for all movie sequels that substitute "too" for "two." I suppose it's accurate, in this case, since Jason Bateman is in fact also a teen wolf, rather than the same teen wolf from the first film having a second series of adventures. Maybe we should be grateful to Hollywood for using "too" or "the next" (as in The Next Karate Kid) to signal that the movie is so bad it can't be said to have any formal relation to the original, except that it needs to trade on the familiar name or else no one will pay to see it.

--Cop and 1/2.

--Santa with Muscles. Hulk Hogan as an evil millionaire who gets amnesia and thinks he's Santa Claus. So I guess the title is an example of truth in advertising, at least.

--Feeling Minnesota. I know this title's supposed to sound all sensitive and literary and shit, but whenever I see the box in the video store, I picture a blind Keanu Reeves lost in the Midwest and crawling around on his hands and knees trying to find the interstate.

--To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar.

--Smila's Sense of Snow. Maybe Blind Keanu would have an easier time of it if he brought Smila along.

--C.H.U.D.

--Gayniggers from Outer Space. Oh, how I wish I were making this up.

I'm sure there are lots more. Fellow Barrelhousers, what say you?

Mr. T Triumphant, All is Right with World

Mr. T told the McSweeneys people to quit their jibber jabber, don't give him no back talk, and shut up, fool, yesterday. All is indeed right with the world, as Mr. T is the super overall champion of the first annual Barrelhouse Pop Icon vs. Writer March Madness Tournament.

It was an exciting however-many days, and now the 40 to 50 people who were paying attention can relax and focus their attention on...well...I don't know, maybe this Friday's upcoming edition of US Weekly and what those stars might be doing to prove they're just like us (Kirstie Alley walks her dog! Zach Braff likes coffee! Reese Witherspoon drinks water! JUST LIKE US!).

Anyway, much thanks to everybody who participated.

And now we have an answer to the question, "who is the best in every way?" As my Mr. T in Your Pocket might say: "First name Mister. Middle name Period. Last name...T."

Click here to view the final brackets.

Mr. T vs. McSweeneys for All the Marbles

The championship game is here. I would have bet my life that this would come donw to Swayze versus T, but we must not have as many stupid dude visitors as we thought, because the writers have actually done pretty well so far. Today, the big test. Do the right thing, suckas:

Mr. T

vs.

McSweeneys

Salman Rushdie's wife is totally hot

Yes, she is
I'll leave it to you to figure out how to see what she looks like.
Okay, okay fine. Potentially NSFW though.

Who Will Face Mr. T?

Mr. T told Lethem to quit his jibber jabber over the weekend with a pretty convincing victory.

Today, McSweeneys faces off against Jonathan Safran Foer for the rights to get their asses kicked by face T in the finals.

Every vote counts.