Who will take Europe? III - The Secret of the ooze

Here it is, the grand finale in the Pulitzer prize winning "Who will take Europe?" trilogy. Going more than 3 episodes would be disastrous. Trying to fill space with interesting ideas and clever plot twists never works for more than 3. Before you know it you have tired ideas, boring scripts, and Aliens coming back to get there plastic looking skull. There will not be a 4th.

We now continue where we last left off. Earthfactor had exposed Africa's continent claimers, and turned its light towards the continent of Australia. Australia successfully tried a unique type of continent claiming, which we in the United States call ....Lying. Ly-ing: Making someone believe something that isn't true. Australians have promoted a lie that their island is a continent. (Fact: Australia is smaller than the United States, and has 1/10th the population.) Australians knew they didn't have enough population or resources to take over a real continent. So they cleverly decepted all into believing that they already were a continent.

Australia made up the word and is now known as an island continent. I don't care what words you make up, your still an island! Just by saying something exists doesn't make it true. The term "island continent" is proven as a lie just by examining the words "island" and "continent". How can you have an island that is a continent, those words don't even make sense together. It needs to be classified with other word lies that make no sense together, like "Mexican Insurance" or the "capable wife".

(Fact: There is no Mexican word for "insurance") Don't believe me? Next time your at home, turn your T.V. to Telemundo and watch the commercials. Eventually you'll see a commercial that says something like "mucho mas grande, es un coche especialmente, compra insurance." Notice it didn't say insurancamente, or insurancio, just insurance. They have to use the English word because its used so infrequently, they didn't even see the need to make up a word for it. But back to Australia. You may have fooled the rest of the world, but Earthfactor is on to you and will continue in its work to declassify you as a continent. Don't believe us? Look at what we did to Pluto.

Moving on to our final continent, and the title of this trilogy, who will take Europe? Europe has proven to be the hardest continent to control. No one nation or race can call themselves European exclusively. Many nations have tried, and have failed miserably. Think that these nations just don't know what their doing? Think that you could do a better job yourself?

Do me a favor and the next time your playing Risk, just try to take all of Europe, I dare you. And I guarantee you as soon as you get close, some idiot is going to attack you from the Middle East and ruin everything. You had a pact, and they are too stupid to honor that, now both of you are going to lose. Now when you turn in your cards, instead of fortifying your borders, you're going to unleash a crusade so horrifying, it will take them back to the stone age. Didn't they notice all those armies you had sitting on Ukraine? Of course, your now unfortified continent of Europe will be ransacked by invaders from all sides, pillaging your once great world power until your stuck with your one sorry isolated country of Irkutsk.

So who will take Europe? Spaniards? Of course not. They are just European Mexicans, much like the zebras mentioned in an earlier expose by Earthfactor. France? Ha ha ha ha, just kidding. But seriously, Britain? They tried already and failed. They just don't have the population to take over a continent so high in demand. To successfully take over Europe, an overpopulated country would have to be in such terrible shape financially, plagued with so much disease, poverty, and hunger that it would have nothing to lose by the attempt. And nobody would want to attack you, because your country is so disgusting. I'm looking at you India. If they're successful, great, you just got yourself a continent. And if unsuccessful, you've just solved your overpopulation problem. Win, Win.

In conclusion, if there is one piece of truth you can use, one thing to keep in mind from this whole trilogy, always remember, my ex wife is now fat.

Who will take Europe? II - This time its personal

And now, the long anticipated part 2 of "Who will take Europe?". If you haven't read part 1 yet, stop reading immediately. Continuing to read this article, before your eyes have been properly adjusted to Earthfactors beacon of truth, could prove disastrous. I mean, come on, what kind of person are you anyway to see part 2 before seeing part 1. You were probably that annoying person in the audience going "Why are they on an ice planet? Who's that guy in the black outfit breathing all funny, is he a good guy or a bad guy? Is c3po gay?" These were all answered in part 1, and yes, he was extremely gay. So I will not be going back to explain what Earthfactor has been exposing in continent claiming so far, instead we will pick up right where we left off, Asia.

The continent of Asia was long fought over to be claimed by one nation. All failed miserably. Which brings us to our next type of continent claiming, Racialinization. Ra-cial-iz-a-tion: Is the claiming of a continent by one race, when more than 2 races reside on the same continent. (Fact: Orientals are only 1 of many races found on the continent of Asia, for instance, Indian and Arabic to name a couple.) The orientals (Chinese, Japanese, Korean and so on) upon seeing the success of the United States takeover of the Americas, decided to do a little corporate branding of there own. Grouping together into a sort of continental co-op, combined their numbers and overtook the continent of Asia. They needed the ownership to stick, so to cement the deed, they changed their name from orientals, to Asians.

This move has proven very successful. It is now politically incorrect to refer to this race as orientals. Speech patterns had to change. Who screwed up the curve in school when papers were graded? Asians. Who is that person who just cut me off? Asian. Oriental was no longer a term to describe people, they were now rugs. Smart move, successfully ousting their biggest rival India from that continent altogether. (Fact: India makes up over 1/4 of Asia's population.) India was equal to China as the largest country by population in Asia. But by enlisting the help of fellow orientals all over Asia, India was blocked from ownership of this continent. Sorry India, all you have now is your country. At least you have your converts here in the Americas with your "American Indians".

Another continental co-op is Africa. This continent was also taken by racialization. Black people did however have an unfair advantage considering the majority of Africa's Population is black. (Fact: There are a lot of black people in Africa.) Sorry Egyptians, you were outnumbered, and the continent of Africa goes to.... black people. Now, this is a very interesting anomaly. No matter where they live, they are still called, Africans. Whether its rapping in the streets of urban U.S. cities, getting their doctorate at Cambridge or flying around in their spaceship 500 years in the future, they are still called African. What would Luke Skywalker have been called if he was black? African. I have to give them props for having the highest retention of their members. Good job!

In part 3 of "Who will take Europe" we will discuss the continent claiming of Australia, and why no one has yet claimed Europe. Stay tuned.

Who will take Europe?

This is part 1 of a 3 part article on continent claiming. Why 3 parts you ask? Because sometimes Earthfactor's beacons of truth shine so bright, it would blind honest hearted truth seekers to shine them all at once. This is why Earthfactor shall only deal with the continents of North and South America, and Antarctica in part 1. Parts 2 & 3 will deal with Asia, Africa, Australia and finally Europe.

There are many ways to claim a continent, and the first way we'll discuss is continentization. Con-ti-nent-i-za-tion: is the claiming of ownership of a continent by one country, when that country occupies less than 50% of the land mass of that continent. Americans are guilty of this form of continent claiming. (Fact: The United States only occupies less than 20% of the land mass of the North and South continents of the Americas.) Now when I say "Americans", do you think Brazilian? Canadian? Perhaps Guyanian? They are also located on the continents of North and South America. But who comes to mind? When the word "American " is spoken, you think of a red meat eating, gas guzzling, unbreakable comb buying, resident of the United States of America.

Why is that? Because they have done a great job of promoting themselves that way. The U.S. exports products and calls them "American" made. You don't see China doing that, labeling everything they produce as "Asian" made. And that's why they don't own Asia. But that's a topic for part 2. Let's not get ahead of ourselves. Also, when visiting other countries, residents of the U.S. when asked their nationality, say they are "American". Eventually this caught on and other countries started using it. When i ordered 8 Espressos in Italy and poured them into one normal sized cup, they didn't call me a stupid United Statesian, they called me a stupid "American".

(Fact: They don't have normal sized cups of coffee in Europe, the large size does not exist, their coffee is served as a shot.) They have fooled their population by using the metric system. We here in America know a shot is one ounce, but this same size shot is a whole 30 milla litres on the metric system. To me that sounds like 30 million litres. Slow down there turbo, nobody needs that much coffee. So you can imagine my surprise when i saw the portion they had served me amounted to one big gulp. Did you know that a "big gulp" in Europe is the maximum amount of liquid you can fit down your mouth in one swallow? In America its 32 ounces!

Are the Europeans rationing their liquids? Here in America, the most successful coffee chain has 3 sizes. Tall: Which if you didn't know means large. Grande: Which means large in Spanish. and Venti: Which means large in Italian. So your choices are large, large or large. Stop hoarding your liquids Europe! Until you get your measurements right, you need to expect "Americans" to fix your portions. Europeans have been hiding their sizes behind the metric system long enough, and Earthfactor's beacon of truth was long overdue. Do not be misled, the metric system was designed to hide size!

Americans, being so successful in claiming the American continents, started to name the other residents found on their newly claimed continent. To the north it was easy, there was only one country, Canada, so all those to the north would be called Canadian. To the south it wasn't that simple. (Fact: There are 20 countries south of the United States on the continents of North and South America.) That's a lot to remember. So what Americans did, was simplify. Who is that person working for less than minimum wage? Is that a Brazilian, maybe a Costa Rican? No, if you live south, your a Mexican. But my parents were born in Venezuela. Guess what, you're a Mexican. But I was born here in the United States. Sorry, tu es un Mexicano.

And don't even get me started on what the Americans did to the Indians, the original residents of the Americas. Columbus thought he landed on the West Indies when he got to America. He called the residents "Indians" thinking they were from India. This name stuck. Even after finding out right away these were not people from India, they were still called "Indians". What's worse, is even the "Indians" started calling themselves "Indians". This would be like aliens coming to Earth, thinking they landed on Mars, and started calling us Martians. And then, after finding out this was actually Earth, still insisted on calling us Martians. And then we all started calling each other Martians. But I digress.

The last continent Earthfactor will discuss in part 1 of this series is Antarctica. Now this doesn't even qualify for continent claiming because its too cold. There aren't even any resident animals on Antarctica. Antarctica is a cold, lifeless mass that is ugly, miserable and makes everyone with it, miserable....much like my ex. Except Antarctica loses 5% of its mass every year to global warming. It seems global warming has the opposite effect on my ex. (Fact: My ex is fat.)......... Maybe she should switch to the metric system. (see reason for metric system above)

In my next 2 articles, Earthfactor will expose the continent claiming of Asia, Africa and Australia and why no one has claimed Europe yet.

And Surf Shall Set You Free

And Surf Shall Set You Free

Surfing is the best sport. This belief is as simple as it is true. For those who have already set out on the pilgrimage of surfing, to discover inner peace and contentment, having had calloused eyes opened to its delights, for these ones surfing is truth. Like spiritual wanderers on an endless life quest, surfers know that the din of angry waves, the cool spray of lonely dawn slapping at their face, the serene beauty of surfing, this is the way, the truth, and the life. A myriad reasons back surfers faith in the purity of their sport, although the framework of these beliefs rest on a few simple tenets. There are biological mechanisms that motivate surfer’s devotion. It is known that the health benefits of surfing are nearly without peer. It is noteworthy how surfing appeases many athletes need for a death teasing rush. Finally, these three tenets are baptized in the sublime artistic expression of the sport, allowing these individual qualities to emerge a unified whole, the best sport. To what can the ethereal glee that is a hallmark of surfing be attributed?

The human feelings of joy, happiness, and a general feeling of well being that accompany surfing, can be unceremoniously sequestered, stripped of their emotional context, and forced to be scrutinized at a biological level. What one discovers in so doing is that, joy is a hormone, happiness is a chemical, and inner peace is a peptide, or at least the workings of many of these substances on the mind. To avoid laboring under the weight of over a half century of detailed research on the chemistry of the brain, it can simply be stated that a chemical produced in our brains called endorphins cause, “feelings of well-being and pleasure” (Nevid 47). This biochemical fact is directly related to surfing. It has been demonstrated that these endorphins are the human body’s natural pain killer. A major contributor to the release of these chemicals by the pituitary gland within the brain is strenuous endurance exercises. Surfing is resoundingly guilty of this. Any surfer will confess to the agony of a long paddle after a good wave. The swim, or “scratch” back through the surf, to get outside where the waves are breaking, is often strenuous, prolonged, and endured like penance for the carnal joy of the ride. It is this very process though that triggers a rush of endorphins in the brain, creating a natural surfer high. The very idea of a high is apropos as endorphins bear a similar molecular structure to their cousin morphine. This alone is just one reason surfing is the best sport.

The health benefits that are derived from surfing cause many to be won over without a word, to this preeminent sport. The web site New-Fitness.com points out succinctly that, “experts have been saying that swimming is great for your health and simply one of the best exercises out there” (“Swimming For Your Heart”). Explaining why this is true, they continue, “swimming uses almost all the major muscle groups . . . develops muscle strength and endurance . . . is a great sport for people of all ages . . . does not put the strain on the connective tissues that running, aerobics and some weight-training regimens do” (“Swimming For Your Heart”). So swimming is clearly excellent for bodily training. Little explanation is necessary to see how this relates to surfing. To surf is to paddle, to kick, and to dive. To surf is to swim. A surfer fights against currents, and to often crowds, reaping in the process all the phenomenal health benefits of swimming. To be immersed into the sport of surfing is to be born again into a devotion to health and wellbeing, again marking surfing as the best sport.

There are some athletes who seek the darker side, the risk takers, the ones who define there existence by their sport. Many athletes are exclusively devoted to the rush. These extreme athletes yearn for the falling, jumping, sliding, the “X-Games” teasing death rush that sets them on edge, works out their inner daemons, and tempts fate. Surfing satiates this desire. To illustrate this point, most would agree that, although only experienced by a few, military combat, with young soldiers cursing, bleeding, praying, and dying, would be the pinnacle of intensity. Interestingly those exact circumstances took place on October 3^rd 1993, in the dusty hitherto nearly unknown African city of Mogadishu. On that day the Battle of the Black Sea began, and over a twenty-four hour period one out of two Americans fighting where casualties. It was the type of day that leaves one gasping for breath under the pressure of the moment. Yet, Specialist Shawn Nelson, an army Ranger who lived through the battle articulated that “it was hard to describe how he felt . . . it was like an epiphany” (Bowden 301). His thoughts continued:

There had been split second in his life when he’ felt death brush past . . . On this day he had lived with that feeling, with death breathing right in his face . . . The only thing he could compare it to was the feeling he found sometimes when he surfed, when he was inside the tube of a big wave, and everything around him was energy and motion, and he was being carried along by some terrific force, and all he could do was focus intently on holding his balance, riding it out. Surfers called it The Green Room. Combat was another door to that room. A state of complete mental and physical awareness. (Bowden 302)

Any other sport placed in that context would fail to make such a distinguished parallel. If mocking life is a criterion for the best sport, one is on the correct path with surfing. Only a few choose this path in surfing, but for surfing to be the best sport it must appeal to diverse crowds, not a provincial few.

These three fundamental qualities, the sublime joy of surfing, the supreme health benefits, and the power of the experience, would not be a united whole without the art of the sport, that gives surfing a unique synergy. As with any of the great artistic activities, the grace of ballet, the balance of figure skating, the color of a gymnast’s routine, surfing brings together the peak of human emotions, the love, the joy, peace, and synthesizes them into something new. Surfing is constantly a new creation that expresses these basic fundamentally human attributes in an instant of time, in explosive radiance by the masters, and soulful intent by those who have just began their sojourn. Each wave is a blank canvas to be colored by an artistic mind, thrashing water with wisps of turquoise. Others embrace the expressiveness of the wave itself, modeling themselves after the sea, as if it was an under-tracing for them to follow. There is no circumscribed process that marches to a set routine, rather, every day, week, month, and year, every wave is a new epoch, a new creation, making surfing one of the greatest of the artistic sports.

Surfing is the best sport. It brings the surfer a sublime joy, it causes them to radiate with good health, and can enrapture the trill seeker. These three fundamental tenets are unified by the artistic expression of the sport, bringing surfing to a near spiritual experience. Once someone is baptized into the sport by emersion in its beauty and power, once they have embarked on their pilgrimage to the inner peace and contentment of surfing, few turn away, simply because surfing is the best sport.

The Unbreakable Comb

I guess if you are looking for a silver lining in the credit freeze and spiraling economy, it's that consumers are now alot less likely to purchase all the useless crap that is ceaselessly peddled on TV and on the Web. In decades past, there was seemingly no end to the worthless garbage that American's in particular were willing to spend their hard earn duckets on. It's a subject that has always fascinated me, even as far back as a young boy.

I can remember time spent in the local barber shop, as early as the age of 6. With nothing to do while Ray( owner of Ray's barber shop), would hack away at my toe-headed mane with nothing but an electric razor. I staved off my fear of certain injury by staring intently at the varied hair care products that sat dormant and dusty on the shelves directly in my line of sight.

"Do not move your head", seemed to be Ray's constant mantra, and so I would alternate my gaze from the large spray bottle filled with a mysterious blue liquid, and a tattered cardboard display holding a variety of combs, all boldly embossed with the word-"UNBREAKABLE". Even as a 6yr old, I could not for the life of me understand why anyone would need an "UNBREAKABLE" comb. Granted it was the 80's, and Aqua Net was being applied by many in such liberal ammounts, that one could sustain a direct hit to the melon with a Nolan Ryan 2 seamer without any significant injury, but still, UNBREAKABLE? I tried to imagine grooming situations that would surpass the thresholds of a normal comb, and thus facillitate the need for a super comb, but my young mind drew a blank. I wondered who was responsible for creating the "UNBREAKABLE " comb, and what that conversation must have sounded like...

"I'll be down in a minute Jim, I just have to finish combing my.....what the? Dang it! Not again!!
Jim, do you have anymore combs? I just shattered my third one this week?"

"Crimony Nora, I told you to be careful! That's the last one, and with the cutbacks they're making at the plastics factory, I can't afford to keep replacing all these combs.! Wait a minute... with your knowledge of the comb's inherent weaknesses, and my access to military grade resins..."

"It's crazy Jim, but it just might work."

I am pretty sure it went something like that. I still maintain however, that if you require an "UNBREAKABLE" comb to manage your headsuit, then you have larger hygiene issues that need to be addressed.

I'm getting a little sidetracked, but my point is, Americans will buy anything. How else do you explain the Chia Pet, Mighty Putty, and the Pontiac Aztek? And don't get me started on the Snuggie. Are people really not aware that it's just a robe put on backwards? And I don't care if it is super comfy, You look ridiculous trolling around the house while wearing an oversized blanket with sleeves. And really, do we have to sacrifice every last remaining shred of our dignity on the altar of comfort? If so, then why stop there? How about suit's made of micro fiber terry cloth, and bean bag dining room chairs? I swear, Mentos could market and sell a new breath mint suppository and people would buy it. All you need is a catchy phrase like-"freshens breath from the inside out", and a commercial showing several exasperated people choking on traditional mints, and complaining of tired jaws from gum chewing. No need to back the product up with sound scientific data, just have the commercial show a green holographic silhouette of a human, arms outstretched to the side, feet shoulder width apart, with an intense pulsating red glow emanating from the point of said suppositories entry, up through the intestines, esophagus, and out through the mouth. Have a has been celebrity like Steve Guttenberg to do the voice over work, and mark my words, sales would be brisk- particularly amongst the french demographic.

I honestly don't know what is worse, the products that are advertised, or the advertisements themselves. I know my fellow blogger Manbearpig had already directed Earthfactor's intense beacon of truth squarely at the ad gurus at CKE Inc., and rightfully so, but I don't even think they are the worst offenders. Seriously, is there anyone more in need of a quick hard blow to the face than Billy Mays? Honestly Bill, what is your deal? Are you always this loud? Are you really that one dimensional? You need to mix it up a little, friend. Steven Seagal thinks you lack range. And I know you're convinced that raising your voice is a fool proof tactic for getting people to do what you want, but It doesn't work, and I set out this morning to prove just that.

After abruptly waking my wife from slumber, I stripped off my clothes, breathed deeply to summon a rich, and resonant tone, and loudly exclaimed-"Get over here and break yourself off a piece of this! And after we're done...some flapjacks would be amazing." I was brutally rebuffed. consider that theory debunked.

And what about the ridiculous racial stereotyping that goes on in McDonald's ads? I know you want to target the African American consumer, but do you have to be so obvious? (i.e. " Damn Tamika, this McRib is bangin' yo..") If I was a black man I would be offended. Actually, that's not exactly correct. If I was a black man, I'd be spending so much time shopping for products that had the word 'MAGNUM' stamped on them, finally giving my wife valid reason to use my name and the word 'ample' in the same sentance, and striking a Captain Morgan-like pose in the gym locker room while i slowly and deliberately towel off, that I probably wouldn't even notice the blatant profiling. But my point is still valid.

I guess we can't go back and undo the past, but we can choose to be more intelligent consumers from this point forward. Money is much harder to come by these days, So, let's try not to blow it on anymore stupid stuff. Now if you will excuse me, It smells like somethings burning on my George Foreman Grill...

Sushi for the Sharks

Dead fish are well, just that, dead fish. The unsavory sight and odious odors that accompany dead fish can make the nose wrinkle and the skin wriggle. Fantastically though if one ceremoniously accompanies a scaly sea dweller with a ball of rice a sliver of celery and dollop of quail egg, voila you have a peerless delicacy. Such is the case with the 1975 box office hit Jaws. For if one strips this theatrical thriller of the ancillary ingredients that make it a gem you have nothing more than a stinking fish – another prosaic monster movie, another cheep thriller. In a cinematic triumph director Steven Spielberg serves up brilliant acting, witty writing and a timeless sound track to poke at the deepest of human fears, turning a bloated fish into peerless filmmaking. But of all the spices that Spielberg brings to the film the musical score unifies the presentation.

As early as the opening credits John Williams score is etched into our soul. The keyless droning drives on like the merciless fish it accompanies. The pace and rhythm of the three note motif accelerate in such sublime consonance with the frenzy of the large predators attacks one quickly identifies even the first drawn out note with the struggle and macabre death that inevitably follow. Mimicking the futile and frantic grouping for air and life of the red washed victims, Williams’s crescendos with horn shrills that shock the viewer and sear fear into the mind. It is obvious from the outset the additive that gives breath to this masterpiece of filmmaking is its haunting score.

Jaws will strike a chord of fear in even the most tasteless of movie goers. Although the brilliant acting of Robert Shaw, the captivating writing of Peter Blenchley, and unparallel direction of Steven Spielberg give the film body, its soul is in the sound track. Listen to it loud and willing or not the heart will jump and the hands will clam up as you partake. Although the “lifeless eyes, black eyes” of Jaws will fill one with apprehension for years, it is the score that will keep you out of the water.

I’m starting to think that Zebras are overrated...

…I mean really, they’re a poor man’s horse and a poor man’s donkey rolled into one. You know what we call that? A mule. “Oh but the zebra has stripes!” So it’s a freaking striped mule. Who wants to go to a zoo and look at a striped mule? Let me get this straight, first we’re going to look at the lions who, if let loose, would control most of our major cities in a matter of weeks, and then we’re gonna check out the striped mule exhibit?

What’s worse is I think the zebras know they’re overrated and have been doing everything they can to hide it for decades. They all pray to God no one ever asks them to hall sh*t over a mountain pass, or prance around at an equestrian show, because the charade would come crashing down right then and there.

Ever notice how, after a lion eats one of the zebras, none of the zebras really seem all that bummed out? Oh sure, theres kicking and running and general chaos. But look at their eyes. Nothing. No emotion. They know that sacrifices must be made to keep this lifestyle going.

You really think a zebra that’s been living in the fast lane of Africa his whole life, being chased by lions and filmed by the Discovery Channel in HD wants to wake up one day to find he’s a present for some spoiled 8 year old girl in Coto De Caza who’s going to call him Oreo for the rest of his pathetic life? Hell no! Zebras don’t wanna go out like that.

And you know what? I have to tip my cap to them for playing their cards right so far. They’ve managed to be portrayed as a majestic, exotic animal, always in the victim role.

Can we take them down in one fell swoop? Not likely. But remember, a forest fire starts with just one spark.

I think we all need to reevaluate our opinion of zebras.

Millions of Children everywhere hold there Breath!

It was announced Thursday morning the 26^th of March that the Former Housekeeper for the beloved Bryant family will be suing, contending she was “Harassed and Humiliated”. She claims that she was verbally berated and embarrassed while working under conditions that were “intolerable”. She was assaulted with words like lazy, slow even dumb, more the once she was called a liar and cursed at. She seeks back pay for broken promises and Medical Bills, as well as an undisclosed amount for pain and suffering.

Really..? We can get paid for that now? Like everyone else, when I heard the way the housekeeper described her relationship with the Bryant’s, I was naturally reminded of my own childhood. Growing up it seemed like my parents were competing to see who could humiliate me more. Lazy, Slow, Dumb, for the first nine years of my life I was confused as to which of those were my name, when I turned 10 it became obvious that my name was in fact Useless. This Housekeeper called the working conditions she was subject to, “Intolerable”. She claimed she had to reach into a bag “containing” dog poop, I say at least the poop was in a bag. If they wouldn’t have called her a liar and cursed at her, how would she have known they loved her..?

My Parent’s claim they had to make me strong for the real world; perhaps this housekeeper’s parents were not as “generous”. One thing is clear, I am more then equipped to work for Mr. Kobe Bryant.

What Would the Aliens Think? (WWtAT)

It’s an important question (WWtAT). After all, the day will come when all of our actions will need to be explained to the aliens, and what the aliens think about certain daily activities that we as humans regard as perfectly normal might have a significant affect on whether or not we continue to carry out said activities.

You see, by applying the question WWtAT to everyday, mundane acts that we deem normal, we could not only save ourselves from doing things that are totally unnecessary, but also spare us unimaginable embarrassment when the aliens inevitably call us out on them.

Which brings me to the ultimate reason for this post, and that is the Homo-sapien Male Dance (HMD). Really, this goes without saying, but do we really want to have to explain this when the aliens get here? When pressed by the aliens, explaining the importance of the Homo-sapien Female Dance (HFD) will be easy enough. But by and large the HMD will be indefensible. The HMD only has a 7% success rate and, with the exception of sex, I don’t want to do anything knowing I’m going to fail 93% of the time. Even in the event that the HMD is being pulled off successfully, like someone successfully using a hula hoop, it will be near impossible to explain why it is even being attempted in the first place. And judging by the facial expressions of those attempting the HMD (see right), it is neither enjoyable to participate in or observe.

Look, I’m not trying to specifically attack the HMD, but I’m also not looking for any additional work when the aliens show up. Inevitably we will have to explain things like clapping, Crocs, and Asians. And while some of those things will always be part of human culture, we have to realize that some things are in our control. So let’s start asking ourselves WWtAT throughout our day, save ourselves a ton of time when the aliens arrive.

I say we start with the HMD.

Chord of Kin

It has puzzled me over the years how in my mind sounds become associated with or convey feelings often more readily than the images they accompany. Maybe my perception formulates concepts differently than most, maybe I have better audition; possibly my visual attention is deficient. Regardless, my memory wades in whispers and whines, in crashes and cries; I reminisce in not sights but sounds of my past.

A few verses of the songs in my mind are the types that make my face wrinkle like fingers that have been in a pool just too long. Sounds that I felt as much as heard. Sounds that have evoked pity, oohs and aahs, and far too often muffled laughter. An anecdote that still brings my sparse blond hairs to attention was orchestrated by my younger brother Alik. On one cold November morning I was provided with a sound association that will be with me until I have reached my final stanza.

It seems feeding time was the most Darwinian of struggles in our home, and I, being the oldest, was usually the fittest. In a paired arrangement my brothers and I would feed facing each other almost nose to nose, battling for every precious inch of bar top real-estate. Hunched over our guarded bowls of “O’s” like an impassioned quartet we ate alone yet together. My siblings, Leif, Alik, and Olin took there positions at the bar in a fairly arbitrary fashion, but I had “my spot”. The inside coroner nearest the front door was where I sat, and I ate, this was known. On one particular morning though Alik had decided to challenge my right as eldest son.

Six years my younger and barely two thirds my size, Alik was the red headed cymbalist of the family. Easy to erupt, resilient to punishment, and possessing of a will beyond an eight year old, instigating him was akin too tuning a guitar up to open G. As I awoke that morning and stumbled from my room, it was clear the “Rooster”, as we called him, was perched on my stool. This incited no emotion in me, and I felt it of no immediate consequence. As the older brother I simply sauntered up to him and flung him from my stool, spoon still in mouth. A trail of milk and saliva followed him in a long arc to the ground, and I assumed my spot. It was early and I had to catch the bus soon; I had little time for his antics. Expressionless I moved aside his half eaten bowl of Crispies, cleared some sleepy from my eyes, and lazily sorted through the cereals already pulled and arranged on the bar for our choosing. I failed to notice Alik, after clawing a few feet across the high gloss herringbone floor, had risen silently and make his way to the front of me, toward the small office area just outside our kitchen.

As I sat there, working on my morning meal, I distinctly recall naively watching Alik in the doorway bridging the office and kitchen. It is vivid to this day how he clamored through the cup of writing utensils that sat on the secretary just around the corner, just out of my line of sight. I remember the whine of the electric pencil sharpener as i watched Alik, still in the doorway, look at me, then his progress with a hand picked number two pencil, then back at me. After grinding off about an inch off his baton, with the same dispassionate expression I had donned earlier, he made his way back to me.

I found an article recently that made a compelling parallel of the properties of the epidermis, or skin, and the head of a drum. Apparently both can withstand a staggering amount of pressure, pounding, and abuse when spread across a reasonable surface area. As with a drum though, our skin is under constant tension so when sufficient pressure is applied over a small enough plane, the surface is broken and the released energy causes a disproportionate gape to open. Now in certain instances when the skin is punctured with aggressive force with a pointed stake or rod, the cleaving of the surface is accompanied by an uncanny pop that is without peer. Not quite a crack like that of leather on leather, not near the resonance of a burst balloon, more on par with the subtle yet significant bark of a kernel of corn erupting under heat and pressure. My brother played that note for me that morning with the rigid tip of his rebuke. After marveling for a moment at the stained pencil Alik had left protruding eloquently from my bare shoulder, I noticed the slight plume of skin much like warm popcorn had erupted around the wound where 3/4 inch of rosewood was now buried. I line of dark blood marched its way down my arm as I cried such a tremmorous shrill that all that was heard was a gasp of breath.

The moments following the crescendo trail off as abruptly as the end of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5. The sentinel of the house, my mother, miraculously appeared as if out of no where to tend to my wound. The scar has diminished over the years, now only a small grey dimple on my left arm, a silent reminder of the consonance that too often reverberates from love and hate. All my brothers are my best friends today, but in some ways Alik is distinct. He provided me an association that cold November morning, an association that no subtle Stradivarius could string, no symphony could match, a chord that rings, “we are brothers” every time it plays in my mind, an chord of kin.

The King of Beers

I hate the taste of beer. There. I said it. I am a 6'3' tall, and weigh in at a very athletic(just go with it) 225lbs. I work in construction, drive a big, loud, diesel-powered truck, and love the feel of flannel against my calloused blue collar skin. By all accounts, I should be the poster child for anheiser busch, and yet, I find the taste of beer- any beer, totally friggin' disgusting. After years of enduring an endless barrage of verbal jabs and tired jokes at my expense, It's high time I expose the stereotype that 'you aren't manly if you don't like beer'.

Let me first state for the record, that I haven't always had such an aversion to all that is barley, hops and fermentation. I, like most americans, was exposed, at a very young age, to a constant stream of clever commercials, that made it seem like swilling that amber elixir was the key that unlocked all that was good and sought after in this life. Want to hook up with that unattainable blonde tending bar? No problem. Order a frosty Bud Light, and in spite of your average looks and douchy friends, she is yours for the taking. Can't seem to land that big promotion? Just show up to the next conference meeting with a sixer of MGD and it's goodbye cubicle, and hello plush corner office. I watched every commercial and soaked in every billboard and print ad. With wide-eyed optimism, I cracked open my first brew at the legal age of 21, then sat back and waited for it to rain blondes and brunettes. But it was not to be. This land flowing with milf and money, existed only in some ad exec's dream. It had all been a mirage. Not only did drinking beer not bring all of my wildest desires to fruition, it's taste was, to me, truly revolting. Mr. Budweiser, you might be the king of beers, but you sir, sit on a throne of lies.

The years to follow held some of the darkest moments of my life. Angry and disollusioned I would frequently pick fights at bars and eating establishments with anyone who dared mock my choice of beverage. I'd often fly into a Zima fueled rage at the slightest provocation. It wasn't until I woke up in a pool of my own sick, after a 6 hour daquiri bender, that I realized I had hit rock bottom. Months of counseling helped me to realize that I didn't have to prove that I was a man by fighting, Being a man has nothing to do with what kind of liquid you choose to slake your thirst, or how much weight you can clean and jerk, or what kind of clothes you wear. Do I like beer? No. Is my idea of a good time, curling up with a blanket, an appletini, and a movie about gladiatiors? Yes. Do I sometimes cry during sex? Sure. But do these things make me "less manly"? I don't think so.

If you allow yourself to be freed from society's labels, I think you'll find life to be infinitely more enjoyable. So go ahead, order a quiche instead of that t-bone once in a while. Want great taste and something less filling? I say take a Lava Flow for a test drive. Want to rollerblade down the promenade wearing dolphin shorts and a half shirt? Do it. I have, and it's invigorating. And after you have, we can meet and talk about it... just don't show up in a miata, those things are super gay.

Posted by mindblower

Carl’s Jr. doesn’t think very highly of you…

It’s safe to say that most companies try to appeal directly to their target audience. Apple sells itself to the hip, young, tech savvy crowd. Mercedes Benz brands itself as car for successful, wealthy individuals. So let’s take a look at who Carl’s Jr. is reaching out to…

Commercial A)

In this spot, we meet a man in his late 20’s/early 30’s who seems to think that a steak dinner is something you can purchase and enjoy all while avoiding a) getting out of your car and b) talking to anyone who considers English their primary language.

Commercial B)

Now we’re introduced to another young man who intends to make himself some guacamole, only he’s under the impression that guacamole is Spanish for avocado, so he simply throws an unpeeled avocado into a blender expecting guacamole to somehow magically appear.

If you read the description to either of these commercials and shook your head in agreement with the choices made in them, then, you are exactly the type of customer Carl’s Jr. is seeking to eat at their establishments. Congratulations. You are an idiot.