Monday, March 05, 2007


Tom Waits For No One

Okay, I know it's been a while, but there's something I thought you all ought to see. For those of you out there that are Tom Waits fans, check out this little bit of weirdness:

Also, where the hell is my good friend Fogelmatrix? He isn't even a contributor anymore.


Tuesday, February 27, 2007


Brittney and Anna - Can the Locusts Be Far Off?

Sometimes, on the rare occasion I will receive a request to blog. Sometimes I am given a topic and other times I'm just asked to throw musings against the wall because the sound "splat" will warm the cockles of even the most hardened heart.

This particular request suggested spouting off about the media's two most recent train wrecks Britney Spears and Anna Nicole Smith. "Rob, I could see Britney, but how on earth could you pick on Anna Nicole Smith, she's dead after all." And to that I say into my sleeve while averting my eyes sideways (cough) are you kidding me - hypocrite (cough).

Don' worry, you're not alone. All of America is bathing in this false remorse. After she passed away, blogs on had comments that ranged from the remorseful to the downright suicidal.

Betty Smith from Nowhere Arkansas wrote, "We have lost our generation's Marilyn." Does anyone else remember Marilyn Monroe fucking a couch, because I missed that scene in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes? But I do remember 25 minutes of heavy couch and pillow coitus being pivotal to the plot of the Anna Nicole Show (Later the couch extracted it's revenge by making Booby Trendy smell it's arm).

Peter Dumbfuck from Whogivesaratsass Wyoming wrote "Hollywood's star will shine slightly less on this day." Peter, uhh Peter come close please. We all enjoyed the Naked Gun and as much as we are hoping that the Naked gun 55 and 1/5 (hah those Naked Gun titles never get old) makes it to theaters before Leslie Nielson fossilizes or OJ decides to kill someone else, I don't know if ANS was the one that made those movies so successful. Or was it her stellar work on the Trim Spa commercials that you are lamenting for Pete. Because fear not Peter, the Olsen Twins are one more failed movie away from dropping out of the Skeletor look alike contest and making up for a decade of starvation at the nearest Sizzler. So in ten years we'll be hearing "Trim Spa baby" in talentless stereo.

Now you're all saying, "Rob, how do you know all of the stuff she did, if you don't like her?" I need to explain something to you. I have something called a penis and for some inexplicable reason that penis seems to like yellow hair and boobs. Most other people you talk to that have these strange appendages will concur, if not to your face, at least in the company of other individuals with the same appendage.

Moving on.

Brittney shaved her head, showed her vag and went to rehab. While I can't agree with her choice to go to rehab, let's just give her some space to build up her crazy energy to critical mass and watch her implode into a redneck black hole that only Schlitz, Marlboro Reds, and grits can escape.

Someone once said, I believe it was either Carl Sagan or Jodie Foster "Math is the true universal language." And I believe we can use math to get to the heart of both of these mysteries.

Postpartum depression + the brain of a squirrel/Paris Hilton*crazy beaver shots=Shave your head and go fucking nuts

Postpartum depression + the brain of a retarded squirrel/Methadone*Losing your other child when the new one is being born= Assisted suicide

The net of this equation is that I think both of these ladies suffered from a very real mental disorder despite the rantings of scientology drone Tom Cruise. Seek professional help and don't turn to your lawyer or Paris Hilton for salvation.

Labels: , ,

Friday, December 15, 2006


Fun from JibJab

Nuckin' Futs! The JibJab Year in Review

Deck The Halls

Mahna Mahna

Wednesday, December 13, 2006


I Swear!

Star Wars Episode III: A Lost Hope


Rest in Peace, Peter Boyle

Peter Boyle
October 18, 1933-
December 12, 2006

Tuesday, November 21, 2006


On a Golden Boat with Golden Wings...

Director Robert Altman died today at the age of 81. He died doing what he loved most in life, making movies. Altman was the director of such classics as M*A*S*H, Nashville, Short Cuts, The Player, and Godsford Park. He was known for his great ensemble films, and his works rarely had a single star. Often times he directed his cast to deliver their lines the way people normally talk, and he enjoyed overlapping dialogue.

Like most people my age, my first experience with Altman's work was with Popeye. Always the innovator, this was one of the first comic adaptations whose overall look was shaped by the source material's artistic style. Other films to use this approach include Dick Tracy and more recently, Sin City. Popeye was one of the first films in which I can remember thinking, "How did they do that?"- a question which shaped the direction of my life has taken. Specifically, I wanted to know how they made Robin William's forearms bulge like Popeye's. Heck, I still remember the songs.

Altman once said that while he could never pick a favorite film, the ones that were the least successful were the ones that he loved a little more. They were like his children. Personally, my favorite film of Altman's has to be Cookie's Fortune and it's one of his best. It's one of those films that is just perfect. There's nothing wrong with it.

Rest in peace, Mr. Altman. We'll miss you.

Thursday, October 19, 2006


Beam Me Up Scotty, There's No Intelligent Life Down Here.

Well kids, it's been a while, but the Captain is back. And to quote my namesake (Who is not the clown from Rob Zombie movies):

"Hello, I must be going.
I'm sad to say,
I cannot stay,
I must be going."

But before I leave this very short post, I must alert you all to this little tidbit I found the other day:

No, that isn't a movie prop, kids. You can't get these suckers at any comicon. This is the real deal kids. A non-lethal "set-to-stun" ray gun. To add to the ever-growing list of cool-ass inventions inspired by Star Trek, the U.S. Air Force has invented the Personal Halting and Stimulation Response rifle. That's right, it's a fucking PHaSR.

If you want the whole story, click here.


Saturday, September 16, 2006


I Had a Lovely Time at the Mall This Afternoon

I know my heading is traditionally reserved for the first line of the snail mail letter you get from your Grandmother who the family has forgotten in some sweltering real estate scam in the Florida Everglades.

“Hey, Gran what was the highlight of 2005 for you?” and she says, “I had a lovely time at the mall this afternoon.”

But you know what fuck Gran, this is my time, I had a lovely time at the mall this afternoon.

I remained untouched.

Instead of the usual barrage of Kiosk, lets call them what they are Fuckbags, peddling their wares with inane statements like:

“Excuse me sir, may I have a second?”
No you Thalidomide baby, I don’t want to try a sample of your Kiosk Sea Salt Skin Cream or Kiosk Octopus Testicle Relaxation Balm. Are you trying to say I have bad skin? Nary a pock on this face Miss, and look at this rosacea, Santa Claus and pedophiles would kill for this natural rouge. I do however need a Great Barrier Reef Foot Scrub for $35, actually thank God you took up a second of my life.

“Do you know how to change the world sir, through language!”
Fuck you, there’s language. Wait, do you mean change the entire world or just my perception of it, because the second choice would be much easier and could be accomplished quite easily for $25 and without any language what so ever. Now, to change the whole world would take rich dialogue, no doubt, but also so much more. It would surely cost billions, perhaps trillions if my calculations are correct.

Oh, you mean your Kiosk Language Tapes are going to help me change the world.

So if I learn how to say in Spanish “The bathroom is under the cactus shaped whore”, our troops will put out of Iraq, Osama Bin Laden will be devoured by his own asshole, America will once again find a purpose and with that a solid economic base other than porn and perpetual bitching on the Internet (congratulations you just found irony), and finally hemorrhoids, male pattern baldness and male lactation will all be a thing of the past? Then I say it is whores, cacti and bathrooms for me sir.

“Have you ever tried a microdot, its ice cream but fun.”
Your Mother let’s you leave the house like that? I had always wondered where the people that crash and burn at Baskin Robbins end up. 31 flavors of actual ice cream were too hard to read and actually scooping the ice cream would require musculature on your bony waif like Victorian fancy lad arms. So Dots it is, two flavors, no scooping. Just let the unnatural Satan spawned “chemical” reaction in your customers’ mouths do all of the actual ice cream making work for you.

I think you get the idea. If you don’t there are these things called malls and they have stands in the middle called kiosks, they sell things like the unholy aberrations I mentioned above but also bad kung fu films, cell phone accessories to take your nextel walkie talkie phone (the one that everybody already hates because they have to listen to your whole fucking conversation) to the next level of annoying by making it blink, slippers, sunglasses, pretzels, popcorn, hair extensions, belt buckles, and some shit I have walked past 42 times and still can’t identify.

Usually, I can’t walk through the mall without these pariahs of life and joy pouncing on me with the velocity of Dumbo shot from a ping pong performing vagina.

But today I was left alone. Thanks to Pac-Man.

Pac-Man is my favorite T-shirt. I wore this shirt to the mall, along with flip flops and some torn shorts. I looked like a bum. If I had a seizure these mistakes of nature wouldn’t have stuck a wallet in my mouth today.

But when I go to the mall from work, with khakis on and a nice button down pressed shirt these people are under you like Croatian land mines of consumerism just waiting to explode with a sales pitch.

Am I surprised? No! This is just an observation and perhaps a lesson. All of those bums that smell like piss and finger paint with their feces; maybe they are on to something. Maybe they aren’t really having a conversation with their pubes, maybe they just want you to think they are so you leave them alone. Then again, they could just be fucking crazy. Just dress down and save yourself some sales pitch grief.