Friday, August 31, 2012


You're kidding.

Thursday, August 30, 2012

Don't try on underwear at Wal Mart

Know your size before you walk in to the store. It's against store policy to try underwear on in Wal Mart anyways but you can never be too careful.

Do not go for the boxers that hang individually with no plastic sealing. These are usually silk boxers with popular TV characters or slogans painted onto them. Kids aren't that tall but their hands can definitely reach up to feel the silk and pick Homer Simpson's nose where the piss gates are.

If you have kids, don't let them do that. Not only out of consideration for the future owner of that pair of boxers but for their own sake. I know it's against store policy to try on boxers but you never know. The kind of person who tries on boxers and puts them back on the rack is exactly the kind of person's unpurchased boxers I would be skeptical of.

You're not supposed to buy individual boxers, anyways. If you must, do not wear them until they've been washed. This is a good rule for everything but especially for Wal Mart, individually hanging, non-plastic sealed boxers.

Go for underwear that comes three in a pack, is taped to a piece of cardboard, and with an unbroken seal. I'd still was these because I'm crazy but it's a safer bet that no Cheetos eating asshole kids and no store policy breaking STD'ed son of a gun didn't come in contact with them before you.

Just, seriously, know your size before you walk in to the store.

Thursday, August 23, 2012

Movies you don't want to see reviewed by somebody who didn't see them

Summer is winding down and all of the studios have already relieved themselves of their bowel busters into the proverbial toilet. Now we're stuck with all the mistakes decent actors have made just so that Hollywood can make the most of what's left of the toilet paper. Case in point, Premium Rush, starring that one guy.

I remember when eating bananas was cool. When I was two years old. 

Premium Rush is about a bike messenger who kicks ass. By kicks ass, I mean he doesn't even give a shit about traffic or any of the dangers speeding toward him because he wears ear buds and listens to shitty indie music while he's delivering cryptic messages from perverted stalkers to curly haired, blue eyed, hipster queens in New York City. Here's exactly what happens: Joseph Gordon-Levitt delivers a message to a girl wearing a floral dress. She has brown hair and curls and is mysterious. Joey Gordo gets all hot and bothered about her. The next day he makes the same delivery. This time the girl is distressed and asks to ride on his handlebars away to freedom. There's a montage scene of them doing a bunch of cool free stuff because the generation this movie is trying to appeal to doesn't have enough money to do any of that shit after they see this movie. Then she rides his handlebars next to a fireplace. The person she is trying to outrun is an evil mob guy who wants to harvest her curls for wigs to sell to the elite in China; Joey Gordo ain't having none of that. He outruns these crazies on the street like nobody's business and leads them to their own demise. Joey Gordo saves the girl and the world. Somewhere in this pile of reclaimed sewage water is a message about how biking looks cooler than driving a car. This picture proves that horseshit wrong:

Hit & Run is a movie that probably proves Premium Rush's point about cars. It makes driving a car look like the worst possible decision you can make short of watching a road trip movie. 

I was probably the only person in the theater who was still awake at the end of Sleepwalk With Me, not because I was engrossed in the film but, because I have terrible insomnia and was hoping this movie would put me to sleep. My body seemed to be aware of the tomfoolery I was doing and refused to fall asleep out of spite. Perhaps I shouldn't have ordered a 100 oz Coca Cola. Sleepwalk With Me has one thing going for it though: much like the amnesia of sleepwalking, I wouldn't be able to tell you a damn thing about this movie. 

Little White Lies is a story of little white people telling lies. It's a nice diversion from the usual big white people telling lies that we're so used to in God's country: AMERICA. But it's French so it's obviously an impotent take on something an American has already done better. 

Thunderstruck stars Kevin Durant who does kick ass. His acting skills are on par with Kobe's rapping skills and slightly beneath Shaquille O'Neal's Facebook status update skills. Seriously, are you a fan of Shaq on Facebook? That guy doesn't shut up. Some nameless "clumsy" kid wants to have skills on basketball so Kevin Durant helps him out. The kid realizes that basketball isn't for him so he joins an accounting summer camp to please his dad. Kevin Durant smiles as the credits roll. The message seems to be don't dream or stay the fuck out of Kevin Durant's turf. 

Wednesday, August 22, 2012

Henry the Helpful Elephant: the time I bought a gift for my cousin

I'm one of the bottom 50% of earners that don't pay ANYTHING in taxes (ha, funny joke), so with all that extra tax money I save I decided to buy a gift for my little cousin who can't read and who is strong enough to throw a book and kill somebody with it.

So I bought her a water toy book called Henry the Helpful Elephant.

While making the purchase, I didn't notice the fun tag line the author included on the packaging:

Henry! He squeaks AND squirts!

Every sane person's nightmare. I tore off this silly piece of cardboard and gave it to my cousin without its packaging as a matter of moral fortitude. She promptly started crying, threw the book in my face, and kicked me in my chin. 

Screw you, Henry. Stop squirting, you perverted purple elephant.

Meanwhile, in Heaven. 

Sunday, August 19, 2012

New Yorker Cartoon Caption Contest: Rain Edition

Blah, blah, blah, synergy.

I heard he wasn't even born of a virgin. 

When I tugged at his penis, he failed to get aroused. One can assume he is not attracted to me but one would be wrong. The man is dead and has been for two weeks. 

Thursday, August 16, 2012

Reason 07: Obama knows what a yurt is

I'm in Mongolia in a yurt. I'd much prefer to be at home writing this in my boxers and socks but thank God my handlers found a yurt with internet access. In Mongolia.

I prefer my presidents to be like me, understanding the world because we're rich enough and have ample leisure time to stay in yurts in Mongolia. My agent hired someone to write this for me. Thanks, Dave Eggers!

Hopefully I can catch a flight back home tonight so I can clock in on time for my minimum wage job. Ha! Just kidding. I'm an actor.

Monday, August 13, 2012

A plea to NPR

Dear NPR,

Please stop using audio of honking horns when introducing the city your story takes place in.

Considering most of your audience listens to NPR during commutes, this needlessly startles them into reaching for their middle finger and directing toward everyone behind and around them.

Get this man a double cheeseburger.

I hate the sound of honking horns. Most people use horns to say, "Hurry up," or, "Fuck you." Horns should only be used to say, "Holy shit, man, you're going to kill me or somebody else so please stop what you're doing and do something else." That is the only real reason to use a horn. The only other reason is if the driver in front of you is obviously asleep at the wheel and won't move at a light that just turned green. Allow a grace period before you give the love-tap horn. Don't lay in on it. You become the asshole.

There is another reason. If someone has a sign that says, "Honk if you hate when people honk their horn," fucking honk.

NPR, I hate horns. They stress me out. Every city on the planet has people who honk their horns. Rather than introducing a "bustling city" with the sound of their traffic, why not just introduce it with audio from a cafe or a bar or somewhere else where humans actually converse. Or just play the shitty polka-rap-world music you play in between every story you air. Nobody would know the difference.

Thank you.

Check out Mr. Hara-San's latest here.

Saturday, August 11, 2012

The X Files: Best show of the 90s?

Right now I'm going through the X Files on Netflix from the very start of the series. It has aged incredibly well.

"There's a perfectly rational reason for this pose, Mulder."

TV today too often relies on an overarching story. You can't wander in in the middle of a season and get the gist of characters, what makes them tick, and what the hell they're doing in any given episode. Granted, TV is made for mass consumption so it is not impossible to figure all of this out - it's just that much more of a pain in the ass. The X Files is "monster of the week." Every episode (at least in the first season) is self contained and that's a good thing.

Television has swung so far to the "really long movie" side of things that now it's time to find some sort of happy medium between "monster of the week" and "I missed episode 5 and now it's episode 6 and for some reason the protagonist is a fly." Maybe you're just watching the Fly.

A few TV shows that straddle the line: Justified, Burn Notice. Burn Notice is horrible. The main character looks like he super glues his upper lip to his front teeth. I can't take him seriously.

Jim Carey as the Mask.

Justified got away with having two seasons with the exact same story line but at least I could tune in at any point and say, "This show makes no fucking sense anyways."

The X Files was the best show of the 90s, hands down. It ranks up there with a bunch of shows I never watch that people tell me are great like the Twilight Zone, and Dr. Who. All the Dr. Who fans are about to shit a brick, I know.

Like Dr. Who, the X Files is endlessly rebootable. All the writers have to do is write two characters on opposite sides of a wall of sexual tension. The show writes itself from there.

Chris Carter is an alumni of California State University, Long Beach. So is Steve Martin. Stop saying my degree in history from that fine institution is worth nothing.

Thursday, August 2, 2012

Christ Fil A

All of the sudden people boycotting Chick Fil A have Christophobia or are heterophobic. This is where political discourse is in America.

Don't believe that Jesus is a gay hating mad man? FUCK YOU! YOU'RE CHRISTOPHOBIC!

Don't believe that you should spend money at a place that financially supports anti-gay groups? FUCK YOU! YOU'RE AFRAID OF HETEROSEXUALS!

Oh, Jesus. 

This is just insane.

I love how every conservative now has to prove just how conservative they are by tweeting pictures of themselves *ordering* Chick Fil A sandwiches.

I call your bluff. Tweet pics of yourselves EATING Chick Fil A sandwiches (you're not eating them is my point. You're giving them to your wild eyed interns). Hell, I hear their chicken salad is awesome. Tweet pics of yourselves clinging to the toilet, crying out to God an hour after eating said chicken salad. That'll really prove how much you love Jesus.

Chick Fil A makes good sandwiches and hires good people. Their sandwiches are pretty expensive and the price to pay on the toilet outweighs all other factors when deciding what repackaged poop factory sandwich I want to eat.

I searched "repackaged poop factory" and, I shit you not, Google gave me this.

I could care less about Chick Fil A.

Buying a fucking sandwich is now a grand political statement. Who cares?

This is what Christians think about when they say they're being persecuted. Google Chinese Christians and see what persecution looks like. We're fighting about fucking sandwiches.

Meanwhile in Fantasy Land, Mitt Romney's horse lost the dancing contest but got fucked up at the after party: