Cryin Shame

YOU MAKE THE CALL!

Is he:

A. Bawling

B. Hurling

C. "Balling" 

D: Making another million in book sales 

C: (Write-in Answer)________

Slow Ride, Take It Easy

Check out this sweet custom grill I saw near my place the other day.

You can only appreciate it on the close-up.

I haven't seen that much chrome on a mid-90s Ford since. . .well. . .I don't know when.  

There is something downright majestic about it, isn't there? Words fail me. I stand in awe. 

Where Do We Go From Here?

Should I be concerned about this?

Or this?

Or am I just being paranoid?

(Far be it for me to criticise the all-knowing Constitutional Law Professor who currently heads our government, but I find this particular branding of leadership rather frightening.)   

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You know, I for one have never really been able to differentiate between  a Communist, Fascist, or any other -ist form of government.  Why?  I don't know. Maybe it's because I was too busy fantasizing about Molly Doak in my eighth grade government class, or maybe it's because each form of government has the propensity to devolve into a state where some arrogant shithead is telling you how to live your life---you know, for the greater good and all of that. 

Who knows. 

But I do know that New Winds are blowing upon this great land of ours. Can't you feel it, the seductive siren song to make America what it should be instead of what it is? I sure do. And in a BIG way. From clamoring commentators in the media to the weekend morons blathering on the internets, it seems there are millions who insist on ramming every naive tenant of a skewed ideology down our throats. 

And that's just fans of Chuck Norris. 

But even now they are being drowned out by the more "liberal" among us. There is such a din and cry from everyone to follow the august mantle of divine leadership that it feels like America is deteriorating into some kind of third-rate Bolshevik luncheon.   

Of course, we needn't worry too much about these developments: our anti-communist and anti-fascist muscles are the most politically developed of any modern power, and we can rest assured any hints to traditional revolutions will be immediately sniffed out by Wolf Blitzer in The Situation Room. 

No, what greets us will be a uniquely homegrown American amalgam, something that incorporates the more subtle strictures of both. To what do I refer? The Demagogue.

I use the classical definition of the term  here, as someone who leads the demos or armed populace of the city. That's right, the demagogue used physical power to influence and sway the politics of the city for his particular faction: charismatic leadership as arbiter of social change. 

 Of course, in our modern times we do not have an physically armed class ready to push through its particular agenda, but there are those who are just as dangerous---those armed with "superior knowledge," the technocrats, the lawyers, and those "in the know" about civil society---who will do everything in their power to see to it that America becomes everything she has to become. 

I, for one, just wish the colorful propaganda posters were a little more original. 

Every Extended Extra

I worry for my Johnson, I really do.  

According to a recent TV advertisement that I caught last night on TV (lucky me!), I discovered I am not nearly as "big" enough nor as "large" enough, nor as "huge" enough as I need to be in order to satisfy women of the opposite sex. 

Based on the commercials, and by my own precise calculations, I estimate that my Van Damm is approximately 123% too small for my body. That's right. You heard me. My anaconda has the length and girth of a dandelion. 

But fear not Metabomonkey! There are millions of little pills out there ready and eager to help you in your time of need.  A quick peek on the internet scrolls past brand after brand from Viagra and Cialis to Extenze and Excyte. There is even a powerful new pill from Taiwan on the balck market dubbed, Dong-B-Long.

The news heartens me somewhat. Apparently, there are millions of men just like me out there with the same problem. To whit, the same three couples that always show up on the Extenze commercials.  Most are sleazy and quite lurid in their testimonials, which gives me some comfort, but I have to say that this couple scares me. 

  

It's like watching Herman Munster talk about ballistic-doinking with some unattractive Milf from Orange County. (Wait. That's EXACTLY what it is. . .)   

I always cringe at the end when he waxes Socratic with a rhetorical question, "The increase in size? Well, that's kinda fun too." Oh really? Are we supposed to take your word for it, the word of some forty-something struggling actor who can't afford to go to K-mart to buy himself a white undershirt so he doesn't look like such a blathering doosh?

It's it that moment that I long for the slutty hotties that usually inhabit the Extenze infomercial universe.  Like this girl, who unfortunately blinks a lot while trying to talk and be coy at the same time. (Apparently it's quite difficult.)

It always feels like she just took a money-shot right before the director yelled "Action!"   

Blink. Blink. "If Extenze doesn't make you larger---." Blink. Blink. 

"Dammit, Doug! Can't you wait until AFTER the take!"

Sigh. 

I long for the 80s, when the only Johnson we had to worry about was this one. 

Up your Date

I have a confession to make: I am an update whore.  It's true. I am one of those countless sorry saps who has a compulsive need to update almost any and every piece of software he owns, hoping beyond hope that, one day, a cool new feature come along make him totally cream his jeans 

. . . Or, at the very least, provide some basic functionality that won't bitch-nuke his OS every 17 minutes.

(Ahh, there it is, the chorus of Mac users mocking me.)

I know, I know. The Mac is a "good box"----kinda like that homely girl next door whose been a tease since high school.  Sure, she'll get you off on warm summer nights, but those of you who haven't done the tango with the fiesty wench that is Windows will never know the joy of conquering her after she stomps on your Dragonbalz or the gut-wrecnhing let-down after you discover that you've contracted a raging case of malware from a late night hook-up she had with some tech grad from the Ukraine.

But I have given up on my OS. She has stomped on my heart one time too many. Now, I seek solace in pointless little affairs: the Chome browser updates, the Adobe patches, the Facebook work-arounds.  I live in a world of dreams. I sat at my computer and pray that the fonts will be a little lovlier, graphics a little brighter, applications a bit snappier. But when I check the update notes, all I find is a list of banal tech jargon telling me how the new code integrates Chink characters into 124 bit resolution or some such. . . basically, totally useless shit that's only designed for people living in Trinidad & Tobago. 

And so I find myself searching for the next fix, cruising the software sites, hoping beyond hope that one day I----