These video game sex objects dominate my dreams. Go ahead and Google ‘em if you don’t know who I’m talking about. There should be pix of all of them online except for Janet. To see Janet, you’ll have to play Tecmo Bowl. Anyway, let’s begin:
LARA CROFT (6.5/10)
Breast size is overrated, and Lara proves that in spades. Her shirt is way too tight. She’s lucky it doesn’t cut off her circulation. Lara propagates the stereotype that women should have 58-21-36 figures and be only interested in activities such as stealing and shooting. I find this deplorable. Also, she’s such a poser on the swimming levels when the camera zooms in on her ass. Lara, you try too hard. I respect women too much to indulge in this walking stereotype. I’d still bang her, though. You know, if I was still single.
SAMUS ARAN (7/10)
Well, she masquerades a dude in the Metroid, which normally would be a strike against her, but she makes up for it at the end of the game by stripping off her armor into sluttier and stluttier outfits, depending on how quick you beat the game. I still hold on to the big rumor of Mrs. Hernandez’s third-grade class, circa 1986, that it’s possible to get her naked if you really, really kick the game’s ass.
PRINCESS TOADSTOOL (8/10)
I don’t get why she changed her name to “Peach” for Mario Golf and Mario Tennis. Maybe it was to get away from that stalker, Luigi. Funny, though, Bowser always seems to know where she lives so he can go in and “kidnap” her. Yeah, kidnap is in quotes because I don’t buy it. I think it’s all some sort of kinky three-way role playing thing that Bowser, Toadstool and Mario are all into. That kind of thing is too wild for me.
ZELDA (9/10)
Speaking of three-way role playing kidnap complexes, Zelda is an even more textbook example. One knock against her, though, is she digs the metrosexual type. Link is such an effeminate, gown-wearing, manicure-getting, non-sexual hero that you wonder if his “Magic Sword” actually works. Ganon has no such problem, obviously, which is why Zelda lets herself be captured and/or turned to stone by him every single game. This girl will do ANYTHING for Ganon’s dong. Remember back in Zelda II, when Zelda was asleep the whole time while Link went around and did all the busy work in that impossible-to-pass game? The instruction booklet said she was asleep because of a “magic spell,” which is a nice way of telling 10 year olds that she took such a thorough rogering from Ganon that she couldn’t even wake up for hours.
JANET (8.5/10)
Janet is the name I came up with for the cheerleader from the halftime slide show for the original Tecmo Bowl. Janet leaps high in the air – so high, her skirt flips up. She’s on the screen for no more than two seconds, and then the slide show flips to the marching band and whatnot. Janet’s sense of mystery intrigues me. I think she’s a junior college student working her way for school with a part-time job cheering for fictional pro football teams. She has a lot to cheer for, too. Walter Payton is hella fast in that game.
MS. PAC-MAN (10/10)
Smooth yellow skin, a hot bow in the hair and an oral affixiation. What more could you possibly ask from a video game character girlfriend? Plus, she’s got that sense of mystery going with the “Ms.” thing. Is she married? Single? Who knows? You get the feeling that she’s a freak underneath the sheets, though. She definitely is enough of a minx to seduce multiple ghosts at the same time in the maze
This was stolen from 2008 because I had no time to do a post
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Monday, March 15, 2010
Rumspringa
The Amish have a well known ritual called Rumspringa, the ritual that allows them to take leave of their ultraconservative lives at age 16 to galavant in the city as alcoholic junkie whores for a period of time before returning to the roost.
Why should the Amish get to monopolize Rumspringa? Why don't 31 year old married fathers of two get one? Well, not to become a junkie or a whore, but instead to behave like a jackass, spend a couple days staying up all night getting drunk and gambling their money away and the next day sleeping it off, then spending the ensuing week of life as an alcohol-poisoned, sleep-deprived zombie. The answer is my people do get their own Rumspringa. And it's annual, baby, as eternal as arrested adolescence. It takes place in Las Vegas in the third weekend of March, when the NCAA Tournament and Spring Break collide into leashing an unholy mess of humanity onto Sin City.
I've been going to Las Vegas with friends for the tournament just about every year for the last decade. What was born as a quarterlife crisis is now approaching a midlife crisis, and although the sojourns grow tamer and less populated every year, as friends shy off from the tradition because of job or family responsibilities (even I ditched out last year because I had a one-month old baby), and every time I go I am so sick of Vegas by Sunday morning that I always leave for the airport hours early hoping to catch an early flight out, it's still by far the highlight of my year.
The movie The Hangover captures the essence of what a Rumspringa can mean to a man of a certain age. At home I'm a conservative 9 to 5er, but in Vegas I'm a drunken slob who thinks nothing of screaming at maximum volume at a 20-year-old sophomore on TV for missing a free throw, threatening his grandmother as I pound my fist on the chair in front of me. At home I never touch alcohol, but in Vegas, when it's flowing for free, I am Barney from the Simpsons, unleashing slurred chance for Villanova I make up on the spot because I've got $5 riding on them to win their game by 5.5 points at least. At home I work out regularly and count my calories. Well, kinda. In Vegas I inhale so much anonymous food at buffet tables that I can hardly stand to waddle my way back up to my room to recover. At home I'll scan movie reviews intently before deciding on the movie I'll pay $10 to head out to see. In Vegas a pal will suggest I plop down $20 to see some weird 30-minute IMAX movie in the bowels of the Luxor, and I'll hate every minute of it but still consider the outing a triumph because I didn't puke on my seat.
Of course, just as most Amish do as their Rumspringa comes to an end, I always look desperately forward to returning to my real life. Rumspringa helps me appreciate things I may have started to take for granted, and helps snap me back into perspective.
This contentment lasts about a week, until I come to, regain my faculties and start looking forward to next year's trip, when I'll be another year older and poorer, grayer and weaker. Ready along with any remaining friends willing to come along to give mortality the finger once more, with feeling.
Why should the Amish get to monopolize Rumspringa? Why don't 31 year old married fathers of two get one? Well, not to become a junkie or a whore, but instead to behave like a jackass, spend a couple days staying up all night getting drunk and gambling their money away and the next day sleeping it off, then spending the ensuing week of life as an alcohol-poisoned, sleep-deprived zombie. The answer is my people do get their own Rumspringa. And it's annual, baby, as eternal as arrested adolescence. It takes place in Las Vegas in the third weekend of March, when the NCAA Tournament and Spring Break collide into leashing an unholy mess of humanity onto Sin City.
I've been going to Las Vegas with friends for the tournament just about every year for the last decade. What was born as a quarterlife crisis is now approaching a midlife crisis, and although the sojourns grow tamer and less populated every year, as friends shy off from the tradition because of job or family responsibilities (even I ditched out last year because I had a one-month old baby), and every time I go I am so sick of Vegas by Sunday morning that I always leave for the airport hours early hoping to catch an early flight out, it's still by far the highlight of my year.
The movie The Hangover captures the essence of what a Rumspringa can mean to a man of a certain age. At home I'm a conservative 9 to 5er, but in Vegas I'm a drunken slob who thinks nothing of screaming at maximum volume at a 20-year-old sophomore on TV for missing a free throw, threatening his grandmother as I pound my fist on the chair in front of me. At home I never touch alcohol, but in Vegas, when it's flowing for free, I am Barney from the Simpsons, unleashing slurred chance for Villanova I make up on the spot because I've got $5 riding on them to win their game by 5.5 points at least. At home I work out regularly and count my calories. Well, kinda. In Vegas I inhale so much anonymous food at buffet tables that I can hardly stand to waddle my way back up to my room to recover. At home I'll scan movie reviews intently before deciding on the movie I'll pay $10 to head out to see. In Vegas a pal will suggest I plop down $20 to see some weird 30-minute IMAX movie in the bowels of the Luxor, and I'll hate every minute of it but still consider the outing a triumph because I didn't puke on my seat.
Of course, just as most Amish do as their Rumspringa comes to an end, I always look desperately forward to returning to my real life. Rumspringa helps me appreciate things I may have started to take for granted, and helps snap me back into perspective.
This contentment lasts about a week, until I come to, regain my faculties and start looking forward to next year's trip, when I'll be another year older and poorer, grayer and weaker. Ready along with any remaining friends willing to come along to give mortality the finger once more, with feeling.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
When Left To My Own Devices
Through a twist of fate -- my sister in law's baby shower in Phoenix that coaxed Jessica to bring the kids and leave me at home -- I was left alone pretty much the entire weekend. Being able to choose when I wake up, what I watch on TV, when I play video games and where to go to eat gave me flashbacks to 2004, when I lived in my house alone.
I was expecting to get bored, but instead it was the opposite. I had too many things to do, and because I was so unused to planning my agenda on my own it was a little stressful. It was a little like what agoraphobia must be like, only with the panic replaced with copious amounts of God of War III.
Anyway, here are things I learned about myself when I'm alone:
-I stay up too late and don't get enough sleep. Seriously, Phil? You feel the need to stay up until 2 a.m. when you know the sun from that impossibly huge window in your bedroom will wake you up at 7?
-I eat badly. When nothing's standing between me and the Philly cheesesteak place across town I've heard of for years, it's bad news.
-Eventually I will get tired of playing video games. After only a few hours, too.
-My kids and wife do not prevent me from writing a new book. Laziness does. They're here, I think "you guys are the meaning of my life but I really should be get some work done." They leave and the excuse is gone, and I realize my brain's eyes are bigger than it's stomach and I spend all my time watching old episodes of How I Met Your Mother.
-People who work 50 hour a week jobs or less with no kids, or even just one kid, should never ever complain about being too busy. Your lives are cruising down Easy Street and you don't even realize it. I had a lot of stuff to take care of this weekend - 2 hours of weed spraying in the back yard, grocery shopping, laundry and cleaning the house in my halfassed style, but it was all way too simple because a 3 year old and 1 year old weren't tugging on my legs I was trying to do it. Also, since having a second child I've lost a little bit of respect and pity for single parents of just one kid. It's really not that bad if the parent-kid ration is equal. It's when you're outnumbered that things get crazy.
-I have the tendency to go outside only when absolutely necessary. I stunned myself by not going for a run Saturday when I had so much time to do so. I will today though, after I'm done writing this, or so I tell myself.
I was expecting to get bored, but instead it was the opposite. I had too many things to do, and because I was so unused to planning my agenda on my own it was a little stressful. It was a little like what agoraphobia must be like, only with the panic replaced with copious amounts of God of War III.
Anyway, here are things I learned about myself when I'm alone:
-I stay up too late and don't get enough sleep. Seriously, Phil? You feel the need to stay up until 2 a.m. when you know the sun from that impossibly huge window in your bedroom will wake you up at 7?
-I eat badly. When nothing's standing between me and the Philly cheesesteak place across town I've heard of for years, it's bad news.
-Eventually I will get tired of playing video games. After only a few hours, too.
-My kids and wife do not prevent me from writing a new book. Laziness does. They're here, I think "you guys are the meaning of my life but I really should be get some work done." They leave and the excuse is gone, and I realize my brain's eyes are bigger than it's stomach and I spend all my time watching old episodes of How I Met Your Mother.
-People who work 50 hour a week jobs or less with no kids, or even just one kid, should never ever complain about being too busy. Your lives are cruising down Easy Street and you don't even realize it. I had a lot of stuff to take care of this weekend - 2 hours of weed spraying in the back yard, grocery shopping, laundry and cleaning the house in my halfassed style, but it was all way too simple because a 3 year old and 1 year old weren't tugging on my legs I was trying to do it. Also, since having a second child I've lost a little bit of respect and pity for single parents of just one kid. It's really not that bad if the parent-kid ration is equal. It's when you're outnumbered that things get crazy.
-I have the tendency to go outside only when absolutely necessary. I stunned myself by not going for a run Saturday when I had so much time to do so. I will today though, after I'm done writing this, or so I tell myself.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
My Money's On The Monkey
Sometimes I wonder who would win a fight between a giraffe and a monkey. You may scoff at such a suggestion, noting that a giraffe would surely emerge victorious because of its long neck, which puts its face far out of reach of the little monkey fists, rendering it tough to knock the giraffe unconscious with blows to the head. Plus, a giraffe could easily stomp on the monkey’s tail with one of its four legs, pinning the primate in place while kicking it in the face with one of its free legs.
All points are well taken. But you can’t discount the monkey’s intelligence and fierce resolve. They’re resilient little buggers, and I once saw a movie where a monkey kicked field goals for a football team. It doesn’t take a great leap of the imagination to substitute giraffe testicles in place of the flying footballs.
If an overconfident giraffe ever let its guard down and left the monkey unattended after giving it a solid beating, I’d give 2-to-1 that the underestimated monkey would scamper up the leg of its opponent and deliver a swift kick to the boys. And with fights, momentum is everything, so the monkey would probably follow the kick with a few bites, fist-pounds and banana throws, and before you know it, there’s the upset of the century – Monkey standing “EEEK-EEK-EEEK! OOK-OOK-OOK!” - victorious over the dazed, droopy-necked giraffe, its tongue hanging out of the mouth in a defeated stupor.
As we all learned from “Rocky III,” though, there’s always a younger and hungrier fighter waiting in the wings. So even as the monkey would be relishing its championship, rolling in endorsement offers, doing Letterman and Leno and whatnot, you can bet that there would be a fierce contender scouting out the monkey’s title defenses against the garter snake and the platypus – both pushover opponents handpicked by an overprotective manager – and that prospective rival would be a kangaroo. And not that wimpy, crybaby kangaroo from that ignorant costumed Winnie the Pooh show the Disney Channel used to have on in the 80s. No, one of those kangaroos with boxing gloves you see in those 1930s film clips. They got skills. I think one of them beat Joe Louis one time. Not that Joe Louis was the greatest fighter ever. I mean, he was good, I’m sure, but he always gets so much credit by beating that one Nazi that time back in the day. Indiana Jones, on the other hand, gets nowhere near the amount of props, and he not only beats up but kills about 700 Nazis per movie.
But back to the subject at hand – monkey vs. kangaroo, cage match, no holds barred. Who wins? Well, call me biased, but I think I’d have to take the monkey again. Sure, the kangaroo would get a few shots in, maybe even break the monkey’s nose and open up a cut or two. But I’m seeing the monkey getting knocked down over and over again, but always getting up and ready for some more beatings. The tired kangaroo would look on in growing fear, possibly commenting that its opponent “is not a monkey, but a piece of iron.” See, what the kangaroo lacks is a little something called heart.
Elbow grease. Gumption. Endurance. While the kangaroo was hopping around in the field, confident in its punching abilities, the monkey was running on the beach with Apollo Creed, doing one armed-push-ups and plowing snow while being stalked by the KGB in Siberia. The monkey did this knowing full well that even though the kangaroo is a better fighter than he is, he’ll eventually tire out. And sure enough, in their battle, the monkey would come out in the 15th round and lay out the wobbly-legged bounder, proudly screaming, “EEEK-AAAK-OOK-UUUUK!” which roughly translates to “Yo, Adrian, I banana poop throw!”
Come on, I never said the little dynamo was articulate.
Of course, all this is heresay and conjecture. The sad truth is that I’ll never see a monkey fight anything other than its urge to masturbate in its zoo cage. Monkeys will never take on giraffes, let alone kangaroos. I lack the fight promoter capabilities to set up such a matchup, so I’m simply left, like the rest of us, to imagine such a battle royale spectacular.
All points are well taken. But you can’t discount the monkey’s intelligence and fierce resolve. They’re resilient little buggers, and I once saw a movie where a monkey kicked field goals for a football team. It doesn’t take a great leap of the imagination to substitute giraffe testicles in place of the flying footballs.
If an overconfident giraffe ever let its guard down and left the monkey unattended after giving it a solid beating, I’d give 2-to-1 that the underestimated monkey would scamper up the leg of its opponent and deliver a swift kick to the boys. And with fights, momentum is everything, so the monkey would probably follow the kick with a few bites, fist-pounds and banana throws, and before you know it, there’s the upset of the century – Monkey standing “EEEK-EEK-EEEK! OOK-OOK-OOK!” - victorious over the dazed, droopy-necked giraffe, its tongue hanging out of the mouth in a defeated stupor.
As we all learned from “Rocky III,” though, there’s always a younger and hungrier fighter waiting in the wings. So even as the monkey would be relishing its championship, rolling in endorsement offers, doing Letterman and Leno and whatnot, you can bet that there would be a fierce contender scouting out the monkey’s title defenses against the garter snake and the platypus – both pushover opponents handpicked by an overprotective manager – and that prospective rival would be a kangaroo. And not that wimpy, crybaby kangaroo from that ignorant costumed Winnie the Pooh show the Disney Channel used to have on in the 80s. No, one of those kangaroos with boxing gloves you see in those 1930s film clips. They got skills. I think one of them beat Joe Louis one time. Not that Joe Louis was the greatest fighter ever. I mean, he was good, I’m sure, but he always gets so much credit by beating that one Nazi that time back in the day. Indiana Jones, on the other hand, gets nowhere near the amount of props, and he not only beats up but kills about 700 Nazis per movie.
But back to the subject at hand – monkey vs. kangaroo, cage match, no holds barred. Who wins? Well, call me biased, but I think I’d have to take the monkey again. Sure, the kangaroo would get a few shots in, maybe even break the monkey’s nose and open up a cut or two. But I’m seeing the monkey getting knocked down over and over again, but always getting up and ready for some more beatings. The tired kangaroo would look on in growing fear, possibly commenting that its opponent “is not a monkey, but a piece of iron.” See, what the kangaroo lacks is a little something called heart.
Elbow grease. Gumption. Endurance. While the kangaroo was hopping around in the field, confident in its punching abilities, the monkey was running on the beach with Apollo Creed, doing one armed-push-ups and plowing snow while being stalked by the KGB in Siberia. The monkey did this knowing full well that even though the kangaroo is a better fighter than he is, he’ll eventually tire out. And sure enough, in their battle, the monkey would come out in the 15th round and lay out the wobbly-legged bounder, proudly screaming, “EEEK-AAAK-OOK-UUUUK!” which roughly translates to “Yo, Adrian, I banana poop throw!”
Come on, I never said the little dynamo was articulate.
Of course, all this is heresay and conjecture. The sad truth is that I’ll never see a monkey fight anything other than its urge to masturbate in its zoo cage. Monkeys will never take on giraffes, let alone kangaroos. I lack the fight promoter capabilities to set up such a matchup, so I’m simply left, like the rest of us, to imagine such a battle royale spectacular.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Everyone Important From The 80s Is Dead
Even though I could never tell Corey Haim apart from Corey Feldman, I'm still angry that he's gone to that great big rehab facility in the sky. I'd like to take this moment to recall some of the other important people from the decade who are no longer with us. The first four all share the first name of "Mr."
Mr. Belvedere: The epitome of austere British regalness, Belvedere was an illegal immigrant before being an illegal immigrant was cool. Wesley was such a dick in that episode where he tried to get Belvedere deported. And remember that time when Belvedere got addicted to pinball and had his Hearts of Darkness Apocalypse Now Col. Kurtz moment? That ruled.
Mr. Miyagi: He was the smartest man to ever live and could karaticize a hundred Cobra Kais at the same time. Everything people were saying about Chuck Norris five years ago applied double to Miyagi. He was a renaissance man and a truly great human being, and I'm pretty sure Yoda had a poster of him on his bedroom wall when he was growing up. I guarantee you that by the time the Grim Reaper finished dragging Miyagi to the netherworld, he had a broken jaw and his scythe was shoved up his skirt.
Mr. Wizard: You know Isaac Newton, Darwin, Galileo, Marie Curie and Bill Nye? All were blithering idiots compared to Wizard, who invented most science we know today and perfected that science that existed before he was born. He would pull out those lightning balls -- you know the ones, crystal balls with lightning trapped in the middle -- to demonstrate that he had control of the very elements, not unlike Thor, Norse god of thunder. Weather itself had to ask him permission to do whatever it had planned for the day. Sometimes Wizard would approve, sometimes he'd tell it to shove it and come back to him when he wasn't so busy.
Mr. Rogers: To be honest I never much liked Mr. Rogers. Never would have wanted to be left in the same room as the guy. But he was an icon, and rumor has it he was a Vietnam sniper with a hundred thousand headshots in his day. Wikipedia makes no mention of his 'Nam experience, which probably means it's not true, but there's a reason you always thought it might have been true, right? Guy was a stone cold killer, if only metaphorically, and he was tight with King Friday. Maybe a little too tight, but whatever.
Alf: He wasn't that funny, wasn't that real looking, and wasn't big on stage presence. But Alf, like Frankenstein, did it his way, and parlayed his limited abilities into a damn respectable career. So you've gotta take your hat off to the alien puppet, because he was at least as big as Webster in his day.
Donkey Kong Jr: Nintendo shoved Jr. aside for "Diddy Kong," who I believe was a Kong that Donkey Kong Sr. adopted and decided he liked better than his own blood offspring. Somewhere Junior deliberates in seclusion, plotting his sweet revenge. And when it comes time, Junior, you shall have a brother in arms.
Bayou Billy: OK, the sign I'm pretty much done is that I'm exclusively talking about video game characters now. But what the hell, developers? Why does Bionic Commando merit a remake and Bayou Billy not? I may just have to make this game myself, and trust me, you DO NOT WANT TO SEE THAT HAPPEN.
Mr. Belvedere: The epitome of austere British regalness, Belvedere was an illegal immigrant before being an illegal immigrant was cool. Wesley was such a dick in that episode where he tried to get Belvedere deported. And remember that time when Belvedere got addicted to pinball and had his Hearts of Darkness Apocalypse Now Col. Kurtz moment? That ruled.
Mr. Miyagi: He was the smartest man to ever live and could karaticize a hundred Cobra Kais at the same time. Everything people were saying about Chuck Norris five years ago applied double to Miyagi. He was a renaissance man and a truly great human being, and I'm pretty sure Yoda had a poster of him on his bedroom wall when he was growing up. I guarantee you that by the time the Grim Reaper finished dragging Miyagi to the netherworld, he had a broken jaw and his scythe was shoved up his skirt.
Mr. Wizard: You know Isaac Newton, Darwin, Galileo, Marie Curie and Bill Nye? All were blithering idiots compared to Wizard, who invented most science we know today and perfected that science that existed before he was born. He would pull out those lightning balls -- you know the ones, crystal balls with lightning trapped in the middle -- to demonstrate that he had control of the very elements, not unlike Thor, Norse god of thunder. Weather itself had to ask him permission to do whatever it had planned for the day. Sometimes Wizard would approve, sometimes he'd tell it to shove it and come back to him when he wasn't so busy.
Mr. Rogers: To be honest I never much liked Mr. Rogers. Never would have wanted to be left in the same room as the guy. But he was an icon, and rumor has it he was a Vietnam sniper with a hundred thousand headshots in his day. Wikipedia makes no mention of his 'Nam experience, which probably means it's not true, but there's a reason you always thought it might have been true, right? Guy was a stone cold killer, if only metaphorically, and he was tight with King Friday. Maybe a little too tight, but whatever.
Alf: He wasn't that funny, wasn't that real looking, and wasn't big on stage presence. But Alf, like Frankenstein, did it his way, and parlayed his limited abilities into a damn respectable career. So you've gotta take your hat off to the alien puppet, because he was at least as big as Webster in his day.
Donkey Kong Jr: Nintendo shoved Jr. aside for "Diddy Kong," who I believe was a Kong that Donkey Kong Sr. adopted and decided he liked better than his own blood offspring. Somewhere Junior deliberates in seclusion, plotting his sweet revenge. And when it comes time, Junior, you shall have a brother in arms.
Bayou Billy: OK, the sign I'm pretty much done is that I'm exclusively talking about video game characters now. But what the hell, developers? Why does Bionic Commando merit a remake and Bayou Billy not? I may just have to make this game myself, and trust me, you DO NOT WANT TO SEE THAT HAPPEN.
Tuesday, March 09, 2010
My Favorite Misquoted Song Lyrics
The song: "Hoochie Mama," 2 Live Crew
The misinterpretation: "Big booty odds, get wit it"
The real lyrics: "Big Booty hoes, up wit it"
The reason the wrong lyrics are better: My friend Tyler came up with this one while we were in Las Vegas. He was drunk and wearing heelies at the time and had just heard the song in the cab for the first time despite it having existed for more than 15 years. When you're in Las Vegas, you want big booty odds so you don't get home broke.
The song: "Glory of Love," Peter Cetera
The misinterpretation: "Like a knight in China"
The real lyrics: "Like a knight in shining armor"
The reason the wrong lyrics are better: My sister Laura came up with this when she was 5, and since then the image of a knight in China has just stuck in my head. It works.
The song: "It's My Life," Bon Jovi
The misinterpretation: "Like Frankenstein I did it my way"
The real lyrics: "Like Frankie said I did it my way"
The reason the wrong lyrics are better: The entire civilized world came up with this interpretation immediately upon the song's release a decade to go, and since then it has been obvious that Frankenstein is the way Bon Jovi should have gone with the song. I mean, Sinatra was known for doing it his way, and even wrote his own song about doing so, but no one -- and I mean no one -- did it quite like Frankenstein.
The song: "Take Me Out to the Ballgame," Tin Pan Alley
The misinterpretation: "Buy me some crackers and Apple Jacks, I don't care if you never come back"
The real lyrics: "Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack, I don't care if I never get back"
The reason the wrong lyrics are better: Another gem from Laura, age 5. Apple Jacks are better than Cracker Jack in all ways, and it's also funny to tell the person you're with at the baseball game to do something so impossible as to somehow get you some Apple Jacks. Then you add insult to insultry by saying you don't care if they never come back. Basically Laura's version of the song is to tell your seatmate that they're talking too much and you'd rather watch the game alone.
The song: "Up in Here," DMX
The misinterpretation: "Godspomaikmee do my mind"
The real lyrics: "Y'all gonna make me lose my mind"
The reason the wrong lyrics are better: Drunken Tyler again. His reimagining of the lyrics recall that of an Estonian immigrant who has never heard the English language, yet is still inspired by the joyie de vivre of the music. Tyler thought so much of his version of his version of the song that he once made his own Talk City site titled Godspomaikmee Do My Mind. It was really funny, too. And then Talk City deleted everyone's site without telling anyone and it was lost forever, then from that point on, devastated Tyler vowed never again to make another website and has held true to the promise.
The song: "Viva La Vida," Coldplay
The misinterpretation: "Roman Catholic choirs are singing"
The real lyrics: "Roman calvary choirs are singing"
The reason the wrong lyrics are better: I was so sure it was "Roman Catholic choirs" that I bet Jessica, who knew otherwise, that it was. I lost the ability to name our daughter Emma because I was wrong. But then she thought about it and relented, and our daughter is named Emma. So I won, and even though things looked dark at the time, the big booty odds were up wit it.
The misinterpretation: "Big booty odds, get wit it"
The real lyrics: "Big Booty hoes, up wit it"
The reason the wrong lyrics are better: My friend Tyler came up with this one while we were in Las Vegas. He was drunk and wearing heelies at the time and had just heard the song in the cab for the first time despite it having existed for more than 15 years. When you're in Las Vegas, you want big booty odds so you don't get home broke.
The song: "Glory of Love," Peter Cetera
The misinterpretation: "Like a knight in China"
The real lyrics: "Like a knight in shining armor"
The reason the wrong lyrics are better: My sister Laura came up with this when she was 5, and since then the image of a knight in China has just stuck in my head. It works.
The song: "It's My Life," Bon Jovi
The misinterpretation: "Like Frankenstein I did it my way"
The real lyrics: "Like Frankie said I did it my way"
The reason the wrong lyrics are better: The entire civilized world came up with this interpretation immediately upon the song's release a decade to go, and since then it has been obvious that Frankenstein is the way Bon Jovi should have gone with the song. I mean, Sinatra was known for doing it his way, and even wrote his own song about doing so, but no one -- and I mean no one -- did it quite like Frankenstein.
The song: "Take Me Out to the Ballgame," Tin Pan Alley
The misinterpretation: "Buy me some crackers and Apple Jacks, I don't care if you never come back"
The real lyrics: "Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack, I don't care if I never get back"
The reason the wrong lyrics are better: Another gem from Laura, age 5. Apple Jacks are better than Cracker Jack in all ways, and it's also funny to tell the person you're with at the baseball game to do something so impossible as to somehow get you some Apple Jacks. Then you add insult to insultry by saying you don't care if they never come back. Basically Laura's version of the song is to tell your seatmate that they're talking too much and you'd rather watch the game alone.
The song: "Up in Here," DMX
The misinterpretation: "Godspomaikmee do my mind"
The real lyrics: "Y'all gonna make me lose my mind"
The reason the wrong lyrics are better: Drunken Tyler again. His reimagining of the lyrics recall that of an Estonian immigrant who has never heard the English language, yet is still inspired by the joyie de vivre of the music. Tyler thought so much of his version of his version of the song that he once made his own Talk City site titled Godspomaikmee Do My Mind. It was really funny, too. And then Talk City deleted everyone's site without telling anyone and it was lost forever, then from that point on, devastated Tyler vowed never again to make another website and has held true to the promise.
The song: "Viva La Vida," Coldplay
The misinterpretation: "Roman Catholic choirs are singing"
The real lyrics: "Roman calvary choirs are singing"
The reason the wrong lyrics are better: I was so sure it was "Roman Catholic choirs" that I bet Jessica, who knew otherwise, that it was. I lost the ability to name our daughter Emma because I was wrong. But then she thought about it and relented, and our daughter is named Emma. So I won, and even though things looked dark at the time, the big booty odds were up wit it.
Monday, March 08, 2010
Greek Gods That Should Exist But Don't
As I play God of War III and impale various Greek deities with their own pitchforks, swords and staffs, I can't help but wish the ancient folk had taken their imaginations a few steps further and come up with some more immortals for me to kill in video game form.
If the Greeks ever get a chance to take the lead in advanced civilization once again and reassert their own religious system, here are some gods they might consider.
Comcastacus, God of Cable -- At will, he decides whether or not you can go on the Internet or watch Big Love. He takes mischievous pleasure in erasing your entire DVR, yet sometimes rewards you with 3 free months of HBO for suffering his undignified pranks.
Gassius, God of Gas Prices -- A juggler by trade, his numbered balls spell out the day's charge for regular unleaded. His pet pup is Econimicus, an unpredictable sheepdog who tends to urinate on crops, causing them to fail and hurling economies into recessions.
Toby, God of Pens -- He watches over ballpoints, felt tips, and what have you, aiding the just by giving them a little extra ink when they really, really need it, and forcing leaks on the wicked.
Cardinalos, Hater of Cardinals -- He personally makes the Cardinals lose every year, sort of like the University of Washington ghost basketball player in The Sixth Man, only he's a total dick and makes this guy drop passes and that guy (looking at you, Kurt Warner) retire. His half god, half mortal son is Matt Leinart, whose greatest myth is that some believe he will be a reliable quarterback despite four years of failure.
Portopoticron -- Decides whether or not there are enough portable toilets for social functions. Also the patron god of peeing behind dumpsters while peeking over your shoulder to make sure no one is looking.
Titleninite -- A goddess dedicated to ensuring the televised equity of men's and women's basketball. Whenever an Arizona State-Washington game that inexplicably runs 40 minutes long on Fox Sports Net and causes you to miss most of the first half of the Arizona-Washington men, 'tis the grinning femme fatale Titleninite who is behind the mayhem.
If the Greeks ever get a chance to take the lead in advanced civilization once again and reassert their own religious system, here are some gods they might consider.
Comcastacus, God of Cable -- At will, he decides whether or not you can go on the Internet or watch Big Love. He takes mischievous pleasure in erasing your entire DVR, yet sometimes rewards you with 3 free months of HBO for suffering his undignified pranks.
Gassius, God of Gas Prices -- A juggler by trade, his numbered balls spell out the day's charge for regular unleaded. His pet pup is Econimicus, an unpredictable sheepdog who tends to urinate on crops, causing them to fail and hurling economies into recessions.
Toby, God of Pens -- He watches over ballpoints, felt tips, and what have you, aiding the just by giving them a little extra ink when they really, really need it, and forcing leaks on the wicked.
Cardinalos, Hater of Cardinals -- He personally makes the Cardinals lose every year, sort of like the University of Washington ghost basketball player in The Sixth Man, only he's a total dick and makes this guy drop passes and that guy (looking at you, Kurt Warner) retire. His half god, half mortal son is Matt Leinart, whose greatest myth is that some believe he will be a reliable quarterback despite four years of failure.
Portopoticron -- Decides whether or not there are enough portable toilets for social functions. Also the patron god of peeing behind dumpsters while peeking over your shoulder to make sure no one is looking.
Titleninite -- A goddess dedicated to ensuring the televised equity of men's and women's basketball. Whenever an Arizona State-Washington game that inexplicably runs 40 minutes long on Fox Sports Net and causes you to miss most of the first half of the Arizona-Washington men, 'tis the grinning femme fatale Titleninite who is behind the mayhem.
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