It's official: influenced by the highly successful Turkey Rapture a few weeks ago, at 5:58 am EST, all the world's hams and pigs and slabs of bacon and pork bellies pre-empted the holidays and Raptured themselves into Pig Heaven, where they'll pretty much do the same things pigs have done in the past, except they'll glow a lot more -- and gloat about all the spiritually UNCLEAN ham they Left Behind. Yes, in case of Ham Rapture, your ham will indeed be unhammed.
"This was reported previously," said an anonymous FDA official, "but because of the huge number of pigs, ham, pork bellies and bacon in the world, it took a lot longer to get all that protoplasm transmuted up into Pig Heaven. Think of the logistics." The official added that he's really sad to see bacon go, but that he understood that pigs had a right to spiritual ascendancy, too.
Besides the Christmas tree scene, the dance sequence is still the best part of, "A Charlie Brown Christmas" -- esp. given the obscure nature of the two above numerical characters, namely, "555 95472," or 5 for short (orange shirt on the left) and his twin sisters, "3" and "4" (3 appears above, or is that 4?). His parents are apparently 1 and 2, which means that A Man Called Da-da would probably be #2. Either way, like Da-da's ex-wife, Lucy's still pissed, but has no idea why, and Franklin still can't eat with the honkies.
Da-da's currently listening to the spooky, Masonic Christmas imaginings of the Golddiggers. You can almost FEEL the beige polyester.
So, this has bugged Da-da ever since he was forced to watch, "Empire Strikes Back," 54 times without sound when he worked a speakerless box office at a drive-in back in '81 (ACK, ANCIENT HONKY DA-DA ALERT), but since his FIVE YEAR OLD recently picked this out during a recent viewing...
"Da-da, why are the Stormtroopers always missing?"
Da-da said something nice, of course, about them having a bad day or missing on purpose, but for lack of a better explanation: Stormtroopers suck, son. If they didn't, the plot would grind to a halt, and that right soon. Their marksmanship is horrendous, plastic suits of "armor" useless, organization terrible and in disarray, and horribly prone to cheap Jedi Mind Tricks. Bottom line: Stormtroopers need better training... and man, does their moral suick from watching so many of their brethren choked and fried by the Dark Side.
Which begs the question: why do so many people dress up as stormtroopers when they suck so bad and lose in the end? Are these people nostalgic for fascism? That's as weird as Franklin aced out by whitey. And while Da-da has you, how can any Stormtrooper tell who outranks any other Stormtrooper? They all look alike, save for Lord Vader and his black-clad nasties. Whatever. Like Hewlett-Packard employees, maybe they're telepathic clones.
Well, as The Old Man of the Sci-fi Mountain, Da-da dimly recalls another group whose aim wasn't that good -- but it was a hell of a lot better than Vader's schmoes -- so the below snap could have something to do with Stormtroopers missing badly:
And which came first: the Clones, or the Cylons? And how soon till you hear THIS at an airport near you?
Mmmm, eating TV dinners and drinking Sterno and watching the Lions
Afterward, we'll see you all at the drive-in! Bring lots of turkey-brussel sprout hoagies and Atoms for Peace! We'll be showing a double-feature of, "PLANES TRAINS AND AUTOMOBILES" and "NATIONAL LAMPOON'S CHRISTMAS VACATION." Anyone dressed/resembling John Candy gets in free.
On this date, almost 400 years ago, a giant 300-foot lineman wondered how puny, narrow-minded Puritans were going to pull together enough mashed potatoes and gravy for a giant 300-foot lineman, let alone make a phone call home in a world without phones. Or unions. Or 3-hour coffee breaks.
Da-da likes how they underlined the word TRUST. (Whereas, Da-da underlined, CAPPED AND BOLDED it. NOW whom do you trust?)
Mmmm, the smell of roast turkey and cigarettes... smells like extended family! Yes, Thanksgiving is the time for friends and family... and TAR, lots of TAR. Let the holidays begin!
Enough is enough! Besides the horrible Black Ops video game commercials showing regular folks with shotguns and machine guns and rocket launchers blowing each other away betwixt football scrimmages, there was yet another atrocity hoisted upon this Sunday's NFL viewers. It's a lie that's been around for a while, but this one was the worst and most blatant so far.
As if terrible customer service and spurious technical support and service weren't injury enough, Verizon mocked users with a commercial of a guy camping in the mountains, completely surrounded by pine trees, AND WATCHING A FOOTBALL GAME ON HIS CELLPHONE. This is not only patently ridiculous, it's insulting. Then again, since common sense isn't common anymore...
Da-da has 20+ years working in all things wired and wireless and can speak with great authority about wireless range. People have asked the same question for years, "What's the range on this radio/cellphone?"
Answer: It depends.
Anyone with a cellphone knows that the reception on these things sucks. Like "The Future," their capabilities are hideously oversold. Da-da's doesn't even work in his house. But it is a lie of political proportions to imply that some fauxhemian can camp in the woods and somehow receive signal enough THROUGH TREES AND MOUNTAINS to freaking watch TV on his cellphone. Maybe UFOs can do that, but our crummy technology can't. Da-da knows it's a shock to realize that Verizon is lying to you, but then again, many of you like being lied to. The truth is scaaaaary for most people, even though it's really just a paradigm shift, like burning yourself on something for the first time: "Ow. That's hot." And don't get Da-da started on how much these services cost, just assume the position and try to enjoy it.
Honky Da-da's had Kid Duty for something like 20 straight days (well... four actually, but it feels like 20), and -- yay -- on Monday he gets to lock himself up with the mental patients in the Family Truckster...
...and drive overtheriverandthroughthewoods to grandmother's house in SoCal for a whole week of Thermostat Wars, as grandma will no doubt have the furnace cranked past the melting point of lead, but it's a dry heat. (Da-da is resigned to sleeping outside in a thin t-shirt and thong.) There's good news, though: Da-da will be sporting his sexy new FAMILY ISSUE SWEATER VEST for T-day proper, so he can be SYMPATICO with the in-laws.
Yes, a tour of duty as A Man Called Da-da is somewhere between Christmas and being roasted alive, but the Da-da wardrobe perks make it all worthwhile.
I'm surprised beer companies haven't resurrected this cute little ploy.
"Timmy, get off your brother's head, put those weapons away and chug your stimulating tonic. NO WHINING."
"A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving" is one of Da-da's favorite animated pieces, one he shared with his boys as soon as they were able to focus. Indeed, he recently cast this Peanuts zeal into a trip to the Charles Schulz Museum in Santa Rosa (which was playing Vince Guaraldi music outside and in, but never acknowledged Vince anywhere in the museum!) with the whole brood.
While there, Da-da noticed something strange that he'd never noticed before during a live sketch session that happened to be playing the piece in question: Franklin was sitting alone on one side of the table during Linus' T-day speech. Huh? Was this a form of subliminal segregation? Was it intentional? Da-da's sure the animators weren't aware of this, not consciously. It's a weird tableaux. Franklin's even been given the crappy, intransigent folding chair from Snoopy's earlier furniture imbroglio. What gives? And WHY would someone as cool as Franklin be eating with those damn honkies in the first place? (Oh, wait. Da-da's a honky. Damn. Well maybe the top half.) Before you start rounding up the angry villagers, Da-da should also mention that Marcy and Linus, the token intelligent geeks, are sitting at the head/end of the table. (Interesting that the other characters were excluded.) Da-da won't get even get into the Illuminati table napkins.
There's so much we don't know until someone turns the world on its side. (Yes, Da-da's getting a job writing fortune cookies, yay.) Welcome to Machu Schnozzu.
Note: some sites are reporting this as an, "optical illusion." Allow Da-da to rebuke them for being weak-minded fools. THAT is an earthwork sculpture. Look at the mouth, the schnoz, the eyes and chin: that's the mark of DESIGN, not chance; the work is even mapped out a la Golden Section (do your own math, Copernicus). The ancients weren't stupid. In most cases, they were smarter and more sophisticated than us "moderns."
Besides extensive training in arts and sciences, note that Da-da spent 20+ years researching ancient cultures and secret societies, so he not only knows where all the bodies are buried, he knows who buried them.
|Machu Schnozzu makes a plastic surgeon's eyes water.|
Sure, Halloween's over (is it ever really over?), but you still want to see something reeeeeally scary, right? You're just that way. Ok, ready?
Try a morning at a household with two or more boys who are ALL SUDDENLY GOING THROUGH GROWTH SPURTS. ALL CAPS doesn't do it justice.
The ravenous monsters went through nine eggs, eight english muffins, a box of strawberries, a grapefruit, two bowls of cereal, two yogurts, Da-da's brain and part of the cat. The undead screaming and UFC ninja mad monkey cage fighting were epic until the food arrived. Afterward, the only sound left floating across the smoking battlefield was that of manic zombie mastication and the occasional growl. AND THEY'RE ONLY THREE AND FIVE. Jeez, I can't wait for them to be teenagers. I'm posting the, "WANTED: DA-DA," sign now.
Better still, I'll just hand them over to the Monkey Police right now.
It's official. At 11:22 am EST, all of the world's turkeys pre-empted Thanksgiving and Raptured themselves into Turkey Heaven, where they'll pretty much do the same things turkeys have done in the past. Except they'll glow a lot more. And gloat about all the spiritually unclean turkeys they Left Behind. Yes, in case of Thanksgiving, this turkey will be unmanned.
So, I guess it's gonna be HAM this year, unless... DAMN.
Crap. Well, at least T-day will be kosher. Pass the tofu, Rabbi.
[MORE up-to-the-minute Rapture news HERE.]
Since there's nothing that can match the sound of little kids laughing like mental patients (hey, Da-da does it), here's this. Mix any of the following words with the below sub-list and watch what happens.
1. UNDERPANTS (or PANTS)
The above three (i've omitted BOOGER and some of the more nefarious words) usually draw a cheap snicker, but the real silliness is in combining them with the below sub-list -- or anything nonsensical -- the combination of which sends Small Beings into Paroxysm Land. So, in no certain order:
10. SQUIRREL (e.g., SQUIRREL UNDERPANTS)
9. RUTABAGA ("RUTABAGA TRANSPORT" is also good, esp. as a Midwest band name)
8. SUCCOTASH (say it with great conviction and relax: it's just lima beans and corn)
5. VAMPIREPANTS (no idea why this got a laugh)
To reiterate, add BUTT, POOP, PANTS or UNDERPANTS to any of the above, say them with a funny voice, and you've got the makings of a guaranteed knock-out kindergarten graduation speech. Make a song of it and you've gone preschooler platinum. These words can also occasionally STOP tantrums, as Small Brains will LOCK and CENTER on anything ridiculous, if only for a moment. (Kinda like Monty Python's, "Confuse a Cat.")
Of course, the social earthquake word UNDERPANTS (from the German olio of, "UNTER-DAS-PANTS-HEIL" and "SUPERAFFENGEIL") stands alone as the consistent laugh-getter, across all alien 3-6YO demographics. UNDERPANTS are just funny, Giotto. Like Chevy Chase calling out the ghost town bartender, "HEY, UNDERPANTS!" (though note that that was mostly funny because the bartender then mock-blew Chevy away with a double-barrel shotgun). You might as well enjoy this brief tyke apercus of mirth, because by the time they're 8, they'll be wearing all black with black shoe polish around their eyes and then NOTHING'S FUNNY ANYMORE -- except Da-da falling down the stairs, which is always funny. So, strike while the iron's on top of the chicken.
Images courtesy of one of Da-da's favorite sites, Archie McPhee. And the plug's for free, hee hee.
By the way, speaking of subnomenclature chicken, you geeks might enjoy playing with The Torpoleximatic, seen here in it's corruptible mortal state.
Ew. Yes, all that shark cartilage rotting on docks can now be shoved into your papa gullet, along with copious amounts of salt and red foodie BBQ-y chemicals that are bag and baggage of this, the NON-FOOD DIMENSION. I'd make fun of this silly '80s BBQ-y contraption till the hogs cried home, but the guy at Ludic Despair did such a better job. Da-da checks to the power.
If lightning strikes this thing, we're all hosed.
Hi, Roger. Da-da's curious. Why is it you punish NFL athletes for "character issues" week after week, but at the same time allow FOX and CBS to broadcast horribly violent R-rated commercials in-between plays? At ten o'clock in the morning? ON A SUNDAY?? It's made it impossible for Da-da to watch NFL games -- and even more impossible for him to teach the game to his two young hellions, as he can't let them watch that kinda crap without a cranial enema. One minute there's a great game, teams coming together, coming apart, then BLAM: a commercial for some scary-ass movie or Black Ops guns-and-mayhem video game. (This is fine if the game invaders are attacking banks, or maybe Congress.) And people wonder why children are either depressed or offing themselves or shooting people in schools. This isn't anything new, of course, but it's getting worse and it needs to stop.
Just to be clear, Roger...
ALL COMMERCIALS DURING NFL GAMES SHOULD BE RATED G, esp. at 10:00 am. Run PG ones at 5. Did that come across clearly enough?
Then again, perhaps Da-da should be a "Good Patriot," pay through the nose without complaint and look the other way, let his kids tune in to what Rupert Murdoch and FOX wants pumped into their sensorium (Armageddon, LIVE ON PAYPERVIEW), embrace the sex and violence passed off as video game entertainment... THEN, Roger, then... one day a few years from now, you'll be walking to your car, whistling to yourself after berating some college drop-out athlete for doing something that isn't even a crime, oblivious to the bloodthirsty pack of heavily armed ten-year-olds approaching you from around the corner, freshly programmed to show you the business end of the future. Wake up and smell the hollow points, pal.
I have to break into my sabbatical a moment, as my Nazi-bonehead neighbor -- the one who burns toxic waste in his fireplace and pollutes the neighborhood with poisonous gas -- has picked up the accordion. He practices, "Lady of Spain," all during the dinner hour and stops around 9:45 pm. That's almost four solid hours. AND HE THINKS HE'S GOOD. That's justifiable homicide, right?
Indeed, there is only one thing worse than a Zyklon-B-emitting, Nazi-bonehead neighbor learning to play the accordion... wait. No, there isn't.
We now return you to the arts, already in progress.
Waiter, pass the funiculi omphaloskepsis.