I was hoping to end my long hiatus from the blog with something profound and scientific. Just the other day I was having a discussion with the wife about how interesting it would be if there was male menstruation. Just think about men expelling all of their unused sexual cells once a month. To put it more bluntly, the jizz would ooze forth uncontrollably. Anyway, you'll be happy to know that I forgot the rest of what I thought was so funny about that idea; so instead I'll be giving my review of Edward Scissorhands.
Normally I won't watch movies that don't include gratuitous violence or nudity but Edward Scissorhands was on between Hannah Montana and Full House. I'd heard it was a good show and I had always wondered how Edward managed to piss without lopping his dong off. The movie starts out with a woman who is selling Avon door-to-door in a town that can't seem to decide whether its in the 60's or 80's. The neighborhood is full of sex-starved, harpy, house wives with huge hair and just happens to also have dozens of bushes that could be sculpted into various topiary if someone should happen to show up that has cutlery for appendages. This Avon woman trespasses into the typical creepy house of the town and finds Edward.
Despite being pasty white and outfitted better than Ron Popeil with Ginsu knives, the dude dresses in a gimp suit. He's got the social skills of the kid that eats paste in middle school too. Its hard to believe that this goth albino grows up to be the Captain Jack Sparrow.
Avon lady takes Edward home and at this point I comment to the wife not to get any ideas about bringing home some deformed freak show while I'm at work. Turns out that Edward is pretty handy with "hands" if you don't count finger painting, nose picking, and masturbating. He ends up pruning the aforementioned bushes, grooming the neighborhood dogs, and giving the harpies Brazillian waxes. All the while he's carving up pot roast and accidentally stabbing people without ever running his digits through a dish washer - disgusting.
Edward ends up falling for Avon lady's daughter (Winona Ryder before her brief stint in petty theft) but shes already got a douche bag boyfriend (Anthony Michael Hall who has roided up since the Breakfast Club). By the way, douche bag boyfriend has a friend with a van straight out of a Ratt video-hot pink leopard seats, flames coming out of the hood, and he's not even Asian! I only bring up Ratt to point out that they had a former singer named Jizzy Pearl; I swear to God, look it up.
Anyway, the town turns on Edward, Winona falls in love with him, and he ends up skewering the douche bag. Edward and Winona end up having rough sex in the back of the Ratt van (what other kind of sex can you have with knives for hands) and the movie ends.
The answer to the big question that you've been waiting for: how does Edward keep from cleaving the twig from the berries when he's shaking hands with the president? It turns out that he's a friggen robot and doesn't need to pee! We find out through the movie that Edward was made by a genius inventor that apparently died before he could put proper normal person hands on Edward. That's right, the inventor made a pasty-faced, gimp, robot that could cater to his needs. The entire movie is about a sex toy!
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Monday, March 2, 2009
Chicken Parts
I’ve done my share of stupid things for money or even just on a dare. Growing up, my brother and I would dare each other at the kitchen table to see who could fit more food in their mouth. I remember the bet was always for a quarter, but the real prize was the pride of being able to fit the most peas, or jello, or pot roast in your mouth. If you lost the bet you always had the satisfaction of slapping the other in the stomach and seeing food fly across the room from not only the mouth but also the nose. Sadly, one family Thanksgiving dinner, Mom put a stop to all of the chicanery. In the midst of one of our bets, my brother had just crammed most of the meat from a drumstick into his mouth along with half the contents of the nearest gravy boat. I had just forced in my second bun over the top of a quarter pound of stuffing. Then tragedy struck. Grandpa finished telling a story about his old army days which involved three of his buddies, a case of surplus army motor oil, a pineapple, and apparently the most flexible woman on Guam. At the climax of the story, the contents of my brother and I flowed forth like geysers. Relatives across from us looked like a cross between a Picasso painting and a Bukake porn star. Worse yet, we had to call the bet a draw and the competition needed to go underground indefinitely. We are no longer allowed to sit by each other at family gatherings.
Of course age hasn’t made me any smarter; rather I’ve taken on dares that are probably more threatening to my health. This bet in particular was to see who could eat fifty chicken wings at our local Quaker Steak and Lube. There were around six of us and we ended up eating the equivalent of over one hundred birds if you figure that each bird sacrificed at least two appendages.
Our server, a one hundred pound albino that could have used a few wings himself, brought heap after heap of greasy, slightly warm chicken. I stuck to my plan of drinking a minimum amount of fluid, saving that space for more bird pieces. In no time I had downed thirty pieces. That was about the time that they started to taste like slimy gritty pieces of mud sliding around my mouth. People started dropping out between 35 and 40 pieces, others trudged forward with sweat beading on their foreheads and pressure building in the bowels. One person fell off of his chair and started sobbing uncontrollably. Another shat himself while trying to make it to the bathroom. The albino smiled menacingly and spoke of the man who had eaten over a hundred wings. We decided that the albino was full of shit, probably needed to be beaten in the parking lot, and should really eat a cheeseburger or something.
The goal neared and only two of us remained. My stomach felt stretched and hot. The chicken no longer looked appetizing at all. While it was probably just a trick of the mind, it appeared that the pieces were increasingly odd parts of the chicken that had been deep fried and then tossed in more grease. I pictured an old Navajo Indian speaking to the youngsters in the tribe, “We use every part of the chicken,” he would say. “Well, except for this one. This goes to Quaker Steak for deep frying.”
Alas, I managed to down the fiftieth piece, my cohort managed fifty one. My night was far from over, however. I managed to excuse myself from the table without crying or shitting myself. The pressure in my midsection had built up and felt like some creature trying to escape me like in an Alien movie. It was difficult to slide into the driver’s seat of my truck because it meant putting pressure on the pile of undigested bird in my gut. The earlier uncomfortableness was now replaced with pain that only mildly diminished in the fully reclined position. I wondered what I would say to the police when pulled over as I drove with my seat reclined all of the way and barely able to see over the wheel. By the time I made it home, my stomach felt like it held two rabid wolverines fighting over a baby. I stumbled my way to the bed and found the pressure even worse when lying down. I contemplated forcing myself to vomit but thought that would be cheating my achievement of having downed fifty wings. Through the course of the night I found that the pain somewhat subsided when on my hands and knees. I managed to assure my wife that I was not waiting for some sort of twisted sexual tryst when she found me on all fours in bed. I finally fell asleep at around two or three in the morning when the chicken had apparently been distributed throughout my colon. It was still a restless night accompanied by the lingering pain in my abdomen and punctuated by psychedelic dreams featuring our albino waiter and Colonel Sanders.
The next day held a number of ‘hot’ bowel movements that I will spare you the details of, suffice to say that they were ‘emotional’. I promised myself that I wouldn’t take part in any more competitions to see how much I could eat. Instead, tomorrow I’ll be seeing if I can handle the hottest wings that Madison has to offer. Apparently I’ll need to sign a waiver…
Of course age hasn’t made me any smarter; rather I’ve taken on dares that are probably more threatening to my health. This bet in particular was to see who could eat fifty chicken wings at our local Quaker Steak and Lube. There were around six of us and we ended up eating the equivalent of over one hundred birds if you figure that each bird sacrificed at least two appendages.
Our server, a one hundred pound albino that could have used a few wings himself, brought heap after heap of greasy, slightly warm chicken. I stuck to my plan of drinking a minimum amount of fluid, saving that space for more bird pieces. In no time I had downed thirty pieces. That was about the time that they started to taste like slimy gritty pieces of mud sliding around my mouth. People started dropping out between 35 and 40 pieces, others trudged forward with sweat beading on their foreheads and pressure building in the bowels. One person fell off of his chair and started sobbing uncontrollably. Another shat himself while trying to make it to the bathroom. The albino smiled menacingly and spoke of the man who had eaten over a hundred wings. We decided that the albino was full of shit, probably needed to be beaten in the parking lot, and should really eat a cheeseburger or something.
The goal neared and only two of us remained. My stomach felt stretched and hot. The chicken no longer looked appetizing at all. While it was probably just a trick of the mind, it appeared that the pieces were increasingly odd parts of the chicken that had been deep fried and then tossed in more grease. I pictured an old Navajo Indian speaking to the youngsters in the tribe, “We use every part of the chicken,” he would say. “Well, except for this one. This goes to Quaker Steak for deep frying.”
Alas, I managed to down the fiftieth piece, my cohort managed fifty one. My night was far from over, however. I managed to excuse myself from the table without crying or shitting myself. The pressure in my midsection had built up and felt like some creature trying to escape me like in an Alien movie. It was difficult to slide into the driver’s seat of my truck because it meant putting pressure on the pile of undigested bird in my gut. The earlier uncomfortableness was now replaced with pain that only mildly diminished in the fully reclined position. I wondered what I would say to the police when pulled over as I drove with my seat reclined all of the way and barely able to see over the wheel. By the time I made it home, my stomach felt like it held two rabid wolverines fighting over a baby. I stumbled my way to the bed and found the pressure even worse when lying down. I contemplated forcing myself to vomit but thought that would be cheating my achievement of having downed fifty wings. Through the course of the night I found that the pain somewhat subsided when on my hands and knees. I managed to assure my wife that I was not waiting for some sort of twisted sexual tryst when she found me on all fours in bed. I finally fell asleep at around two or three in the morning when the chicken had apparently been distributed throughout my colon. It was still a restless night accompanied by the lingering pain in my abdomen and punctuated by psychedelic dreams featuring our albino waiter and Colonel Sanders.
The next day held a number of ‘hot’ bowel movements that I will spare you the details of, suffice to say that they were ‘emotional’. I promised myself that I wouldn’t take part in any more competitions to see how much I could eat. Instead, tomorrow I’ll be seeing if I can handle the hottest wings that Madison has to offer. Apparently I’ll need to sign a waiver…
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