The Battle of Mustache Mountain
Forgive me turning my back on you, dear reader. (Please note: I pretend people read this shit.) I just got back from a week on Edisto Island, South Carolina. Among the highlights:
-blistering, skin-bubbling heat
-a scourge of jellyfish that could walk on land and throw ninja stars
-sky-rending thunderstorms each day
-white-hot sand imported from Hell
-a cruel ocean that stole my Frisbee… and my innocence
-a beach house whose floors and walls were so warped from moisture that it looked like a funhouse
But I’m back now, a little worse for the wear, and a little more immune to jellyfish venom. I have woefully neglected my creative outlet, so I’ve decided to come back with a doozy.
Trivia darling Ken Jennings, the apple of America’s booger-encrusted eye for a nanosecond, apparently continues to exist. A recent blog entry (I steadfastly refuse to link to it) on July 19th confirms that he has not turned into a being of pure energy and ascended to another plane of existence as many had speculated would happen. TIME Magazine, constantly searching for ways to further marginalize their journalistic integrity and usefulness to anyone still in possession of a working frontal lobe, published a brief segment from said entry:
“Finally, Alex. I know, I know, the old folks love him. Nobody knows he died in that fiery truck crash a few years back and was immediately replaced with the Trebektron 4000 (I see your engineers still can’t get the mustache right, by the way.)”
It was followed up on July 24th with the following:
“We regret the insinuation that Mr. Alex Trebek is a robot, and has been since 2004. Mr. Trebek’s robotic frame does still contain some organic parts, many harvested from patriotic Canadian schoolchildren, so this technically makes him a ‘cyborg,’ not a ‘robot.’”
Before I start hurling ye olde invective, let me start by saying: I love public pissing matches. Fred Durst v. Trent Reznor… George Bush v. Cindy Sheehan… Faith No More v. The Red Hot Chili Peppers… Tupac v. Biggie… Tom Cruise v. sanity… what can I say? I can’t help but enjoy the idea that these people think we give a fuck. I could not possibly care less about what Tyra Banks thinks about Naomi Campbell (or vice versa), but I DO find their self-indulgent exercise of having the all-too-eager media deliver each other’s venom to one another terribly amusing.
So, here it goes. Ken Jennings, I’m throwing down the gauntlet.
You know what, Ken? You’re a fucking douchebag. Just because America was mildly fascinated with your book smarts doesn’t mean they give a shit what you have to say. You’re yesterday’s news, man. I’m a little surprised, frankly, that you made it into TIME this long after your quasi-triumph on Jeopardy.
Years from now, you’re going to be on a VH1 Where Are They Now? special. Your segment will be sandwiched in between Lynndie England’s and Bo Bice’s. You’re a has-been. A came-and-went. An also-ran. A fucked-off-and-died. Meanwhile, Alex Trebek will have a towering bronze statue overlooking some park in Canada, where the natives will bring sacrifices of dried fruits and venison and pray for wisdom. In closing: Ken Jennings can surf a piece of plywood up my ass. Thank you, and goodnight.
Let’s see if he bites. Although I’m sure I’m just as irrelevant to Ken Jennings as he is to me, I am in the mood for a good slugfest. He may be a egomaniacal dodorkahedron, but he at least seems like he can fight. In cyberspace, that is. I would guess that most 11-year old girls could grind his ass to powder in real life. Lift some weights, you fucking puff.