hurling invective dot com

I had this friend one time.

His name was Jake Stoltz. His tongue was sharp, his cars were fast, and his hoes were pleasing. Plus he had a pool table in his basement. Together, we stalked the night, rewrote history and destroyed the universe.

Wait – let me back up.

Jake lived on Dayton Street, a few blocks down, back in the day. This was, and still is, a diverse part of Akron called North Hill. We met in kindee-garden (that’s vernacular) and became the best of friends. We went to Harris Elementary School, Jennings Middle School, and Nof’ High School (that’s vernacular too). During our senior year, arguably the height of our antics, Jake was elected class president. By law, this gave him the same power over the students of North High School as the real President has over the rest of the country. He immediately overthrew the government, had his political opponents executed and their lockers condemned, and became a Utopian dictator of sorts. He appointed me Secretary of Defense, which mainly meant that I had Cart Blanche to give wedgies to the nerds in the hallway. I had a quota, in fact. Every week I missed my quota Jake would pull out one of my fingernails. He was a cruel man, but fair.

Anyway, we spent most of our spare time together. As I grow older, I have a good deal of friends, but most of them exist on a 3-5 year time line. The ones that go back further than that I see so infrequently that catching up with them in any meaningful way is difficult – because of the infrequency with which I see them. I never realized just how valuable a friend was who you knew virtually everything about simply by merit of having been there for all of it. There was no topic that couldn’t be covered with ease, because we both knew all the back stories.

The time we spent together was legendary. We met cool people, traveled to strange places, drank cheap beer, smoked cheap cigarettes, drove each other around in cheap cars, and met innumerable girls that broke our hearts. Next to my wife, it’s probably the densest tome of good times that I’ve committed to memory.

Then, sometime in 2001, Jake stopped talking to me very abruptly. He was angry with me about something, but no matter how hard I tried to find out what it was, he wouldn’t tell me. And that was that. I saw him once or twice over those years but we didn’t talk. Every now and again a mutual friend would offer a kernel of his goings-on… a new girlfriend here, a college graduation there, a new job here, a summarily dismissed charge of first degree manslaughter there.

And then one day I typed his name into the MySpace search bar and his profile popped up. If I’ve found one truly curiously creepy attraction on his god-forsaken web-port of souls, it’s the ability to “voyeurize” people that you know or used to know in a voyeurs favorite fashion-without their knowledge. It’s a very strange feeling, especially when someone really goes all out with personal information in their profile, as so many of us are wont to do.

So I caught up with Jake, without him knowing. With the exception of this girl who broke his heart and temporarily derailed his life, he’s doing fantastically well. I thought about dropping him a line, but the last time I tried to get in touch with him – about two years after we stopped talking – I was not merrily met.

But finally I gave in and decided to give it another try and shoot him a line. Lo and behold, he responded – with his list of grievances. I finally had the answers to questions that I’d been asking myself for years.

There were no surprises, really. Jake’s beef with me can be chalked up to my history of generally being a dick. He had every right to be pissed at me – when I look at the stuff he was angry about, I realized that I had been a pretty shitty friend. It’s just too bad I had to lose all this time with him to learn that lesson. It’s been a huge fracture in my life. I never really let on to anyone just how much I missed him.

Anyway, I saw Jake on Friday night. We had many beers at the Boulevard. I apologized for being an ass. He accepted. He apologized for holding a grudge. I can’t say I blamed him for that, so the apology wasn’t really necessary, but it was nice to hear anyway. Five years had passed, but it was like I saw him yesterday. We had a rollicking good time.

So whats next for the myopic duo?

We’re starting a moped gang. We’re going to smoke banana peels and get plowed on Cutty Sark, then ride down the sidewalks of strip malls and clothesline old women coming out of hair salons.

We’re also going to start our old band back up – Buster Hymen and the Penetrators. It’s mainly just karaoke with a banana peels and Cutty Sark warm-up.

We’re going to finish our pilot for CSI: Mayberry. That’s long overdue.

Also, we’re going to finish co-writing our novel. It’s a story of hatred, violence and war, but also of compassion, humor and loyalty. It’s the story of an ordinary man coming to terms with an extraordinary world, fighting to stay in control of his destiny, and despite everything, holding on to his dreams. It’s the story of a woman losing her identity, and then finding that she can be more. It’s a story of courage in the face of twisted and brutal fate, and of refusing to accept that this is the way things have to be. Also, there are boobies in it.

Rock on, brother. It’s good to have you back.

As we all know, Red Bull Energy Drink is the one that started it all. The Coca-Cola of energy drinks, Red Bull has become as ubiquitous to our misanthropic youth as pistol whippings and MTV having nothing to do with music. However, the folks at Red Bull began to market this beverage-turned-household name with a certain degree of jiggery-pokery (or skullduggery, if you prefer) which later robbed them of their market share once the rest of the energy drink players jumped on the bandwagon. The precise nature of their deceptive advertising practice centers on the fact that they attempted to make consumers believe that their drink tasted good, when in fact, it tastes like ass.

Figure 1.1: Red Bull Energy Drink is used by frat guys to “cut” Jägermeister in much the same fashion that methamphetamine is used to cut cocaine

The claims of the can: Pretty spectacular when compared to its contemporaries. It claims that it “vitalizes body and mind,” “improves performance, especially during times of increased stress or strain,” “increases endurance,” “increases concentration and improves reaction speed,” and “stimulates the metabolism.” It also cures cancer, baldness, shingles, schizophrenia, acne, ugliness, rectal prolapse, the plague, broken bones, oat cell carcinoma, cat scratch fever, clubfoot, toxoplasmosis, parvo, dwarfism, gigantism, eczema, pica, frostbite, Legionairre’s, gangrene, gonorrhea, harelip, halitosis, sudden hearing loss, hookworm, leprosy, horniness, jock itch, goiters, gout, river blindness and stupidity.

Scariest sounding ingredient: Glucuronolactone

Energy Drink Funk Factor: 4. Red Bull just tastes fucking weird. One way to cut through the funk a bit is to mix the frothy brew with the dark and syrupy frat-juice called Jägermeister, thus creating what’s known as a Jägerbomb. This mixture of depressant and stimulant brings about an alertness that can obscure the drunkenness, which can really fuck with your ability to determine who in the room would sleep with you and how well you can actually dance.

What it does for you: With lots of B-vitamins, caffeine, sugar and taurine, it does the trick, but why punish yourself with the taste? I read that there are around 300 energy drinks on the shelves these days. Surely one tastes less assy.

I’ve been watching American Idol lately. Before you judge me too harshly, let me assure you that I am as disgusted with myself as you are.

I could say that American Idol used to really be about something terribly meaningful, but we all know that’s not true. It’s always been about two things: ripping on people and shittier-than-shitty music.

It seems to me, though, that the vitriol being spouted from the judges to contestants – and from viewers to their TVs – has become excessive. I say this with the understanding that Americans are already the fucking lords of excess. We like our tits big, our meals supersized, our wars shocking and awesome, and our abuse heavy-handed, spirit-crushing and completely indiscriminate.

Vitriol is often bred of contempt, and we could fill the fucking oceans with all the contempt we harbor. It’s contempt for the world around us, everything and everyone in it that does not subscribe to our worldview, each other, and ourselves.

And once you get used to a certain way of living, feeling or thinking, it’s just more comfortable to remain rooted in it, however unhealthy it might be, than to force yourself to grow out of it. Hence, we look forward to watching Idol each week. Why?

Because we can have contempt for everyone on that show. If you assume that the average viewer is just that – average, and in every conceivable way – we have both the inferior (Faulknerian retards who are either delusional or desperate for human contact or attention) to hold in contempt, and the superior (any combination of gorgeous, thin, young, talented, perky, surgically altered, and/or bold) as well.

So if the endgame isn’t really making abominable music, then what is it? It’s socially sanctioned, culturally approved hate. We just watch the show so we can hate on motherfuckers, plain and simple.

The American television machine has been trimming the fat in recent years, hence the rise in reality television shows. The ratings are just as good as they are for your garden-variety sitcom (and often better, in fact), but the script writers are cheaper and the so-called “talent” is practically free. Why pay six “Friends” a $1 million an episode when you can fly in a dozen fifteen-microseconds-of-fame seeking whores and let them duke it out for $100,000?

I am nothing if not a) full of hate, and b) cheap. So, I have devised a more efficient television program to meet the growing hate needs of my countrymen. Its efficiency stems from two key items. First, it allows us greater capacity to hate. Second, it costs less to make.

I call it American Pariah. Here’s the format.

Becoming a contestant: There are no tryouts to be a contestant on the program. No flocks of niggling dumbfucks descending upon the convention centers and hotels of America. No comical representation of diversity seated behind a wobbly banquet table. All you have to do is fill out a psychological profile (online, presumably) and answer a series of biographical questions, most of which deal with the ages at which you first kissed a boy/girl, first felt a boob, moved out of your parent’s house (if ever), where you work and what you do there, if you’ve ever written any fan fiction, etc. Contestants are chosen on the extent of their wretchedness.

The “judges”: Similarly, there are no judges. The “Paula Randy Simon” formula presents an needless expense. Instead, people are just admitted to the studio audience, no questions asked. No questions are necessary, really, because all Americans are inherently full of righteous judgment and brutish acrimony. And no need to pay ‘em. They just want to take their shot. Each member of the studio audience is provided with in-depth biographical information on the contestant.

The show itself: Contestants do nothing other than walk on to a stage and take abuse. Each contestant confers with the show’s producers in advance and clearly spells out how much abuse they are willing to take. To make it worthwhile to potential contestants, a sliding pay scale is utilized, resulting in higher compensation for greater amounts of abuse. If a contestant vies for the top prize (see below) they are agreeing to that level of abuse and all the levels below it. Contestants may not turn away from the audience or otherwise hide their face, and they may not hurl invective back to the audience. They just have to stand there and take it.

For $1,000, the contestant must listen to comments (read: bear insults) from the audience. Those who cry receive a bonus $500.

For $1,500, friends, family, co-workers and ex-boyfriends/girlfriends/husbands/wives/life partners are telephoned and asked to join the fray.

For $2,000, the contestant must dance earnestly to a predetermined chart-topping pop song alongside a professional dance troop. The purpose of the troop is to draw greater attention to the contestant’s poor dancing.

For $3,000, members of the audience are allowed to throw rotten tomatoes or eggs at the contestant.

This goes on and on, caps out at $10,000, and includes the Get Spit On Round, the Strip Naked and Have People Point At Your Naughty Bits Round, the Nightstick In Your Ass Round, and many more.

Anyone who knows a thing about American culture knows this would work. I will point out before the deluge of hate mail begins to pour in that I am an American, so I know of which I speak. This is just who we are.

A bully doesn’t turn a lunch money interception into a Broadway production. He just takes it. No need for the smoke and mirrors.

Catch American Pariah, Mondays 9 p.m. Eastern, right after all new episodes of Are You Tougher Than a Russian Salt Miner?, right here on FOX!

It seems like everything claims to deliver energy these days. There are energy drinks, energy pills, energy mints, energy enemas, energy salt substitutes, and now, apparently, energy gum. A company called Nutravail Technologies, which will soon be burnt to the ground by an angry pitchfork-wielding mob of consumers, has jumped on the bandwagon with Mad Croc Energy Gum.

Figure 1.1: Hey, I haven’t even had a piece and I’m already mad! This stuff works great!

The claims of the can, er, package: “Great Tasting,” “Jumbo Pieces,” and “Energy With a Wild Bite.” The package should also read “Massive Fucking Lies,” “You Will Grow To Hate Me,” and “I Am An Affront To Gum.” The back of the package helpfully informs you that “two pieces of Mad Croc gum contain about as much caffeine as one 8 oz. energy drink, or one cup of coffee.”

Scariest-sounding ingredient: “Titanium dioxide,” which I believe the U.S.S. Enterprise used to power its warp drive.

Energy Drink, er, Gum Funk Factor: 5. It starts out tasting like a nice semi-sweet piece of peppermint gum, but after about 30 seconds it begins to taste like you’re chewing a 500mg aspirin tablet covered in dust.

What it does for you: Being that I could barely chew it long enough to suck out the caffeine and B vitamins, not much. It did make me rue the day that I paid $2.39 for it.

I just learned today of a fantastic, bombastic, utterly regressive idea called the Freedom Ship.

While it may sound like our government’s latest attempt to paralyze your sense of independent thought and subjugate you to their crushing will by adding the word “freedom” to yet another thing (you want fries with that?) it is actually a real ship. The boat variety, not the intergalactic type. Or, rather, it is an idea for a ship. The idea was devised by a man who was clearly strangled by his umbilical cord for several minutes at birth named Norman Nixon. He goes by “Foreman Norman,” “Doorman Norman,” “Mixin’ Nixon,” “Blitzin’ Nixon,” and “Dumbfuck McDumbass.” Furthermore, I just made all of those up. Those are just named that I call him. We go way back.

By the time you’re done reading about the Freedom Ship, I hope you’ll see why I think it’s so stupid. The Freedom Ship is actually billed as a “floating city.” You don’t just take a cruise on it – you live on the thing. When completed, according to its Website, it will include:

-18,000 living units, with prices in the range of $180,000 to $2.5 million, and a handful of “premium suites” up to $44 million

-3,000 “commercial units”

-2,400 time-share units

-10,000 hotel rooms

-a casino

-a ferryboat transportation system to get passengers to and from the nearest shore

-a hospital

-a school system that gives the students a chance to take field trips into a different country each week for academic purposes or to compete with local schools in sporting events

-an international trade center

-more than 100 acres of outdoor park, recreation, exercise and community space

And the physical specifications? Enough to make the Queen Mary have hull envy. 4,500 feet long. 750 feet wide. 350 feet from mast to keel. No idea what that means but it sounds very seafarin’. Let me throw a ‘yarrrrr‘ in there for good measure. 1.7 million square feet of living space. Here are some comparative photos, to scale, of course.

Figure 1.1: The proposed Freedom Ship

Figure 1.2: The U.S.S. Enterprise (NCC-1701D)

Figure 1.3: My wiener
900 trillion tons of steel. 64 massive propellers, each approximately the size of the Louisiana Superdome, powered by 12 nuclear fusion reactors. An Olympic-sized soccer stadium. Its own subway system, airport, and parliament. Twin ionized magnetoplasmadynamic thruster engines to carry it into orbit in the event of a catastrophic extinction-level event, and a warp drive to escape our solar system if the Sun goes nova. This is all 100% true, I assure you. But it doesn’t say any of this on their Website, so don’t go looking for it.

Let us consider that the largest existing ship in the world, the Knock Nevis, is approximately one-third the length of the proposed Freedom Ship. Let us further consider that, currently, there is no existing design for a ship whose hull could stand up to the stresses of such an enormous span of distance, and no propulsion that could move the fuckin’ thing. The question then becomes: who is paying for this thing that, by all accounts, is a physical impossibility?

Well, Norman Nixon is investing his own money, for starters, and they’re in the process of vetting further investors. Also, people have already purchased real estate aboard the Freedom Ship. Which doesn’t exist yet. And when it does exist, won’t float. Or move. Let me know how that works out for ya.

The last question I’ll pose is this… does this seem like a really slow-moving and robust terrorist target to anyone else, or am I the only one who sees that?