Suburban Connoisseurs

We had a discussion about gene selection the other day in my senior English class. You know, “designer babies”, hiring a bevy of scientists to screen your baby’s genes much in the way the Latin ex-cons of “Pimp My Ride” would throw spinning rims onto your tires or slapping Egyptian cotton onto your seats. My teacher asked the class if it would be morally wrong to be able to choose whether a baby would have green eyes or be prone to having attractive physique once they reach they’re adolescent stages. The majority of my class said “No”, myself included. The teacher then asked if it would be moral to be able to be able to eliminate possibility of a certain disease in the baby. The class almost instantaneously resounded with a “NO!”. This time I did not concur.

Now, I don’t know how the answers would differ in the presence of a group of intellectually competent individuals but why would eliminating a disease before birth be any different than eliminating it after birth? Would you not spend the time and money in correcting a disease in your child after he was born? The only difference is you’re eliminating it before you have to deal with it. Still somehow people argue against this point. I do however mildly disagree with the thought of genetically engineering your baby to have certain physical traits and exorbitant IQ’s, that is just unnatural and scary. That however is probably inevitable.

What are you thoughts and ideas?

-Chris

Appalling. Just when I thought American television had reached the bottom of the bottomless barrel with shows like Flavor of Love and a Shot at Love 2, ABC premiered “I Survived a Japanese Game Show” on Tuesday. The show centers on the immersion of 10 American contestants into Japanese culture, in an attempt to simulate culture shock.

Well I’ll be damned…

First I’d like to congratulate whoever sat in a small cubicle, scratching that big ol’ noggin of theirs thinking up more ways for the World to hate America. First, we have people going to islands that are already populated, and telling them to survive for one month where people have had to live their whole lives. “Oh no, I don’t have my BlackBerry! But I love this game!” Second, we have washed up rap stars choosing among eligible, yet extremely trashy bachelorettes, and bisexual vixens doing the same only with a mixed group of both men and women. And now this.

God I love America.

Only in our culture do we lack the creativity to create our own game shows that we must infiltrate those of other countries. Only in our culture do we send our own people to be humiliated for their lack of dexterity and any type of ability to complete an obstacle course. Only in our culture is all of this a game.

Now ignoring the fact that the show is a complete parody of Japanese culture, as the only attempts to instill culture into the motley crew of contestants are riddled with tones of mockery, the actual content of the show is complete shit.

Let’s start with the contestants. Darcy, the first one to get eliminated on the show cried after the first challenge because she couldn’t stay on a treadmill long enough for her team mate to eat “mocchi balls” off of her head. Grow some balls woman, this isn’t a Miss Kentucky pageant where crying and a few hand jobs will get you a bouquet of flowers and a banner. This is Japan, the modern equivalent of Sparta, land of Ninja Warrior and Unbeatable Banzuke. This isn’t The Bachelor or Wipeout- this is the real shit. The rest of the contestants lack any of the spunk or ability that normal Japanese contestants have shown on these programs, and are simply the scum scraped from the bottom of the melting pot that is the United States.

Next is “Mama-san”, the small Asian woman who is deceptively cute but comes with a temper larger than my sister’s bosom. If they were trying to go for the anger and fury carried by Asian mothers, they failed miserably. I once met Leu’s mother, as the Heavens cried and the Earth shook beneath my feet, and even her friendly greeting caused me to shake in my bootsies. Mama-san’s commands didn’t even make me bat an eyelash.

It was one hour of my life wasted. Never have I been so insulted by an American produced television program. The show will probably be redundant and the idea will be overused by the time they try to push for a second season come next summer.

But God knows I will be there watching every second of it. The same way people thrive on the trashy antics of Tila Tequila, so do I thrive on the way America continues to come last in the World stage of culture and respect.

-Lukas

In 20,000 BCE (Before the Conception of Eva Mendes) Zeus, the biggest pimp daddy in this galactic strip joint we call the “Milky” Way realized that he was bored. Dead beat, motha’ lovin’, watch the entire 13^th season of The Gauntlet and Real World Austin (Oh Melinda!) reruns, Bored. It was summer, school was out, and Hercules was buggin’ the righteousness out of him.

He decided he needed to teach the little spoiled squirt a lesson so he took him to the front lawn, ripped off two arms and a breast from Hera (he was a tad abusive) and started the glamorous sport of tennis in his own pasture, which was consequently named Wimbledon.

But this year controversy has stirred in the sport of the Gods, and in their very home, Wimbledon. Apparently, the courts of Wimbledon have a chronic bird problem.

And by that I mean a pigeon problem. Apparently these little Avian beasts swoop down on the courts of the greatest players in the world and distract them doing their little dance of death. Any little distraction of course, can throw these elite players for a loop and consequentially cost them millions of dollars, endorsement deals, and, possibly, reproductive systems.

So the officials for the Wimbledon tournament have, quite ingeniously, hired Hawks in order to discourage these rascals from further endangering the proceedings. “The hawks are our first line of deterrent, and by and large they do the job,” Wimbledon spokesman Johnny Perkins said. How sick is that? A freakin’ bloody Hawk just terrorizing the shit out of not-so-clever-anymore pigeons?

Well apparently the Hawks can’t do it all, as some pigeons have found some soft spots in the tournament’s defensive grid (someone has been consulting Admiral Ackbar). Well the officials were fed up with the spectators and players complaining so they hired this man to take them out.

That’s right, a hired marksman to sow death and discord on the English pigeon population. And of course, after the problem was solved, those whiny PETA people started bitchin’ about killing pigeons… and I thought to myself, have they seen what happens when pigeons get in the way of a tennis match?

Dinosaurs kill men, Men kill pigeons, Pigeons kill babies, PETA kills humanity, that is the way the circle of life works. Obviously having pigeons die the way they’ve been accustomed to for the past millennia would be a better way than this cruel and demoralizing way. So why do these arsenic infused succubi at PETA continue to protest? It’s not even a classy protest, it’s no covert blog commenting, it’s outright malignancy!

They sent a dude dressed in a devil costume to parade around the GRAVE of a Ringling Bros. employee when he died, they made a huge fuss over Michael Vick (and consequentially shattering the dreams and aspirations of America’s Youth), they practice Euthanasia on animals and they promote arson!

Yet they think because they brainwash women of the “Large Bosom League” into posing nude for their scandalous photo shoots, things will wash over, they’ll make a few bucks, and gain boundless notoriety…. Which brings me to my hypothesis…

=  

-Mueller

I was talking to a friend recently, a friend by the name of Christian Dorismond (so if you see him on the street feel free him to give him a cursory flip of the finger). At first our friendly discussion regarding gym etiquette and favorite protein-supplement flavors was going well, that is until we started competing as to who was more of a workout warrior. He of course won, crushing whatever menial accomplishments I had made in the gym: My bench max was his warmup, I was curling what he curled back in pre-K, and his arms were thicker than my torso. So to save face I called out his only physical flaw, that he was ugly. Which isn’t some sort of outlandish lie, some people are just made ugly it’s nothing to be ashamed of… to some bag-over-face extent.

So he then slaps this honker of a claim. Apparently “people” who’ve seen my bellybutton think its some horrid mutation caused by leprosy or overexposure to “The Shot of Love 2″.

But his direct words were this:
“yours looked like a clitoris”

So I humbly ask you the reader to decide if my bellybutton does indeed… look like a clitoris?

July 17, 1990 – A small Hispanic woman lies in bed , dreams of coffee and arepas floating through her head, unaware that the small creature that has been leeching off her life supply for the past nine months has decided that its time to kick his way out of that mother-flipping joint. She wakes up, slams her feet to the floor, clenches her muscles with all her might, and screams at her still-sleeping husband to get the car ready. This boy was being born at the hospital if it was the last thing she did.

July 18, 1990 – Ten hours later a baby boy is born, the light shining through the window upon his small hands and furrowed brow as at 2 minutes of life he is already understanding that which has escaped scientist for ages. His parents smile and hold him up high knowing that he is destined for great things. God smiles upon this young boy.

10 minutes after this I was born, 11 pounds 8 ounces, the biggest baby in that particular hospital during that particular month, a smudge on the face of the world.

June 24, 2008 – Almost eighteen years later I sit before this computer, my skin so white that the glow of the screen gives me an impressive tan. I am to the very tip of my tongue an elitist, and I don’t mind saying it. I was raised on Mr. Rogers and Lambchop’s Sing-a-Long, which contributed to my docile and peaceful nature until ninth grade when I met Mister Leu and became quite the douche bag. I read a lot and don’t care much for people who think that Twilight is good literature. I’m an Eagle Scout, have spent countless nights under the stars and countless miles hiking but I couldn’t light a fire for the life of me and fear spiders like they‘re the devil himself. I enjoy my cheddar cheese and sour cream ruffles with fruit punch and spend late nights watching The Office. I memorize the lyrics to any song that catches my ear and can recite one hundred digits of pi in a heartbeat. I don’t do sports, and although I was born in Argentina, I am nowhere close to being the next Maradona.

I don’t know what I want to do with my life.
I don’t know what I want to do when I get to college.
Quite frankly I don’t know what I’ll be doing within the hour.

But that’s the way I roll. Uncertainty keeps me on the edge of my seat. Spontaneity is my holy grail. All I know is I want to be, as Leu most eloquently put it, “that kind of dad who kids immortalize, old crabby ladies fear, and hot elementary teachers want to screw.” I want to be remembered as that guy who really didn’t care but still made a difference. I want to be a suburban connoisseur so I can show my kids my ramblings when I was coming into adulthood. I want to be a legend in college and a beer pong champion. I want to be epic my whole life, but most importantly I want to be Lukas Alexander Ruiz, and no one else.

-Lukas

As much as everyone loves reading defamatory articles about unfortunate cultural icons, I suppose we should perhaps start treating this blog, to some extent, like a blog. So in this entry I will make public all my weekend’s happenings, in lurid detail.

This Weekend I went to go see Death Cab for Cutie in concert with guest, Rogue Wave at the Greek Theater in Berkeley California. For the large percent of the population that has no idea who Rogue Wave is; simply put, they are the band that does that song from that one Zune commercial (which is one of my favorites), you know the one with the giant dancing peeps.

Death Cab, being one of the bands on my list of “bands to see before I die,” did not disappoint. They played several of my favorites including “Expo ‘86″ and “The Sound of Settling”. The played a 4 song encore in which they closed with “Transatlanticism,” which became my favorite of the night. All in all it was a good concert, ranking in the top three I’ve been too, despite the exceptionally tone deaf adolescent girls directly behind me and my company.

Now I must go, the water in my fishes fishbowl is frightening low. Frightening not because I feel that my betta fish is in any danger but because I know that all that water evaporated into my air supply.

Shorty Story (if you’re turned off by the thought of 800 words about Star Wars, oh please read it anyway!)

Veiled in darkness, Jacen Solo stood alone.

Suddenly the familiar snap-hiss of his lightsaber reverberated throughout the walls and the incandescent glow of his lightsaber masked the unbecoming pallor of his eyes. He had been here before, he swore under his breath, he could feel the familiarity under his boots.

He tightened his grip, which proved difficult as his clammy fingers tips could hardly latch themselves tightly beneath his ebony gloves. As he had been doing since his indoctrination into the Sith, Jacen donned his black cloth attire- each garment sticking pliably to his damp skin.

Maybe not exactly him he felt now, as the sensation slowly waned… but someone he knew closely.

“Luke.”

The whisper came almost inaudibly from the walls. Jacen instantly spun, but saw nothing distinct. Yes, now he remembered, this was the same cave that Luke once spoke to him about, the Dagobah cave. It was another childhood memory, somewhat merged with the other notable thoughts and tales the son of Han Solo and Leia Organa would of course be privy to.

He took a moment to regard his childhood; his penchant for animals, for coyness, for finding joy in the jocular spirit of individuals- fond memories, but clearly lacking in reality. Had he been pressed with the same plights he felt this moment, with the same weight of balancing the good and evil in the galaxy, Jacen felt assured he would not have been so light humored. And he could not resist chuckling at the thought.

The cave was wrought with Dark Side energies as Luke had explained; he remembered being admonished from visiting as a child. It was incredible the sheer magnitude of power within these walls, this Dark Side spectacle, something Jacen thought he might really enjoy.

Since he had decided that the traditional path of a Jedi would always fall short of bringing true peace to the galaxy, Jacen realized the only way he could ensure accord to the scattered entities of the galaxy, and more specifically his beloved daughter Allana and lover Tenel Ka, was to immerse himself in both the Light and Dark sides of the force. But by doing so he knew, inevitably, that he would become a Sith lord.

Instantly a figure emerged from the depths of darkness, and his fingers turned an erubescent red across the hilt of his lightsaber. Slowly and subtly minaciously, a cloaked figure advanced. As it came into Jacen’s line of sight nothing but shadowy fragments could be seen.

He mocked the shadow with typical aplomb assurance. The shadow sought him in the Force; Jacen could feel it searching for his fear and anger… only to come up empty. Then as if the encumbrance of the shadow had simply been whisked away with the simple gesture of a hand, Darth Vader’s pale sable helmet and glimmering eyes emerged.

“You’ve thought about me a lot Jacen.”

“Yes, I have. I have thought about how our paths in the Force are intersecting right now, how it feels so right. And I thought… we would never get to meet grandfather.”

“You… don’t know the consequences of what you’re getting yourself into.”

“I know more than you think,” Jacen rebuked with a faint touch of apprehension in his voice, “There is no other way, I have realized, to bring the peace and stability to the galaxy that our family has struggled in achieving since your time.”

Vader paused, almost as if he was searching for the right words. Then abruptly removed his helmet from his suit, and rather than the decaying and scarred face Jacen thought he would encounter, there was the face of a young Anakin Skywalker, several years younger than Jacen. A scar traced across his right brow, but otherwise handsome. Anakin then began placing the helmet over Jacen’s head, something Jacen, in his enraptured state, did not think about resisting.

As he secured the helmet around his face images raced through his mind… a Tusken Raiders camp, the slaughtered body of a fragile and memorable lady, an old Jedi Master with long hair and a fierce grin… and a delicately beautiful woman reaching out to him, instantly he could feel her touch, the warmth of her skin as he enveloped her within his, her aroma was so warm, the faint touch of her lips so tender… and suddenly the woman disappeared. In her stead stood the feeling of loss, horrible, excruciating loss… and suddenly he understood.

“No grandfather, this isn’t about me. This isn’t about my child or my lover. This is about every single person I have never cared about in my life. Don’t you see how selfless I’m being? I am doing this for the good of the galaxy, I don’t care what happens to me or the people I love. I am completely different from you, I will sacrifice anything.”

Anakin stood motionless, and silent.

And as if carried by a breeze, an old, old voice soughed in, “And that is why you fail.”

Tila Tequila. What is there to say about this girl? I had previously written an entry about her but it was lost to the wrath of the faultiness of Florida Power & Light Company. An owl lodged itself into a transformer which led to a city-wide blackout, so keep up the crackerjack job fellas. I was at a loss, I did not know if I would be able to emulate the same amount of “awesome” that the recently deceased post had possessed, that is… until I saw another commercial advertising “Shot of Love 2″ and I got pissed.

There’s just something about Tila Tequila that angers me, its innate. Almost as if somewhere, amongst all those ribosomes, nucleic acids, chromosomes, and xylophones, God had just spit balled some genetic trait in me to automatically hate Tila. So if you do get offended by this you won’t be hating me… you’d be hating God, but I digress.

The whole premise for “The Shot of Love” is Tila can finally find some love which is rubbish in itself because whores can’t love. When was the last time you picked up a trick, took her to the movies, had a nice dinner at an upscale restaurant and then romanced her with a medley of adult contemporary love songs from the 80’s? Hell I would, if there was a chick that was willing to sexual satisfy me for a buck-fifty I’d introduce her to the parents and take her out to the family beach house. But no, whores won’t have it because they’re too busy getting it on in the backseat or tossing salads.

Apparently to receive Tila’s love you have to EARN it, by completing and succeeding in a number of “games” less physically challenging than the Gauntlet, more mundane than FearFactor but definitely less revolting than Flavor of Love

Ho-ly Sh-*beep*

So whoever wins the game gets to have a “date” with Tila. Been there done that! You guys know how these celebrity-love shows are. What really peeves me is the so-called “drama” that UNFOLDS throughout the show. Drama based on what? Bullshit, that’s what. Drama that has no twists, and no unexpected surprises. Only drama that EVERYONE would expect if you put lesbians together with “dudes” who are all gunning for one single girl. Why would “dudes” warrant a pair of quotation marks? Because “dudes” specify a type of male devoid of all creative thought and intelligence. Whose lives are shaped and led by one thing and one thing only, and lady it rhymes with ‘pushy”.

Asian ‘pushy’

And then the commercial showed Tila crying, and I remember interviews where she just seemed so desperate for love. She almost made it seem like she rightfully deserved it even. Let’s cut the proverbial shit Tila and come clean shall we? No don’t start crying, no girl don’t even touch me lemme ’splain something to you m’kay? You are an attention seeking whore. ASW’s can’t afford to find love because no one gives a hoot (it took ALOT of willpower to not write what I wanted to write, and ladies it rhymes with ‘phuck’) about ASW’s who are not partying all the time, who are not making the headlines, who are not indulging in the sinful decadence that life has to offer. Love? That’s something for like, ya know normal people. What this girl really needs to do to find love is to drop the shenanigans, but put on some clothes, and try to find “the one” the right way. Not through seeing who can chug a hotdog slushie the fastest (yes that was a challenge). If anything, Tila get away from that damn show because it ain’t like MTV’s trying to help you. Have you seen the kind of socialite trash they bring onto that show? Maybe there might be one or two gems but… ugh-yuck.

Example of induced: ugh-yuck

Chi sono io che scherzo? Ladies would you like phuck me?

tila’s credentials:
(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tila_tequila)

playboy: asian cybergirl of the month

hostess of pants-off dance-off

lead singer of band “jealousy”

singles include “sex” and “paralyze”

new line of clothing slogan “So hot you’ll just want to take it all off”

-Leu

If you’ve seen my illustrations, then you know that I am an avid squid and octopus fan. Why? Because they are so freaking weird. I graciously dug through the youtube vault and extracted a couple freaky videos involving these lovely cephalopods, including one where a 400 pound Japanese man grapples with an octopus in front of a crowd of elementary-school students.

Keep your splash jackets handy kids! Things could get a little nas-tay!

This first video showcases the epic struggle between man and…dinner. Things get interesting around the 4 minute mark when “Kobayashi” takes a machete and drives it into his opponents forehead. He then rips open the octopuses head and turns it inside out, all while the kids in the audience chant enthusiastically. Man, I love Japan!

This is a video of an octopus experimenting with LSD (wow!):

In this clip, Barney narrates a beautiful scene in nature in which an octopus completely owns a spiny dog fish shark by snapping its spine into pieces. Fast forward to 1:40 for the meat and potatoes.

Here an unsuspecting diver gets humped by a feral octopus. The octopus leaves satisfied, but not before unleashing gallons of diarrhea in his wake.

Any frequenter of Ebaum’s world in the last couple of years has probably already seen this video. But it is totally badass regardless.

-Chris

A picture says a thousand words, but frankly, a thousand words wouldn’t even begin to describe the prodigious amount of stupidity one would need to do something this dumb.

I know what you’re saying, “Hey Chris this might have just been a horrible ‘accident’.” Yeah it was horrible and it was an accident, but what makes it interesting is that the 28 year-old driving the vehicle -get this, fell asleep at the wheel.

OK, it’s like- what? broad daylight? Who the hell falls asleep at the wheel at 2 in the afternoon? Take the bus you drunk.

His car plowed into 11 bicyclists on a highway near the US-Mexico border killing one and injuring 10… There are natural disasters that don’t even get that kind of rap sheet!

Forget “don’t drive drunk”, don’t drive if you are moron who likes to take naps midday .

-Chris