Monday, August 31, 2009


Trix is a magical cereal, given to bless the lives of children worldwide.

On the darker side of Trix, however, is the uncomfortable, racist plot by Corporate America to encourage children to deny good things to individuals not like them, for instance, cute rabbits1. I think of all of the traumatic things of my childhood, seeing that scenario repeated every Saturday morning was the most scarring. Maniacal children repeatedly denied this blessed breakfast to such a hungry rabbit. I so wished I could give him the Trix he desired. Sure, it's for kids, but can't the flipping kids just give the rabbit a taste? It is so blessed!

Ignoring that for now, Trix has magical swine-flu-beating qualities. After being able to eat nothing but three french fries, six spoonfuls of mashed potatoes, and some crackers for the past five days, I suddenly found myself hungry the other evening. But for what? I had hunger, but no appetite for anything.

Except my blessed friend, Mr. Trix.

I downed two bowlfuls of its delicious sugar-coated "whole grains". The hardened corn syrup ran down my throat like light gypsies of joy skipping across scrumptious skittle fields. I tipped the bowl and, like a medieval king, drank the mushy marsh of soggy dregs of the glowing sugary milk.

Trix used to come in helpful shapes, to let children know what fruit looked like, and also what a severely mutated sugarized form of that fruit would taste like. Seeing as how knowing the appearance of fruit no longer grants any intrinsic value, the Trix candy comes in psychedelically-colored balls2.

1. This is not to be confused with the terrible communist plot by a certain Mr. Seuss.
2. Helpful hint: add a statistics degree to influenza-induced delirium, and you get someone pondering the probability of six of said hippie balls of the same color coming to form a circle around another ball in your spoon. It's gotta be somewhere between getting hit by a meteoroid, and the likelihood that the only time in your adult life you get deliriously ill for a week falls on the very week you need to pack and move internationally.

surgical masks

Surgical masks are used to prevent the transfer of disease, to promote general hygiene in a healthcare environment, and as fashion accessories in the streets of Southeast Asia.

Taking the cue from our harder-working, lower-spending, and higher-saving friends across the (large) pond, I decided to try wearing one of those devices this week, and let me tell you, it has been transformational. I used to see footage of people in Hong Kong walking around with those masks, and wondered why they would bother with such unwieldy devices, but I wonder no longer.

My surgical mask makes me look better.

I have, in one fail, two-rubber-banded swoop, gone from a 7.1 to a 9.4. You see, it focuses the attention on the remaining visible portion of my face, my eyes, sideburns, and regal forehead, which happen to be my three best features, in order. Better than that, it hides the true size of my gigantic nose, and conveniently appears to reduce the size of my gigantic head, by, well, masking it.

Lastly, it makes me look more like a doctor. If my experience watching House MD has taught me anything, chicks dig doctors, even if they're drug-addicted jerks1.

I would highly recommend you purchase and wear one of these devices, and see what glorious miracles it can do in your personal life.

1. The doctors, that is. Though, I can only assume drug-addicted jerk chicks would still like doctors. So the statement stands either way.

Saturday, August 15, 2009


Sabrina is the heartwarming tale of a beautiful, sophisticated woman falling in love with a complete tool, then getting the bait-and-switch pulled, and hooking up with the tool's ugly older brother. The tale comes in two versions: Audrey Hepburn vs. Humphrey Bogart, and Julia Ormond vs. Harrison Ford.

I suppose, as one of those ugly brothers, I should welcome this fantasy candyland, where such impossibilities can even be fathomed, but watching the graceful Audrey Hepburn "fall in love" with Humphrey "I looked middle-aged in high school" Bogart is a little too much. I mean, this is Audrey Hepburn we're talking about. She could have pretty much walked up to any dude and gotten a proposal within the hour. And she's going out with a chump named Humphrey? Who is seriously packing some wrinkles? It's like watching the Eiffel Tower going out with the Bronx. I mean, sure, I guess there's enough alcohol in this world to theoretically make it happen.

Likewise, Harrison Ford, for whatever reason, gets cast in romantic roles well into his sixties. There is something horribly, dreadfully wrong with that, and watching him can be a bit too frightening. I keep waiting for him to spout out something like, "do you want any candy little girl?"

The nice thing about films like these is that older dudes seem to have some power to conjure up younger mates, which further reinforces the acceptableness of such a ridiculous practice in modern society, thereby hopefully giving me a better chance of getting a mate someday. It may take me until my fifties, but if Audrey Hepburn will date me then, sign me up for the solitary priest half life. Of course, if any woman were to try and pull a similar stunt, she would get branded a cougar. Could we please come up with a derogatory term for old dudes cherry picking younger chicks?

Luckily, the Hepburn/Bogart version is completely devoid of any sort of romantic chemistry. They sort of look like a grandpa taking his granddaughter out on the town for her sixteenth birthday. It's charming, in a way. The actors must have been told they had different parts to play, because Ms. Hepburn appears to be (wisely) utterly repulsed by Mr. Bogart, and spends the movie thinking about his brother. Up until the closing credits (and beyond), it appears that she has absolutely no interest whatsoever in Mr. Bogart. This relieved me to some extent, knowing that she wasn't doomed to marry, much less date, this man. And Mr. Bogart doesn't seem to acknowledge that he left Casablanca, and continues to slurrishly-mumble his way through the film, even going as far as to reference a girl that broke his heart (who one can only presume is the one that got away in Morocco).

My favorite part, however, is the tool brother being in love with Sabrina right up until it's completely inconvenient. He takes his curtain call with a bow, gentlemanly decides he is, in fact, not interested in this woman, despite the uncomfortable fact that moments earlier he was willing to ditch his beautiful fiancée for said chica. I'm not sure what else you'd call that besides acting.

The upside to all of this is that Ford/Bogart's character is named Linus, which is a completely awesome name in all regards, and should be more popular. In the event I snag a wife before my fifties, there will be serious discussions around naming a son after such an amazing Peanuts character.

In summary, the next time you're unemployed for a month, find something better to do besides tivo old "classic" movies. And don't tell my mom I watched a movie on a weekday. During the day.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

ultimate frisbee

I have said much on this subject in other spheres, but there is one quick note I needed to make today.

My good friend Kimball mentioned this graph th
e other day, which appears to be somewhat negative on the subject of ultimate frisbee. Alas, I am sad to see said graph, but I feel obligated to mention the authors neglected to include in their analysis a confounding variable, whose influence can be seen in the graph below.

*As my good friend Jack says, that's when your belly dunlop over your belt.
**See this article.

Monday, August 10, 2009


Wendy's is improperly named. It should be called Eve's.

That's not to say good ol' Dave Thomas should have named it after another child of his. No, let me explain.

Eve lived in a veritable paradise on earth. All of her food was tasty and glorious, and available in its perfect form. However, after a death of sorts, she was cast out from her beautiful garden, and had to live in the hardscrabble land of desolation, where she had to work for her lousy food.

Wendy's has followed the same trajectory. At first she was a blessed Garden of Eden, where the burgers came perfect from trees in their natural square form, and frostees flowed in cool streams of bliss. Children pranced gleefully in delectable delicious french fry fields. Then Dave Thomas died, and Wendy's was thrown out into the lone and dreary world. The burgers lost their square beauty, and turned into
rhombus and pentagon-shaped piles of burned crumbs. The frostees, though still found in their perfected state, also stalked the land in apostate and strange flavors, like vanilla, and Coffee Toffee. The french fry fields turned to rotten dried reams of rubber.

Visiting Wendy's these days is like walking the streets of Detroit. Once a grand master of American prowess and ambition, now an empty desolate wasteland where people huddle in the corners and cry, weeping for paradise lost.