Hipters + France = Natural Disaster

While working with a bunch French nationals, I've learned many things. But most shocking of all is how badly French hipsters put their American counterparts to shame.

Witness the Tektonik movement. It's taking over France faster than Hitler and the Bubonic Plague combined. These guys are straight but try to appear as gay as possible. Their uniform consists of old school Nikes [Apparently, they're Reeboks] with the tongues out, tight jeans and goofy sweaters. They abstain from drugs and alcohol. Mullethawks are their haircut of choice. And, most notably, they dance in a way that is indescribably hilarious.

Sit back, relax and get ready to live. This shit is bananas...

Google Dumps

I’ve got a history of using technology for the basest of purposes.

At age 12, I can remember carrying a small tape recorder to document my own farts, as well as the farts of those around me. Call it degenerate multi-tasking, but I get a certain satisfaction imagining the many advancements technology has afforded mankind, and then using those same advancements to more efficiently dick around. That’s how technology aids civilization. It saves us time and energy, so that we can dedicate more of our lives to beating off and playing Xbox.

From watching a pirated copy of Step Up 2: The Streets on my iPod, to locating my pot dealer with a GPS system, I am one of many members of the tech age who has besmirched the honor of innovation. The latest practice I’ve found in debasing technology is using my laptop on the toilet. It warms my bare thighs, and I can easily watch Youtube footage of volcanoes erupting while undergoing a little “eruption” of my own. Thanks to Gchat, I’ve conversed with nearly all my friends on the shitter. I have produced emoticons and dumps at the same rate. For my salt, an appliance is only as good as the crap taken while using it.

Since the introduction of household portability, inventors must now face the fact that at some point or another, their contribution to the modern world will be used by a body that is concurrently producing dumps. In a brilliant dove-tail of interests, I’ve used Google Maps’ User-Created Maps feature, to catalogue the various places around this fair city that I have taken dumps. I have aptly titled the map “Places in Los Angeles that I have Crapped.” Take a look:

Now That’s What I Call Music to Die To!

Death Row inmates get one last listen.

In an effort to make capitol punishment more “humane,” federal penitentiaries have adopted a progressive addition to the “last meal” and “last words” tradition. Leading up to one’s final living moments, a death row inmate may now arrange a “last playlist” using a special prison issue iPod, and the NOW That’s What I Call Music song catalogue.

Based on the most popular prisoner playlists, compilation music giant NOW!, brings you the next hit mix: “Now That’s What I Call Execution Music!” made up of the most popular songs played by death row inmates at various stages of execution, from a prisoner’s alone time all the way into one’s last living moments. Now you can get jiggy with the same hot tracks as the soon to be executed! Check it out:

NOW That’s What I Call Songs To Listen To Alone in Your Cell, Contemplating Death:

1-“Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)” Green Day

2-“Closing Time” Semisonic

3-“Graduation (Friends Forever)” Vitamin C

4-“Family Matters Theme Song”

5-“Freshman” The Verve Pipe

NOW That’s What I Call Tunes To Jam To, While Being Led Down a Dank, Lonely Hallway

1-“Fuck the Police” N.W.A.

2-“Cop Killer” Ice T

3-“Sounds of Halloween, volume 5”

4-“Livin’ Thing” Electric Light Orchestra

5-“I Can’t Dance” Genesis

NOW That’s What I Call Music to Die To!:

(Top ten songs listened to during execution)

1-“Tubthumping” Chumbawumba

2-“I Will Survive,” by Gloria Gaynor

3-“I Just Died in Your Arms Tonight,” Cutting Crew

4-“I Will Survive,” Cake cover

5-“I Wanna Be Sedated” Ramones

6-“Waterfalls” TLC

7-“Where in the World Is Carmen San Diego?” Rockapella

8-“Alive” Pearl Jam

9-“Auld Lang Syne” Robert Burns

10-“Umbrella” Rihanna

Coming soon: Ads beamed right into your mind.

Giant monsters. Super villains. Hipsters. Everything bad happens to New York first. So, it should be no surprise that New York is the birthplace of a disturbing new form of advertising.

Imagine a beam of sound that is beamed directly into your skull. This beam can make you hear voices. Voices no one around you can hear.

It’s called hypersonic sound technology. Sound waves are shot out at a pitch undetectable to the human ear. These audio advertisements travel along harmlessly until they find something to smash into like your face. The waves then slow down to a pitch that you can hear. Since the thing slowing the waves down is your head, that’s where the voices sound like there are coming from.

It’s a powerful new technology, with a host of potentially useful applications. So of course it was first used to push a crappy basic-cable show.

The show was “Paranormal State”, and people walking by a billboard for the PS (that’s what the fans call it) in Manhattan would hear a voice saying “Who’s there? Who’s there?”

It is weird enough hearing ghostly voices, but did they have to push a show on the “Arts & Entertainment” network?

A&E shows don’t qualify as art, and barely, barely qualify as entertainment. I don’t even think A&E is serious about the ampersand anymore.

Anyway, I know that unlike their distinct seasons and their pizza, New York City won’t keep this advertising ray to themselves.

Soon there will be no way to tell if the hobo screaming about voices in his brain is a paranoid schizophrenic, or simply responding enthusiastically to an ad for “Chris Angel Mindfreak.”

In fact, I don’t see how non-hobos hit with this ray are supposed to know that they are not schizophrenic themselves. How does a normal person react when a voice inside their head commands them to watch A&E?

It’s an unnatural thought, somewhere on par with hearing your Chihuahua demand the hammer-murder of your parents.

Our only hope is that Los Angeles bans this invasive technology before it becomes commonplace. But in a city where the idea of an attractive public space is one dominated with building-sized posters for failed movies, I don’t think there’s much room for optimism.

Sexxx Shoppe Sabrina

I'm sorry, father.

Dear Dad,

I know you have a countless amount of money, like Scrooge McDuck, and even if you don’t exactly have a vault filled with magical golden coins waiting for someone to swim through them, I know you have enough to give me what I want. Dad, you know I am not exactly good with direction. I am not dedicated and a terrible employee. You know this firsthand from when I worked for you right out of college. Dad, how many countless amounts of time did I show up late, wearing the same thing I was wearing the night before, smelling of sex and booze? More than either one of us could count, and you, unlike me, remember most of those mornings.

Dad, I know my true calling and with the help of whore logic I know there’s still a possibility for me to become all that I can be. Before you have a stroke, I do not want to be in the sex industry, at least not exactly. My body might say SLUT, WHORE, BIMBO with its giant tits and swiveling hips, but my mind says ENTREPRENEUR. Dad, what if I took my super licentious body and whored it up in order to run a soon to be world famous sexxx shoppe. Dad, think about it, people are always going to pay for dildos because you cannot make them at home.

There could even be a gimmick to put us on the map. You have four daughters, and although legally one of them is too young to work in such an environment, three of them could dress up in latex, and spend the day spanking one another and selling perverts anal beads. Dad, before you say anything, you wouldn’t be a pimp. No way, you’d be chief investor and mogul of a sex industry empire.

Please give me what I want. I am spoiled and not suited for a desk job, and my only other alternative is to pull an Anna Nicole Smith and marry someone 97-years-old and pray they die while I am on top.

Love,

Your Daughter

Judging A Book By Its Cover: The Secret by Rhonda Byrne

I’d drink their kool-aid.

When someone asks me what they need to do if they’re considering a move to LA, I say two things: get a Westside Rentals membership and join a good, strong cult.

I recommend The Secret mainly because it has a cover that looks like a treasure map. It shows that the book is one step above a metal detector. It will show you a path that will lead you to treasure. Spiritually, emotionally, monetarily.

Perhaps more importantly, the treasure map cover tells me the The Secret is also about pirates. L. Ron Hubbard may have been clever enough to include some aliens in his cult. And The Artists Workshop has, well, artists, I guess. But if I’m moving into a commune, I’d rather brush my teeth next to a pirate rather than some incense burning, patchouli wearing, Venice beach Artist or baby Suri.

Also, the title and author’s name is written in a way that makes it look like it glows. Just like Jesus, or E.T. I don’t know. I’m just saying that if someone glows, then I’m more inclined to listen to His or Her worldviews.

And let’s not overlook the fact that there is a big, fake wax seal on the cover. This strongly suggests that The Secret contains the answer to, um, well, something very, very important.

My only suggestion? Maybe include a ring with each book purchase, sort of like the CTR (“Choose the Right”) rings the Mormons wear. Or one of those rubber bracelets like the Lance Armstrong followers sport. I became obsessed with having both of those when they came out, and I suppose it is similar to how I wanted a retainer when I was ten. I’m not saying it’s essential, but it does sweeten the pot.

Wii Pole Dancing

Unfortunately it isn’t Princess Peach, Chun-Li, or Dixie Kong riding that pole. It’s you.

There’s a company called Peekaboo that is famous for bringing pole dancing “fun” into homes across America with their “Peekaboo Pole Dancing Kit” and the Carmen Electra endorsed “Electra Pole.” Now, they are shopping around for someone to help them develop a pole dancing game for the Wii.

Think it’s a stupid idea that will never get picked up? Well, Peekaboo already has a game out. It’s a cross between Dance Dance Revolution, Twister, and dry humping they call the “Bedroom Boogie Game”



I hope that thing is dishwasher safe.

The good people at Peekaboo claim that they want to want to “do for Pole dancing what Guitar Hero did for Rock and Roll.” That begs the question: What exactly did Guitar Hero do for Rock and Roll?

Guitar Hero makes people feel like they are part of a rock band. For a fleeting moment, you feel what it’s like to be a rock star- only without the money, hepatitis or meth cravings.

However, the only people who are stars on the stripper pole, are, well, strippers. Is there a demand for a video game that makes you feel like a single mother with daddy issues and broken dreams?

Someone at Peekaboo PR is reading this and saying “Pole Dancing isn’t about Stripping! It’s about fun aerobic exercise!”

Really?

The “pole” part of pole dancing is short for “stripper pole.” It’s not that pole the firemen use because they are too lazy for stairs.

And how exactly is the game supposed to work? Are they including a pole? Are you supposed to hold the Wiimote and the pole same time? Do we strap the wiimote on? What kind of precedent are we setting with a strap-on Wiimote?

Peekaboo also claims the game is for “men and women.” How could I explain to a woman that I got my taut physique from a video game about pole dancing? I’d rather tell her I got buff lifting my collection of Bratz dolls or playing Wii Cheerleading.

I hope no developers take Peekaboo up on their offer. People who want the aerobic benefits of pole dancing should have to get it the old fashioned way: while exposing their tits to strangers.