Category Archives: Roode Notes
Yeah, it’s almost December and we’re just now putting this into the AMNESIA LANE chute. Don’t care. READ IT! Who wouldn’t want to read about Roode’s pumpkin carving inadequacies?
If you’re a regular or semi-regular reader of mine, you’ll know that I have a profound dislike for most everything. Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of things I like.
Perhaps, television is both my favourite and most hated of life’s little staples. It’s a harsh mistress; dressing up for you all pretty like one moment, then pissing all over you the next. God knows I hate television networks. These wonder-tards are responsible for some of the worst decisions in entertainment history. Fuck it. I’m talking about FOX. FOX has been anally raping its viewership since the dawn of Married: With Children. Let’s check the score:
- Arrested Development: CANCELLED
- Terminator- The Sarah Connor Chronicles: CANCELLED
- Lie to Me: CANCELLED
- Futurama: CANCELLED
- Family Guy: CANCELLED
- Dollhouse: CANCELLED
- Firefly: CANCELLED
Then, there are the shows that FOX execs gave a collective, “fuck it” and greenlit baffling shit like:
- Who’s Your Daddy: Fatherless child + paternity tests + slut mother + a group of guys who couldn’t keep it in their pants + TV audience + cash reward = eventual suicide
- Married by America: The viewing audience could now get involved with helping young couples fuck up their futures
- The Littlest Groom: He’s a midget! Get it? [It actually pained me to type “littlest”]
- Babes: Fat chicks. That’s it. There’s nothing else.
- House of Buggin’: John Leguizamo’s latest tragically unfunny attempt at replacing “In Living Color”
Even more ball-smashingly painful are the shows FOX, not only keeps on the air, but seem to have an L. Ron Hubbard type following. Again, let’s go to the board:
- American Idol: Definition of beating a dead horse and making it sing.
- X Factor: What they’re calling “American Idol,” but with Simon Cowell and Pepsi.
- House: Look, he’s a cranky ass, drug addicted, pompous, douchebag doctor. We get it.
- Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader: Short answer: No
- Glee: Fucking Glee
Although I can shake my fist and send human waste to FOX for the first two lists, there is no one to blame but the American people for the last. What the fuck is wrong with society? “But, Roode,” some of you are no doubt saying to your monitors like I give two shits, “if you don’t like these shows, don’t watch them.” If you’re one of the people who just said that, punch yourself in the kidneys as hard as you can. I’ll wait.
The excruciatingly painful root canal of a problem is that these entertainment equivalents to eyeball AIDS don’t just stay on TV. They’re everywhere. They spill over into every other aspect of life: water cooler chat, trite morning show coverage, bullshit marketing shenanigans, and a host of other methods designed to shove this camel piss down your throat. For fuck’s sake, you half expect the doctor to give you a rectal exam with an official “GLEE” probe.
Glee. Fucking Glee. Outside of “reality” shows, Glee has to be the prickliest cactus that has ever been shoved up my ass [figuratively, sickos]. It combines all the things I hate in life: singing, high school drama bullshit, singing about high school drama bullshit, hair styles from the 80’s, poser-hipster-geekdom, a Barbara Streisand wannabe, and all the douchebaggery contained therein.
Impossibly aggravating twirling paraplegic aside, I’m completely baffled as to how in the fuck this show became the runaway success it is. I guess it has all the ingredients of an asinine network TV show popular with the toothless public:
Unrealistically pretty high school “teenagers” + mismatched couples + painfully dubbed singing + forced and contrived gay character(s)
Alright, maybe most of that is superficial for a list of reasons why I hate this show more than a punch to the yam bag. But, it’s a goddamn TV show. What else do I need? It’s television cancer! The background music, itself, is enough to drive one into a murderous rage.
I tried to watch the show once [read: woke up on the couch while wife was watching it]. I timed myself. It was exactly one minute until I was filled with homicidal rage. It’s like fingers on a chalkboard. It’s not any ONE thing. It’s EVERYTHING. Individually, I’m pretty sure I could stomach each vomit inducing annoyance for an hour-long show. I hate singing in a television show, but I managed to put up with episodes of The Simpsons that shoe-horned musical sketches into the show. High school drama on TV makes me want to set fire to an orphanage, but I was able to sit through Veronica Mars.
But, all those little annoyances in concert is like being hit with a bag of oranges. It’s a constant left-hook, right-hook combination. It’s one of the few situations when running headlong into a wall is the better of two evils. Take the hits too long and you’ll end up like Sylvester Stallone in Rocky V. No, not the Rocky character. I really mean Sylvester Stallone.
Glee has become oh so fashionable! Why, everyone who’s ANYONE wants to have their songs shit on, ham-fisted into a “plot” then have the very essence changed to discuss the problems of kids in wheelchairs not being able to get enough blond poontang.
Ah, that’s what FOX wants you to think. Every now and then an artist is able to withstand the evil and money to protect his work from being shat out the prime time sphincter. Who? Who dared defy the FOX gods and deny them their power and inefficient hybrids?
Back in March of 2011, Dave declined to give the rights to his song, “Everlong.” [Read: Go fuck yourselves] Grohl feels that musicians shouldn’t feel pressured to bow down to Glee’s awesomeness and beg to give them any song out of their catalogue the studio wants. Check this:
“It’s every band’s right, you shouldn’t have to do fucking Glee,” Grohl, 42, told The Hollywood Reporter. “Dude, maybe not everyone loves Glee. Me included. I watched 10 minutes and it wasn’t my thing. “
Translation: Fuck you, Ryan Murphy, creator of Glee. Your shit absolutely DOES stink. Not only that, but we can see what you ate for lunch.
But, I suppose Dave Grohl’s story isn’t indicative of the norm. Well, that would be true if Slash and Kings of Leon didn’t do the same damn thing and FLAT OUT REFUSED to let their music be a part of that bile gargling sing-com. I can only hope this becomes some sort of movement within the music industry that has musicians actually KNOW what their songs are being used for when they accept a fat check. Just say NO, Alice in Chains. JUST SAY NO!
The ONLY redeemable decision this holocaust of a show ever made was just chance. Heather Morris was hired, originally, to work out the coreography for the mind numbing dance scenes. She worked with Beyoncé and knew a thing or two about choreography. It was her job to teach the cast of mouth breathers how to dance well enough for prime time television. I guess she did pretty well, because they ended up hiring her to play Brittany Pierce in a recurring role. In the second season she was made a full cast member. I wish I understood why.
Oh, yeah. I see why. Excellent job!
Let me start this off by telling you that I HAD two brothers. I am the middle child and, therefore, the most well-adjusted. My older brother, Greg, is an uptight douche bag with a uber responsible job, a family and a dog. Or, is it a dog and a family. I’m not sure how that goes. We’re from Alberta, so a dog ranks a little higher than a spouse and children. It’s a law, actually.
My younger brother and the weakest of the herd, Gene, has a section in his brain where all the surviving brain cells hid from the alcohol and pot holocaust waged through his grey matter for four straight years at the University of Calgary. A bunker if you will.
Sure, he has the demigod-esq genes all we Roodes have been blessed with; physique of granite, extreme sexual prowess- unmatched by mere mortals, and well, let’s just say our junk has been studied by the finest sexologists for generations. To this day, it is unexplained how the Roode men have achieved the perfect combination of girth and length.. never mind, it would take too long to explain and require a lot of charts to do it correctly.
All that aside, Gene, has never been a bright man. At least when it came to women. Like all Roodes, he would control the situation with his Zeus-esq presence and Captain James T. Kirk-like knack for seducing women without really trying.
When it came to female mind games, he didn’t fare so well. Using their voodoo magic, the girls would infiltrate his mind and rummage through it like a box of second-hand clothes at a flea market. He would do shit like listen to their stories, open doors for them, surprise them with roses… FOR NO REASON! I mean, come on! Roses don’t make an appearance until after you’ve accidentally set fire to her car.
Then he meets Ren. I’ve made it a point to avoid her like the blonde banana sandwich crazy Irish nutjob plague. This is especially true when there’s family around. She’s like a virus. Sure, at first she’s harmless enough; being all cute and hot and funny. Then, next thing you know she’s hanging from your gutters wearing a bicycle helmet screaming the lyrics to Rollins Band‘s “Liar.”
Yet, somehow her version is a lot more disturbing.
I was too late to prevent Gene’s lethal dose of Ren radiation. I can only liken it to the Chernobyl disaster, except instead of a reactor meltdown, it’s a batshit crazy blonde’s goofy ass radiation poisoning. There is no known defense against this. Lead, concrete, the English, none of them can protect you from the damaging radiation particles of the little elf. Even a small dosage is life threatening. The longer you’re exposed the more lethal the dose. Instead of skin lesions, internal organ liquefaction, and constantly shitting yourself you are hit with blind devotion, catering to her every need, and.. constantly shitting yourself.
Ignoring ever primitive instinct for survival, my brother came down with a mortal dose of Ren sickness. He was beyond the point of no return. He was a goner. The patient exhibited symptoms such as: calling her every night, taking her out for dinner, a shit-eating grin and thousand yard stare every time some one mentioned Ren’s name. He was dying before my very eyes!
It’s one thing if Gene wanted to kill himself with drunken Mick poison. It’s another thing to expose your entire family to it. It’s pretty much a Typhoid Mary scenario. Why keep the disease to yourself when you can share it with EVERYONE? If we use the radiation poisoning example from above, it’s like bringing a white-hot piece of reactor core to a family reunion, then using it to hold the napkins down. Fuck man, might as well just killed our family outright.
Then, as the little Irish psychopath mentions here, they went to Las Vegas and got hitched. That’s like just letting the icy waters of the Bearing Sea suck you in. No resistance. No will to go on. Nope, just one big, “fuck it” before you drown and end up passing through some fish’s colon.
OK, fine. He married this midget on crack. He wants to flush you life down the crapper, feel free. So he’s shown a complete disregard for our family by bringing that blonde pile of crazy home. Great. So now she is officially and lawfully related to me. What the fuck ever. I’ve been married for over a decade. I’m already dead inside.
In the end, I’ll have the last laugh. His carefree days are over. He’s done. Remember when you were confident, Gene? Your smug ass self- assuredness and wonder-machismo is coming to an end. Want to hear why?
Congratulations! You are married to a hottie! Does that sound like a compliment? It’s not thumper-dumper. That whole glow of happiness and pride will eventually give way to a constant storm of paranoia. It’s not easy being married to some fine eye candy. Trust me, brother, I know. My wife is smoking hot. Gorgeous! Humpalicious!
It’s pretty easy to see the upside of being married to a sexy woman: class reunion envy, getting out of speeding tickets, and never having to wait in line. But, no one talks about the downside. The tragic, soul-crushing downside. Since I am the best big brother in known history, I’ll hip you to a few “unadvertised” side effects of being married to a top shelf honey. Get a pad of paper and a pen. You’ll want to take some notes.
1. Next to her, you will ALWAYS look like a retarded ogre.
I’m not talking Shrek, either. That green sonnabitch doesn’t count. That’s just Disney bullshit. This is more like the dude from Mask.
No matter what you do, what duds you don, or how buff you get your hot wife will forever outshine you. Don’t think this is a problem? Wait until you fade away from the visual spectrum of everyone on the planet. It’s only a matter of time before you’re mistaken for the help.
2. You will have to play goalie in public
What’s that mean? Think about it; stunning sexy wife and a husband with a permanent look of “what the fuck?” on his face. Every sweaty ball sack with a case of wood will surround your wife like jackals in the wild.
Hormone filled college frat boys will endlessly eye-hump your wife. Every now and again, one will try to be smooth and hit on her when you’re taking a piss or shaking down a midget for some cash. “Wedding ring? Come on, baby. It’s the new millennium. I’ve seen some Grey’s Anatomy. I know how it goes down.”
This is when you pick up the stick and start blocking slap shot after slap shot of douchbaggery. Eye-humping? That’s a check, motherfucker. Smiling at her? That’s a stick to the gut. Get handsy with her and that’s an all out fucking throw down on the ice!
*Note: Don’t send me emails telling me this is a trust issue. “If I could trust my wife not to bend over in the men’s room this wouldn’t be a problem.” Eat a dick. This has nothing to do with trust. I trust my wife implicitly. I’m still not going to leave her in a sea of sperminators while I take a jaunty stroll.
3. Paranoia: Fearing that she may, one day, realise she’s way out of your league
Those of us married to hot looking dames know that we’re hanging on by a thread. One day, your beautiful bride will realise that a fine piece of ass, like her, and a Mongoloid that can barely work a touch-tone doesn’t work on paper. Maybe it’s because you have a tendency to get rip-roaring drunk and punch your waiter in the throat? Possibly, it’s due to you coming home with one shoe and half your head shaved… again. It may even be the constant explanations she needs to give to her friends for any of the stupid shit you do. It’s all going to contribute to her moment of clarity.
How do you hold onto a woman like that? What can a man do to prevent his fine mama from putting two and two together and posing for Playboy (oops, too late for Gene) and upgrading to George Clooney-grade leading men?
PS: I, Roode, fully acknowledge that all the Roode men have married up. There! Are you happy now?
*Disclaimer: FWTC does not advocate the drugging and/or stringing out your hot ass wife to prevent her from seeing your glaring stupidity and James Carville looks. But, do what you want. We don’t give a shit, you sick fuck.
You would be surprised how often an artist had to try before he came up with his masterpiece. Michelangelo had to carve countless dongs out of marble to get “David” just right. I don’t know what he did with all the extras, but I’m pretty sure I have a guess.
This is also true with FWTC. As Tresckow pointed out here, many an idea for an article is shit canned, dies on the table, or sits in the queue until someone takes responsibility for it. It’s not that all of these ideas suck (well, none of mine). It’s just that, sometimes, we can’t make them work. Even if we can, something comes along to ball- tag us into submission. The server could shit its pants just before we hit “save.” One of our computers will lock up and give us the finger. Some dipshit (Tresckow) could click the wrong button and end up using a later version of the write-up and derail the train. In any case, it happens to me, sometimes. This instance isn’t because the subject sucked or that I couldn’t make it work. It’s more like it was killed with an over abundance of laziness and cyber-bullshit clusterfuck.
Towards the end of 2010, Facebook’s Friend Finder bullshit was on everyone’s monitor. It would outright lie and do its best to con your dumb ass into signing up for their thinly veiled market research campaign. It pissed me off. I know, it’s hard to imagine. But, I shit you not, it sent me on more than one curse filled rant. So, I figured I’d write an article about it. Why not? If Ren can pull a bit about ConAir out of her ass, I surely can spin hate-fueled gold.
At this point, I’ve got a pretty good handle on things. I’m raring to go and stayed up all night looking for new ways to say, “dick bag.”
I remember when I never used Facebook. Those were wonderful times. I’m naturally pretty adverse to most technology; smart phones, navigation systems, online social media, shoes… Look, the point is that I like life to be simple.
Here, I proudly admit to my complete monkey-dumbassary as far as technology goes. As with most pieces on comedy websites, a well-trained author will throw in a little self-deprecating humour in an effort to pretend he’s on the same level as the readers. That’s not true. In actuality, the author is on a completely different plane of existence; too advanced to be understood by simple mortals and their love for ass-chapping reality television shows.
It took many a round of convincing by the wife that Facebook was a good tool to keep in touch with family and friends. You know, the fuckers I try to stay away from. But, as usual, I caved. Yeah, I’m a complete sucker for my wife. From angrily watching Glee with her to removing the frozen pizza from the box BEFORE I put it in the oven.
Yes, another jab at my baffling incompetence with being a functioning part of society. Please note that I have, once again, put my wife on a pedestal, calling notice to her ability to both deal with my shit and walk through life doing every-ever-fucking-loving thing perfectly. That, and I figured it’s a pretty good half-assed attempt in getting laid. You know, build her up while making myself look like a stooge. In case you’re wondering, it didn’t work.
I signed up for FB, after answering a thousand shit eating questions. Sure, I could have just opened an account and left it at that. But, FB doesn’t play that game. It mocks you every time you sign on. “Hey! Your profile is empty!” “Why not add some interests? Everybody else is doing it!” Even if I can manage to avoid that social networking bastard’s taunts, fucker goes ahead and tells the world that I’m a slack ass.
Now, I still have a pretty tight grasp on where this article is going. Remember, 1. I hate technology, 2. I hate Glee, 3. Facebook is a bag of dicks.
After I waded through all that touchy-feely bullshit I Ronco-ed that bad boy; set it and forget it. One of the reasons I chose FB (other than my wife’s mysterious, yet sexy power over me) is that it didn’t have as many of those annoying aps as MySpace. As soon as I got somewhat comfortable with my virtual existence I was hit by a shit storm of game invites, survey results, and constant advertisements calling me by name.
Yeah, another compliment to the wife. Look, I need all the help I can get. I tend to get banished to the couch a lot. But, my point is clear. Facebook exploits a human’s basic need to play online games that aren’t worth two shits in Wyoming.
Oh, Adel questioned the reference to Ronco; saying no one born after 1978 was going to get it. As with everything else I’ve written, my philosophy is “Fuck you.”
Fuck it. It’s not 100% intrusive. These fucktarded ads are just in the left column. There are ways to ignore bullshit Mob Wars and Whose-it-fuckis FarmVille/town/empire/concentration camp. Wait. FarmVille Concentration Camp may be something I’d get into. Build your barbed wire fences little by little. Earn enough funds from the government to hire all the guards you need. And bullets… lots and lots of bullets.
I’m particularly proud of this section. “FarmVille Concentration Camp” is the best idea in the history of social networking. Someone get on this NOW! I once hammered out a complete schematic of how this game would work. I had to draw it in pencil, because as you can tell, I suck royal ass at photoshop. Once completed, I showed it around to a few friends for their take on it- you know; railway stations, mines, labour groups, random executions… No one really said anything. I just got a call from Amnesty International.
Then, that’s it. It went off the rails. No, my writing didn’t spiral down into a pit of hellishness not seen since Ugly Betty. I banged out another page or two of ball-grabbing hilarity. But, oh no. Life gladly took my efforts on top of Mount Son-of-a-bitch and threw them over the side.
My computer and the FWTC server decided to have a pissing contest. It didn’t matter who won, because I lost. FireFox told me that my session lasted a little too long, so it had to shut it down. So what? The FWTC server generously supplied by wordpress updates and saves every few minutes. I may lose that last joke about vagina hockey, but I can add it once I reopen the file. See? Easy!
Firefox decided it was imperative that I leave the website’s dashboard IMMEDIATELY! Something got its panties in a bunch and it wanted to shut the whole fucking system down. Alright. Fine. I’ll just click “save” on the dashboard and Bob’s your uncle. Wait a second…
What in fuck’s name just happened? the WordPress dashboard won’t let me save my work. In fact, it’s just staring at me like a retarded kid during a school bus ride. I click “Save” once. I click it twice; the little bastard just stands there. The “Save” button doesn’t give a shit about me or my needs. I can’t go forward, because Firefox won’t let me. I can’t reason with the dashboard, because it, flat-out, wants to see me in a rage that will take the house and half the block with it. Hmmm. The back arrow isn’t all grayed out. It’s my only choice, I guess. Otherwise, I’m going to be sitting in front of this fucking computer forever.
So, as I usually say when cars, computers, alcohol, and kids are concerned, Fuck It! The back arrow is my friend. It has to be. I just lost a day’s work here. Something has to still be hanging around on one of the previous windows. Right?
FUCK! That sure as hell didn’t work! It skipped a few dozen pages and took my ass to a page visit from two days ago? Why? Who’s fucking with me? One of the greatest masterpieces of all times is getting shit-canned because, the cyber-world is being a little bitch. All I wanted to do is complete this article, get it copy edited, then click “send.” BAM! Off to the next.
Well, when there’s hope, there’s someone to kick you in the head with an iron boot! I backtracked all the previous versions of my article. WordPress makes it relatively easy to compare and contrast versions just in case you want to include that line about that fat lady being arrested for causing a ruckus (to all you motherfuckas- sorry, I was channeling Busta Rhymes for a second) on that quiet car on that Amtrak train going from Oakland, CA to Salem, OR. I can’t quite remember if I called her a “douche bag with a phone attached” or “illiterate, obnoxious fat ass.” So, I go back into my archives (or versions as WordPress calls them) and check the older saved versions. That would have worked on any other day. Today is not any other-fucking day.
The most recent version that was saved was waaaaay back when I first started the article. It had a title and the by-line. That’s it. I was miffed. Maybe, a tad upset. Fine! I threw my keyboard out the window.
But, I couldn’t let my loyal fans (fan?) down! I diligently pieced together the article, calling upon my photographic memory to fit the puzzle together. After a couple of hours I was stoked. Screw the last version of the article! This one is IT! THIS ONE! It’s funnier, more offensive, and more ROODE than all the other versions combined. I AM ALL THAT IS MAN!
I hit “save” and sent a message to Tresckow that my future Nobel Prize worthy article was ready for copy editing. Now all I had to do was sit back and wait for the final product; a few funny pics here and there, some grammar correction, maybe a new variation on the term “ball sack…” That’s right, Jack. I was sitting pretty.
Somehow, some way Tresckow managed to fuck it up. Who the hell knows what happened? He hit the wrong key? Spilled whiskey on the keyboard? Called the server a reach-arounder? In any event, once again, my article was thoroughly punched in the taint. Half of it disappeared like in a bad Chris Angel sketch (sort of redundant). What I was left with was the original half of the article I lost a day before. Whether I was sabotaged, because of jealousy of my AWESOME writing skills or the server really wanted to dick me over; one thing was very clear:
It’s time to re-visit Roode’s complete and utter hatred of marketing mascots.
First off, let me tell you how happy I am that the end of this godforsaken year is in sight. I am sure I can speak for my wife when I say 2010 has been ten pounds of shit in a five-pound bag. Of course, I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. I have no doubt that many of you were slapped in the face with the used toilet paper of life. Somehow, that makes me just a bit happier. Not that misery loves company (not JUST that), but because I generally wish ill upon mankind. Hey, the ill will has to start somewhere. Why not with people I know?
Before I go on, let me just say that I apologize for sending a form letter. Everybody that writes one of these year-end Christmas letters says that. I mean it. I didn’t want to write a letter at all. I, personally, don’t want you people in my shit. The only thing I care less about than your life is telling people about mine. While I’m apologizing, I might as well say that some of these letters are printed on the back of some old STD informational forms and flyers from World War II I found in a dumpster. I don’t have the money to spend on neat, clean sheets of paper. We’re not all made of money. I think you’ll find the ominous VD exam posters particularly festive.
I suppose this is the point where I have to offer updates on my family and such. In order to avoid typing more than I have to, I’ve put it all in bullet point form.
- I was laid off by my employer
- My previous place of employment burned to the ground
- I was arrested for suspicion of arson
- I, recently, ran for public office- running on the “pistol whip your child” platform
- I was beaten soundly by my political opponent
- My political opponent’s home burned to the ground
- I was arrested for suspicion of arson
- I applied for several jobs in the area, but nothing panned out
- Several places of business in the area burned to the ground
- I was arrested for suspicion of arson
- I’m working on becoming an alcoholic
- Tried to join the fire department, but didn’t make the cut
- Ironically, the local fire department burned to the ground
- I was arrested for suspicion of arson
- I joined the police force.
- The local police station is standing and fire free
- We got a cat
The only good thing about 2010 is that it was full of valuable life lessons for me. For instance, did you know that most convenience stores hand out free packs of matches? They’re great for a multitude of things; lighting candles, making campfires, and burning evidence.
Another important tidbit of knowledge I gathered is how to properly make a Molotov cocktail. It’s easier than you think. It’s amazing what you can do with packing peanuts and the proper mixture of kerosene and tar.
Perhaps, the most amazing thing that has happened in 2010 is the fact that I’m still married. Aside from the wife’s annoying tendency to be a perfect human being, she has been very supportive of my struggles this year. She has also been quite useful for the occasional alibi and no longer bothers asking questions when I come home covered in soot. Although, the internalizing of all that stress could, conceivably, manifest itself into some sort of brain tumor down the road. I guess we’ll find out.
This year has been the Road Runner to my Wile E. Coyote. And that fucking Acme mail order company keeps screwing me over. But, ultimately, I am to blame. I keep ordering their defective and fucktarded products thinking that “THIS TIME” I’ll finally get that feathered road running fuck.
I can hear you judging me now. How disturbing. A grown man who wants to bone cartoon characters. First off, you judgmental prick, it wouldn’t be “boning.” It would be banging. The difference is subtle, but it’s there. Secondly, this is just all theory. Hot is hot. If the opportunity ever arose that either 1) you found yourself in cartoon form and able to knock water-color boots with the animated hottie of your choice or 2) you were able to blur the real world/cartoon world boundary and do some of the inter dimensional nasty.
There are just some two-dimensional girls on the tube a guy wouldn’t kick out of bed for eating crackers. No, not the two-dimensional girls you see on E! or other mindless television programming like Rock of Love . Venereal disease ridden yeast oozing frat whores can’t touch any of these animated honeys.
there drawing their personal R rated fantasies of a cartoon mouse.
Hey, I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. Lois is a hot redhead with one hell of a computer animated body. She’s into S&M, bondage, and the occasional cocaine binge. I’m not making this shit up. It’s all in the series.
The research team had no problem coming to a consensus with Lois. She’s that wild MILF that has no problems twirling around a stripper pole at night. Ryan was particularly adamant about her “boneability” factor. Hey, don’t give me that look. It’s a scientific term, just like bangtastic or humpalicious.
The only thing that took away from Lois’ bangable factor was that she has three kids. One way or another, we’re thinking some elasticity was lost in the fun zone along the way.
We are sort of baffled how she ended up being married to a buffoon. Yes, there are chubby chasers out there. Are there functional retard chasers too? If there are, that opens up a lot of opportunities for some of the research team.
Oh, yea. If your first response to the “We are sort of baffled how she ended up being married to a buffoon” line from above was something like “I don’t know, Roode. Let’s ask your wife,” I hope you catch gout you fucker.
2: The Princess of Hyrule/Zelda- Legend of Zelda
*Alcohol consumed during the research process: Vodka
After deciding that beer was for chumps, we started downing vodka. We kicked around a few more animated cuties, before Phil brought up the old Legend of Zelda television series that aired every Friday on The Super Mario Bros. Super Show in the late 80s. Hmmmm, intriguing. All of us downed another shot of vodka and mulled it over.
[Yes, in this pic, Zelda is high beaming. Hey, I didn’t draw it.]
Yes! Absolutely! Now it all came back to us. Zelda was hot! I don’t know what the hell the animators were thinking when drawing this bangable cartoon Betty. Many a Third World tracer had a stiffy while diligently cranking out the animation cells for the weekly show. It almost made up for the shitty wages DIC was tossing to them.
In this cartoon, Zelda was more than some stuck up princess locked in a tower somewhere. That dumbass just sat there waiting for someone to rescue her. Shit no! This Zelda was proactive; going on adventures with Link because, she knew that elf dipshit would fuck it up alone.
As young boys journeying to manhood, having a shapely, active, and oh so nimble blond to watch on TV was friggin OK with us! It was our version of porn damn it! She had a better rack than most of the girls we knew in the real world at the time.
That made even me feel dirty.
Link didn’t even want to be there. His entire motivation for putting forth the effort to thwart Ganon was to get a kiss from Zelda. For our purposes, we decided “kiss” meant using his sword to penetrate Zelda’s secret treasure.
But, um, we’d like to watch her sleep for a little longer..
3: The Black Cat- Spiderman animated series
Anyone who watched the 1994- 1998 version of Spiderman, the Animated Series should be familiar with the character Felicia Hardy. Yes, she’s another cute cartoon blond. But, her alter ego, the Black Cat gave all of us a new standard for female cartoon hotness. Not to mention another way we could defile the cartoon world with our sick and twisted male minds.
About ten minutes after we traded up from vodka to whiskey, James made a fantastic philosophical proclamation. The Black Cat was groin grabbingly hot. Shit, look at her. That outfit was made for form AND function. What better way to incapacitate the villain than by wearing a get- up that all but promised to suffer a wardrobe malfunction? We imagine that a few bad guys had problems standing up and just surrendered after a quick bathroom trip and a cigarette.
It wasn’t even just her look that got her on our scientifically compiled list. Her constant double entendres, sexual innuendos, and all out aggressive sexual behaviour helped knock the ball out of the park. After a minute or two of the “deep soul-searching in this clip from “Spiderman- Web of Shadows” you’re not sure if she’s prodding Spiderman to throw away the mask and run away together or get him to sling his web in her secret hideout.
This is based on a kid’s show? How many super heroines wear costumes tight enough in the crotch to sport camel toe? Not enough, damn it! We have a feeling that more than a few young men wore out their VCRs pausing and slow motioning the tape when the Black Cat’s scenes were up. Not that we would know anything about that.
4: Rogue- The X-Men Animated Series
Somehow we went from single malt whiskey to cheap bourbon. But, with the switch, came a new entry into our scientific research. That’s right, this is STILL scientific research. This is all in the name of science! Stop being judgmental!
In 1992, FOX blessed us with X-Men the Animated Series. This show was arguably the pioneer of animated comic book cartoons. Why? It did stay pretty faithful to the comic plot. Not that we cared. When the research team reviewed all the available data (drank), Tom postulated a hypothesis. This series was successful because Rogue was built like a brick shit house.
Alright, I feel like I’m losing you now. Let me take you back to 1995. This show was in its prime. Story lines were finely crafted; the characters well defined. What mattered even more than character development and story arcs? The fact that the cartoonist decided that Rogue should have the body of a porn star.
We’re beginning to think that every animator/cartoonist/artist has a hardwired need to draw female cartoon characters that will increase that chances of male viewer pitching a tent. That’s what we call developing a loyal fan base.
Rogue was sassy, impervious to most types of harm, and could beat a guy to death with the Rock of Gibraltar. There is no part of that last sentence that isn’t a turn on. Why do you think Gambit kept trying to get in those ridiculously tight spandex pants? Sure, Rogue could absorb his powers, potentially killing him. Quite frankly, it would be worth a life force draining or pelvis crushing to get some of that action.
5: Belle- Beauty and the Beast
By this time, we were drinking rye straight from the bottle. Ryan may have vomited all over Tom’s shoes. It’s also a sure bet that someone was just in his boxers at this point. I’m just not sure which one of us it was. Amazingly, we were allowed to continue our important research.
No self respecting man has ever seen Beauty and the Beast the whole way through. Somewhere between the singing furniture and realizing the portly mantel clock butler was really the even portlier Major Charles Emmerson Winchester from M*A*S*H, we bailed.
The only thing any of us remembered was Belle, the hot little peasant brunette that had a thing for hairy, tall men with anger management issues. It’s probably because she heard somewhere in the village that the size of a man beast’s tail is directly proportional to the size of his…forget it . This is crossing that whole bestiality line I drew in the sand earlier.
See? She’s equally pants tightening in naughty school girl wear or boob highlighting formal attire.
6: Erin Esurance- Esurance commercials
*Alcohol consumed during the research process: Grain
Our research was almost complete. We were missing one last animated vixen, however. At this time only James and I remained conscious. The rest of the research team was exhausted after a full night of scientific investigation. Some may have mistaken their exhaustion for being passed out under the pool table. That’s dedication damn it! That’s mother fucking commitment!
When we ceased to be able to function under our own power, we were hit with an epiphany. Erin Esurance was on television all the time. You couldn’t watch a show without her strutting her fine self around. She’s a double agent in a, you guessed it, skin-tight body suit. We really couldn’t ask for more. We really couldn’t speak without slurring.
Because James and I were drunk to the point of being color blind, I made a quick call to Tresckow to verify Erin’s cartoon boneability. His contribution of, “Oh, yeah, I’d get full coverage with her. In my PANTS!” substantiated our deduction. He then proceeded to launch a long soliloquy about the prospect of Ms. Esurance and Eliza Dushku in a three-way with… To tell the truth, I don’t really remember how the call ended. I hurled my phone at the head of who I thought was Oprah Winfrey. Don’t ask.
This mistress of insurance is athletic, flirtatious, and a closet dominatrix. She shoots out sexual innuendo after sexual innuendo. That’s our kind of woman! Well, animated woman. Shit, we’re past the point of semantics. She even has her own Chickipedia page.
The cartoonist doesn’t even bother attempting to hide Erin’s blatant ani-sexy-mation. It’s his intention to make us stop fast fowarding the DVR during the commercials. Nothing makes you want to buy car insurance like a tight bodied pink haired secret agent donned in what might as well be black body paint.
We would have no problem taking it out for Erin. Better yet, she can reach in and grab it. Just put her hand in there…
What? Reach in my glove compartment. That’s where I keep my insurance card. What did you think I meant? You’re a pervert. What did you think I was talking about? Sicko.
Esurance has even set up Erin’s World on their website. Essentially, you are in her apartment and can snoop around. You can watch her adventures on the flat screen, read her diary, go through her pics, and check out her Andy Warhol-ish art gallery. I know what you really want to know. No, there isn’t an option to root around her underwear drawer. We tried. We tried for hours.
Erin even has her own Chicipedia page. Did I mention that already?
A quick spin around the internet revealed that our petite car insurance fox is much appreciated by her fans. Maybe disturbingly so. The sheer volume of erotic/pornographic fan art [NSFW] is both impressive and frightening. As much as we would love to fill her insurance application… we are only willing to take it so far. We’re not total perverts.
Shit, we are.
Every few years, Hollywood comes out with a new fad based on decades old technology. New sounds, special features, inventing a media format, then making it obsolete by inventing another one the next year. Blu-Ray can suck sweaty shaft!
Perhaps, the flavour of the year is movies in 3D. It supposedly “enhances” the movie watching experience. The only enhancements I want at the theatre is butter substitute MIXED throughout my popcorn (enough of this dumping it on the top shit) and a means to silence bullshit slack asses who pull wondertardery during the film. You know those fuckers. They text each other, don’t turn their cells off, and conduct loud ass conversations as the movie progresses. It doesn’t have to be complicated. Maybe each seat is over a trap door. Once a douche bag starts cracking wise, the seat falls into some sub- basement where all of his kind are trapped. Forever. I’m envisioning a room that looks like the sub-basement bathroom from Saw.
Some of you may not be old enough to remember when black and white movies with sound were state-of-the-art. I don’t. How old do you think I am? Well, when the glorious break through of COLOR came into the picture, movies were more vibrant, which allowed for more creativity. Then, some douche bag (Ted Turner, maybe) thought it would be a great idea to colorize everything that has ever graced the silver screen. Well, not everything. I’m relatively sure “Birth of a Nation” is still in black and white. Come t think of it… that’s sort of funny. The KKK can either stick with the current version they show at bake sales and club sheet washing day and be forced to live with a BLACK and white film. See how black is all up in the craka’s face? The alternative is to colorize it. That’s right, COLORIZE; adding COLOR to the klan. Can’t a person get killed for bringing color to the group?
In the past year or so, movie directors and a large segment of movie nerds have been pissing in their pants over 3D movies. Oooooooooooo! 3D! People are convinced that it adds depth and dimension to the film. We’ve got news for you; if a movie’s plot sucks complete and utter sweaty platypus scrotum making it all pretty in three dimensions and whatnot isn’t going to make it any better. For fuck’s sake, Jaws 3 was in 3D and that piece of shit all but caused eye cancer. The only thing that made it bearable was the cinema viewing atrocity that followed it and subsequently killed the franchise.
OK, so adding a third dimension is supposed to add “something” to the experience. This shit really started picking up after Avatar stomped a mud hole in everyone’s ass. Blue cats! Now there’s rumor of George “piss all over the original Star Wars movies” Lucas is contemplating the re-working and re-release of the first three Star Wars movies (episodes 4-6 for the retarded) in 3D. Whooooohooooo! Now we get to see Greedo shoot first in 3D! Maybe they’re right and a third dimension will add another layer to the films. Another layer of suck, that is.
No matter how hard you try, most movies won’t be any better with an added third dimension. Some of them may even be worse. Don’t believe me? Well, how about:
1. The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou (2004)
Few movies exemplify suck as well as The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou. Here was a Bill Murray vehicle that was advertised as a quirky, ironic, and funny film. I fell for it. Lots of people did. Instead of quirky, ironic, and funny you got low grade version of Yellow Submarine , a baffling role for Jeff Goldblum, and Owen Wilson’s bullshit.
The only thing that could possibly make this theatrical barf bag worse would be if some smart ass with too much time on his hands turned it into a 3D shit sandwich. Why, with 3D you can see the indifference and trippy kindergarten art leap off the screen. The “action” scenes (read: horrible play acting) would slap the audience in the face with red hot mediocrity! When I say “audience” I mean that one guy asleep in the back of the theatre. Nevermind, don’t wake him. It’s best if has no memory of this pile of monkey spank.
2. Kazaam (1996)
If we, as a society, ever lost the words, “shit” and “abortion” Kazaam could go to bat for both. It is both a pile of fly drawing shit and a cinematic abortion the likes rarely seen since the beginning of film. If you’ve read any of the FWTC articles, you know that we like formulas. They just seem to put everything in perspective. Our scientists worked hard and came up with this mind-blowing, award-winning formula for you.
Shaq + complete inability to act + no-name cast + magic boom box – any semblance of talent
A film not even the Nazis would use on prisoners
So what is there, exactly, to 3D? Is Shaq the kind of person we want to add a third dimension to? If you said yes, I want you to bean yourself in the head with a shoe. Right now. NO! If anything, this piece of camel dung needs a dimension taken away. This bastard needs to be downgraded to 1D. That can be done, right?
If only Kazaam was this good.
3. Manos: The Hands of Fate (1966)
Servo and Crow start losing it at the 5:50 mark.
4 Stop! Or My Mom Will Shoot (1992)
If you’re too young to remember this movie, considered yourself blessed. You see, about 100 years ago, there was an action star named Sylvester Stallone. Fuck it. Rocky. Remember Rocky? He was the slightly functionally retarded boxer from Philadelphia. He both lost and won to the best name any boxer, fake or real, could ever have. Apollo Creed. Damn it, why can’t that be someone’s real name? It’s completely wasted in today’s society. Before you spout that little ice skating douche, Apollo Ono, I urge you to shut the fuck up. I’m not going to the trouble of repeating myself on this issue. Re-read, A Canadian on the 2010 Winter Olympics: AKA Televised Suck.
All that is beside the point. This was a “star vehicle” capitalizing on Stallone’s ever fleeting stardom and Estelle Getty’s, um… Golden Girls fame? That doesn’t sound right. Who the hell came up with this idea? Pairing an action star with one of the Golden Girls. Alright, I can definitely see Bea Arthur in an action movie; considering she had bigger balls than Stallone. In fact, why wasn’t that a movie? Now, I’m pretty pissed. That would have rocked hard! Damn it! I just high-fived my computer monitor due to the sheer awesomeness this movie would have created.
5. The Piano (1993)
The Piano is a chick flick that made me want to drill a hole in my head, but that’s not why it’s on the list. Stated plainly, no one wants to see Harvey Keitel’s junk in 3D.
6. Battlefield Earth (2000)
I don’t even know where to fucking begin with this genocide of a movie. Battlefield Earth was a Scientology suck-fest created to be a cinematic circle jerk for the followers of the all mighty L. Ron Hubbard. Shit, that just probably got FWTC and me on some sort of international Scientology hit list. That sort of shit has happened before.
They might have to invent a 4th dimension for this movie to suck any less. I’m not even sure what the hell that is. With our luck, it will involve smell. Nothing propels a shitty cult movie to stardom like being able to actually smell Barry Pepper’s pit stink. A 3D image of a rotund Forrest Whitaker isn’t going to do this film any favours. Moses smell the roses! I’m pretty sure this tard-a-thon is classified as illegal by the Geneva Convention.
6. I Know Who Killed Me (2007)
There used to be a time when Lindsay Lohan was hot. Think about it. When she was in Mean Girls she was supremely bangrastic. [I can say that, she was 18 when this movie was filmed. Therefore, that statement wasn’t creepy at all]
Then, I Know Who Killed Me was released. What the fuck happened? No, the change wasn’t gradual, but I expected some sort of movie magic to revert her to her former, hotter, healthier self. CGI that fucker! Nope. What we saw on the screen was a half step away from the Lindsay Lohan tabloid crotch shot or mug shot of the week.
Shit, I think I’m changing my mind. Maybe producing this in 3D would help. Not for the entire movie, but just the stripper pole scenes. With the sound muted. And all the non stripper scenes cut.
7. The Hottie and the Nottie (2008)
NO! Fuck this! I refuse to write anything remotely connected to Paris Hilton. This is bullshit! This article is over!
Son-of-a-bitch! Another celebrity favorite of mine bit the dust. Gary Coleman was my personal Jesus. OK, he wasn’t. Still, I liked the dude. There’s something about a guy that can play a 10 year old at the tender age of 25. But, shit, he was more than Arnold Jackson, damn it! I think. I don’t know. Fuck it.
Just imagine being stuck at 4 foot nothing forever. Sucks doesn’t it? Damn right it does. Poor bastard couldn’t get a break. Not only was he type-cast as “perma-kid” he had to work with Conrad Bain. This guy has been 70 for over 40 years.
Stupid cracka, thinking he can solve the problems of the black man by adopting Arnold and Willis. I guess I have to step back for a second. Bain is from Lethbridge, Alberta. Alberta is pretty much the Norman Rockwell painting of good old fashioned whiteness. I should know. I friggin lived 300 miles north of that shit hole. You try growing up with your parents constantly comparing you with Conrad Bain.
Who else are they going to measure a kid against in Alberta? Fucking Nickleback? Those posers are from the province. That’s just embarrassing to type. God, how I fucking hate Nickleback. Thanks, assholes. Alberta will forever be synonymous with musical suck.
Indisputable, scientific proof that every Nickelback song is every other Nickelback song and the vast majority of their fans are dumber than a bag of hammers.
Where was I before my hatred for Conrad Bain and Lethbridge consumed me? Oh, yeah; Gary Coleman. It wasn’t bad enough that NBC painted him into the child actor corner. Oh, no. Those money whores at ABC made a carbon copy of Arnold Jackson. They followed this tried, but true television rip off formula:
- drop the older brother
- keep the lopsidedly white cast
- Keep the dead parents
- Lose the big sister
- Add an extra ultra-white rich parent
Move that shit to Chicago instead of New York City and viola! You have a heaping pile of Webster. That little bastard Emmanuel Lewis stormed in with his little feet and grabbed the little adopted black kid spotlight. The little clone even got a god-damned series of Burger King commercials. Where the fuck was Gary Coleman’s fast food ad campaign? Shit no! The writers shafted Gary and only gave him a pedophile for his troubles.
Few knew Gary Coleman, the politician, the Simpson’s guest star, the Tony award parody, and the Hannah Barbara cartoon character. Wait, forget that last one. Being in a Hannah Barbara cartoon is nothing to be proud of.
Here’s some food for thought. Coleman placed 8th in a that race out of 135 candidates. Fucking 8th!
Gary Coleman is more than a bad grammar ridden catch phrase.
His guest appearance on The Simpsons was ass-kickingly Oscar worthy!
Well, it’s better than anything a bloated Steven Seagal has done.
Sure, we could spend hours talking about his disorderly conduct charges, car wrecks, financial lawsuits and that little thing about punching a woman while he was a security guard.
Or, his appearance on Divorce Court
That’s not how we want to remember him, damn it! Well, chances are that his legal circus of horrors is what we will remember the most. No, fuck that. There has to be something out there we can celebrate Gary Coleman for other than court appearances, and a shitty 80’s sitcom.
Earth Day. This is the day I’m supposed to prance around wearing shorts made of hemp and make out with trees. Right? No? No, wait, that’s Arbor Day.
… a day designed to inspire awareness and appreciation for the Earth‘s environment.
Frankly, I’m not sure how we couldn’t be “aware” of the Earth’s environment. It slaps us in the face every minute of every day. Driving to the store: environment. Cutting the grass: environment. Smoking a cigar while burning a pile of bald tires: environment.
The other part of the definition is “appreciation.” That’s not going to happen. Sorry, but appreciating something more than internet porn and schlitz with today’s society is too tall an order. The most recent generation doesn’t appreciate the gut-wrenching bullshit previous generations went through to ensure they can act like pretentious emo pricks. Little things like abolish slavery, win World War II, the Civil Rights movement, and the Industrial Revolution. We’re in the era of “Gimme Now, Gimme Fast.” For shit’s sake, kids, today, don’t know where the goddamn milk they put in the mochiatos comes from!
Hey, I’m AWARE that grain alcohol will make me go blind. I just don’t CARE. Awareness, from cancer to butt crack exposure, doesn’t accomplish shit. Great! Now people are aware that the environment exists and taking a dump in someone’s well water is a bad thing. So, what now? Being “aware” is more useless than having Ellen Degenerous judging on American Idol.
The trick is to get people to give a shit. I’m not talking about giving a shit on the same level as Ed Begley Jr. or the environmental equivalent to the Irish Republican Army, Greenpeace. There is a line between giving a shit and being an outright annoying and insufferable asshole. Especially when it seems like the biggest advocates are full of crap. We’re looking at you, Al Gore.
The preachers of green doctrine want us to believe that the individual has the power to reverse global warming, heal the rain forests, and re-freeze glaciers.
Get ready, here it comes; I’m going to rain all over your environmental circle jerk parade.
I recycle, because my wife is annoyingly saintly. As a single man, it was perfectly acceptable for me to use my apartment as a land fill/future archaeological artifact pit. Most people won’t recycle unless they legally have to. In areas without mandatory recycling, people seem pretty content mixing their plastics with used condoms and broken dreams.
Pabst Blue Ribbon fueled disappointment.
Take a look at your local airport next time you’re being pissed on by an airline. Most will have recycling bins next to regular old trash cans. People chuck their plastic bottles and paper in the trash can. The recycling bin is literally 1 inch away, but they STILL dump their recyclable shit in the refuse. Why? Because mankind is a species of lazy and thoughtless fuckers. Alright, MOST of mankind is a species of lazy and thoughtless fuckers. A healthy portion is just plain rock stupid. Even with step by step instructions, colorful maps, and cheerful muppets some people are still confused about the whole brown glass vs. clear glass deal.
You can completely green–out, reusing bacon fat and building a Rube Goldberg machine to separate your plastics from your used toilet paper. There is absolutely no guarantee that smelly mess you so painstakingly separated will make it to a recycling plant, let alone not be exported to a third world country with a healthy helping of medical waste. Take this epic bullshit play a couple of British recycling contractors [allegedly] pulled on Brazil. Worldwide Biorecyclables Ltd and UK Multiplas Ltd are accused of being liberal with their definition of plastic recyclables. In an alleged international act of douche-baggery, the companies threw in bags of blood and dirty syringes to round out the shipment. Hey, a little bit of medical waste never hurt anyone.
Back to the “awareness” vs. “giving a shit” issue. There is no contest. “giving a shit” is the only savior the green movement has. Look at this way: the U.S. was quite “aware” that the Japanese bombed the shit out of Pearl Harbor. If this country stopped with “awareness” Hawaii would belong to the Japanese today. Standing around the shipyard pointing as you mumble to your adjutant, “I am aware the Arizonais sinking and there are tons of men trapped,” won’t really help the situation “Why, yes commander, we are aware Japan has kicked us in the nuts and declared war.” See how being “aware” absolutely didn’t do a fucking thing? You know what did? “Giving a shit.”
“Giving a shit” isn’t content to point its fingers around and count the damage. “Giving a shit” wants, no, DEMANDS we get off our asses and do something about it. While that “awareness” pussy is sulking on the dock, aware that another cruiser is on fire and sinking faster than a fat chick from a Tru TV reality show in a tub of fudge,”giving a shit” said, “Mother fucker! Find out what’s going on, who did it, and their home addresses. Let all of us work as one to a common goal. We will be strong in our unity and resolve!”
No, man. “Giving a shit” needs more. Don’t get me wrong. To “give a shit” you have to, first, become aware of the situation. Then you move the fuck on to constructive action. If your first urge after absorbing the Earth Day doctrine is to show up with a bunch of sandal wearing, hairy, slacked jawed, wannabe hippies toting signs, then my friend, you are part of the problem. FWTC can’t help you.
Continuously bitching while holding signs and throwing environmentally friendly red paint on people to raise their awareness of animal abuse and shouting “You’re murders!” isn’t a way to make friends. It’s no where near the way to garner support for your cause. Especially if it’s during a thousand man BIKER RALLY. You, my hippie friend, will not accomplish jack. I mean other than getting your asses handed to you over and over again or being duct taped to the bitch seat of a biker’s ride, because his old lady couldn’t make it and you’re “close enough.” Ask this group what it got them.
Instead of regrouping and examining where they went wrong in their lives, the animal rights group became whinier and more self-righteous. In addition to the above treats, the soldiers in the “war against leather” found themselves being used as urinals, duct taped in fast food dumpsters, and encased in a silvery cocoon of duct tape in a tree (They truly are the Renaissance Men of duct tape). No, this is not a segment of Sons of Anarchy. If it were, it would be one of the coolest scenes ever! Shit! I just stopped writing to give myself a high five out of the sheer awesomeness a scene like that would bring. This shit went on for real this past January at the Johnstown, PA biker rally.
“But, Roode” I can hear some unwashed, meatless diet following, red paint spewing asstard say. “How can you say the individual doesn’t matter? Some of the greatest events in history have happened, because of 1 person.”
First of all, shut the fuck up. I don’t even know you, but I can smell you over the interwebs. For the rest of you, NO. Individuals haven’t made a shit sack worth of difference. On their own, that is. Caesar didn’t change ancient Rome by himself. He had an ass kicking, ball busting army to help. Harriet Beecher Stowe may have written one hell of a tome about the injustice of slavery, but it was a shitload of individuals that fought against it and, finally, a government that had to outlaw it. Lincoln may have wanted to outlaw slavery in the second half of your Civil War, but if he was the only one, his ass wouldn’t have been elected in the first place.
Not only does one person have to give a shit, tens of thousands have to. Finally, enough people will give a shit that the government HAS to take notice. This is the tricky part. The government can be “aware” of things until the sun turns into a bran muffin. They need to give a shit too or at least pretend for re-election. Or, in the case of the American Revolutionary War, get tossed out and replaced by a government that makes “give a shit” their motto (well, for 80 years or so). See? Giving a shit is a lot harder than it looks.
Let’s face it, giving a shit requires too much energy for most people. It’s a lot easier to bitch and moan while holding a protest line in front of a Carl’s Jr. You just stand there, chant ridiculous rhyming tag lines, and endure the police beatings that follow. So, you protesters and activists can go back to your display of awareness and hand holding. Maybe I’m wrong about all of this. I’m sure the Earth will be just fine for future generations with awareness, alone.