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.
Yeah, that’s right. Read that title again. It’s for fucking real, baby. I is a married chick, now. I have joined the ranks of domestic married women, everywhere. I am one with all the Suzy Homemakers the world over! Yeah! Betty Crocker and some shit.
Alright, we all know I’m not the poster chick for domesticity. When other little girls were planning their fairy tale weddings, I was drawing up plans to free Northern Ireland through a complex, yet sexy series of events. I never really gave two shits if I ever got married. Never wanted to, never cared, didn’t need the bullshit. Some girls go through, “this is the one” syndrome with every guy they date. Mine was more, “this is the one for now.” No, that’s not a polite way of saying I was a super horny sorority vixen. Fuck, it totally is.
Fuck it, whatever. Who are you to judge me? Damn it, stop being an asshole! Son-of-a-whore!
OK, sorry. I’m better now.
So, I’ve been seeing this guy for a good while. He’s manly, hot, and hung (too much info?). It started out as a semi-regular booty call situation. I say “semi-regular,” because it started off as a long distance relationship. He lived/lives in central Alberta and I live on the ass-end of humanity in Western Montana. That’s a good ten hours apart. But, Momma has a way of becoming a life crippling addiction to men, women, and a few transsexuals. It may not be a record, but the Canuck would drive the ten hours every time I flashed the booty call signal.
The Ren addiction became overwhelming. The hoser fell for me. That’s not anything new. I can’t go a day without someone writing a marriage proposal in the sky via old-timey skywriting plane.
What I didn’t count on and never really had to deal with was the addiction going both ways. This is some sappy shit. I apologize for being all lovey-dubby. It’s out of character for me, I know. Deal with it. I’ll go back to the normal sexist, self absorbed sex kitten you all have come to know and love with your very being.
I figured that after my long life on this planet, I might as well settle for this dumbass. He’s already demonstrated his complete and baffling devotion to me. Who hasn’t? But, as I mentioned, I sorta kiiiinda liked this guy in more than just my pants. Yeah, it’s the L word.
The OTHER L word. Momma fell in love. Fuck you! Why not? Why can’t it happen to me, too? Judgmental prick.
After some deep soul-searching, we decided to get hitched. The reason being.. I don’t have to justify our decision. Doode, I’m going to come through your computer and bitch slap you.
We planned to spend a portion of my spring break in Las Vegas for a super-dooper romantic trip. Hey! Vegas! Home of the drive through wedding. No hassle, no complications, no fuss. Just the two of us, a couple of witnesses, and an official that may or may not be an Elvis impersonator.
We were sold. What’s the point in waiting? No, there is no point. Momma knows what she wants. If she didn’t want it, it wouldn’t happen. I was determined. He was ecstatic for the privilege and honor of marrying me.
Bing, bam, boom; we had our suite at the Luxor reserved, the 20 minutes at the chapel reserved, and a whole assortment of wedding night lingerie to make him praise God for the blessing of being in my life. No wedding dress, tux, or reception. Simple, baby. Expressing our love by making the ultimate commitment in the eyes of our Irish Lord, Jesus O’Nazereth. We know full well that, being both Catholic [IRISH Catholic for me], death is the only way out after the deed is done.
Knowing that this was the only thing that a couple can do in Vegas that will not stay in Vegas, we figured it was a good idea to keep all of this a secret. Why? Well, we didn’t want to put up with a bunch of bullshit from family, friends, my army of devoted followers, etc. I say “bullshit,” to encompass all the possible reactions one can expect when proclaiming a quickie marriage in Vegas. That’s something you want to do after the fact.
The whole thing was set in motion. We were giddy, knowing the big secret. Don’t get me wrong, no one was going to start a war or disapprove vehemently of our union. Well, one person would. But, more on that fucker later. I wanted to do this on our own terms. I guess that’s some of the reason we felt drunk the entire time. That and, well, actually being drunk. But, at least half of that feeling was the complete control of our destinies. We had some awesome pre-wedding ceremony sex. I mean, awesome. Fuck… earth shattering super banging. I think it was the worst kept secret in the entire hotel.
We went to the hotel chapel, had a short run down of what was going to happen, added the cost to our hotel bill, then pulled the trigger. It was easier than getting a gun permit in California. We were Mr and Mrs Whatsits. That intoxicating feeling we had before our wedding just EXPLODED to the nth degree. The Luxor comped a dinner and $100 worth of gambling chips. That’s it. It was awesome. We had rings and just glowed with excitement. Oh yeah, we fucked each other stupid in private and public places.
It may not have been a traditional wedding, but it was OUR wedding set at our speed. We partied everywhere! We took in some burlesque shows, some dirty version of Little Bo Peep with Holly Madison, a topless comedy club, some gambling, and then more things that involved women without tops. It was a recurring theme on our trip.
Before I go any further, I feel the need to debunk any unauthorized rumors floating around. I know “Ren got married,” means different things to different people. This is rumor control; here are the facts:
- I am not pregnant
- He is not pregnant
- We were NOT drunk during the ceremony
- This isn’t part of a Witness Protection Program deal
- I AM NOT PREGNANT. Drop it. Fuck!
I think that may have crashed Facebook for a few hours. The amount of cell phone and internet traffic coming from Edmonton, Montana, Idaho, Washington, and Northern Ireland was enough to completely jam up the works, A´ la major terrorist or natural disaster. When you get a bunch of Irish Catholics who have been duped into not participating or attending a wedding of one of their own; it’s war.
We enjoyed our remaining few days off the grid. That is, until my mother informed us that she took it upon herself to book a flight from Las Vegas to Spokane, the nearest grown up airport Northern Idahoans have. I pointed out to her that we didn’t have a car. We planned on flying right back home and get my ride from the airport lot. No worries. Once we land in Spokane, there would be “a car” waiting for us. OK, fine. I owe my family a little leeway here. They want to meet my new husband; their new kin. The husband, on the other hand, smelled a set up.
The Husband, some how, must have heard stories about my family that didn’t put us in a very peaceful and understanding light. Every family has their history. Some were involved in bootlegging during Prohibition. Some were involved with assembling explosives and blowing up columns of British trucks. So maybe there are still some out there fighting for the Cause.* Of course, it may have something to do with some of my family being members of a fairly known MC in those parts. I grew up with bikers. That explains my charm and precociousness.
*Editor’s Note: No one in 21st century Northern Ireland can pinpoint what “The Cause” means. There are a dozen or so out there. Take your pick. Find one that feels good to you! Don’t like it? Trade it in for a brand new cause!
The entire flight, The Husband was preoccupied with facing his own death a lot sooner than he hoped. Getting our bags at Spokane, we meandered to the ground transportation area. A large man in a black suit held a placard with our names written in flowing fashion. OK, so maybe a scene or two from “The Transporter” popped into my head.
We got into this black town car that drove us all the way to my parents’ house. I spent the 45 minutes assuring him that he was creating a scenario in his head that couldn’t possibly play true in real life. [note: I was completely fucking wrong] I was excited! I’m a newly wed and so pumped to show off The Husband, our rings, and share all the stories. The house was coming in sight. I guess my smiling and giddiness was a little infectious. The Husband, for a moment, had forgotten to be scared. Not to worry. That wouldn’t last.
Our car made the last bend and my parents’ home came into view! Wow, there sure are a lot more cars in the driveway than I thought would be in the middle of a weekday… in the middle of the week. Well fuck me running, there’re like a dozen motorcycles hanging around the driveway, too. Oh, it’s a welcome to the family party! We got out of the car and made our way to the front porch to find twelve angry-looking men in MC kutten with club colors standing on the porch like it was a parade review. Among these big, angry cowboys of the road were two of my cousins, Reece and Aodh. I knew The Husband’s train from funtown was now heading for Ass Beating Butte.
Nothing was said. They grabbed Husband and threw him in a van, then took off like the wind. A wind that just kidnapped my brand new husband. None of us would see him for a good 24 hours. But, whatever. My Da was grilling steak and had an open bottle of whisky for his little girl. I’m sure The Husband was fine.
Oh, come on! Stop thinking the worst. He didn’t die. They just pushed him off a bridge. Come to think of it, that is something a guy just has to go through in order to prove his worth. It wasn’t anything too illegal. A long time was spent berating him and pissing all over his manhood. Figuratively. No one was actually pissing on his dick. That’s just fucked up.
*Note from photo research staff: There are just some illustrations we refuse to find.
They tied his foot to a cinder block and asked him if he could fly. Their theory was, that if Husband really loves me, he wouldn’t be afraid to take a leap of faith. Then, without an answer, they pushed him off. Aaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrgggggghhh! Splat.
No. There wasn’t a “splat.” With all the commotion, Husband didn’t realize that the brothers hooked him up to a bungee dealy and not a cinder block. He bounced back. His jeans may have been a little more urine soaked than normal, and I am damn sure the boxers he had on had to be burned. They returned him the next day, drunk, sweaty, and dry heaving. Back off, ladies. He’s MY MAN!
That’s sort of how it went over the next several weeks. My mother is very adamant that we have a Catholic ceremony to “strengthen our … something or other.” Something about getting officially married in the eyes of the Church. Now, that will be fun to coordinate. Good luck to them figuring out how to get two families 1000 miles apart to come to a consensus on something like this. Oh well, don’t care. Just more alcohol and meat products for me. I did manage to spend a good week or so with The Husband’s family in Edmonton. As expected, they fucking love me. I’m so charming. Tee hee. Even one of his older brothers was completely enamored by me. I fucking ROCK Alberta!
Oh, that guy I mentioned earlier in the article that would lose his shit when he found out Husband and I got married. It’s the middle child of the family. He is known by many names; newfie, tool, anger-man, the tirade king… But, we here at FWTC call him Roode. That’s right bitches. I married into Roode’s family. Try to stop me now, motherfucker! Your nightmare is now a reality! I’m on the inside, entrenched. There is no way to escape me. Roode, my big brother-in-law, life as you know it has ended. Enjoy!
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:
I enjoy the Terminator franchise. Alright, “Rise of the Machines” left a bad taste in my mouth, but I could stand it. Many a person via comments section, blog, or pointless water cooler discussion wax philosophical about the Terminator Universe. How many possible timelines are there? What was the Catherine Weaver T-1000 planning? If Kyle Reese dies after Judgement Day would it really matter? Would John Connor cease to exist or would that timeline just play out? I don’t care a bloody bit about any of these questions. I just want to know why the bloody hell John Connor insists on making the same shit mistakes. Isn’t he paying attention?
I am not really complaining about the versions of John Connor in the first three movies or in the television series. Those incarnations seem to have their collective shit together. Well, the John Connor of T3 was a whiny little bitch. I would embrace genocide if he were the only hope for mankind.
The worse offender is the John Connor of “Terminator Salvation.” Wait. Stop right there. Don’t complain that I’m late to the party with this one. Yes, the film came out an eon ago. It’s been playing non-stop on the premium channels. So keep your smart ass comments about my timeliness to yourselves.
Seeing it so many times got me to thinking that this John Connor is not a man groomed his entire life to lead the human resistance against the holocaust-happy machines. This bloke has seen, fought, and been pursued by these rampaging killbots before. So why the screaming fuck does he act like this is his first rodeo? Things like:
If one thing has been hammered into our heads repeatedly, it’s that the terminators don’t sweat small arms fire. Shotgun blasts? Sure, it will damage their pretty faces, but it won’t really phase them. What about rifles or machine guns? It depends on the calibre. It’s painfully obvious that your basic beer can shooting rifle isn’t going to do a damn thing but piss the metal harbinger of death off. Something attached to the side of a military-grade aircraft will do the trick. We know this. The terminators know it. Why does JC keep forgetting?
In the first few scenes of T4 we see John-John crawling out of an over-turned Huey. Then, WHAMO; a T-600 (or T-700; it’s all a little dodgy) with its legs blown off starts throwing him around. What’s the first thing Johnny does? He shoots it in the bloody head with a wimpy pistol. Seriously? You essentially grew up with virtually indestructible man-shaped machines and you still pull this bollocks? Someone didn’t pay attention during terminator school.
The Savior of Mankind tries it again toward the end of the film. He kicks his firearm up a notch to a relatively small calibre automatic rifle… expecting different results? Or, did he just say “sod it,” and figure he needed to use the ammunition anyway. Waste not want not. The little woman back home may be cross if Johnny Cakes comes home with leftovers.
2. He keeps trying to hit, smack, and punch the terminators
Right, then. This makes even less sense than #1. Toward the end of the film, after the prototype T-800 bursts from the cell and wreaks all sorts of havoc upon Connor’s person, an unbelievable thing occurs. He bitch slaps the CGI Arnold with the butt of his rifle. Isn’t this the equivalent of punching your concrete floor? At what point during his life did he learn that the Achilles Heal of the murder-death-kill bot was a stiff slap to the face? Was that a deleted scene in the second film?
With all that God-like knowledge J-to-the-C has about… well… everything, you would think he would remember this basic principle. Sissy-slapping the machines only makes your inevitable beat-down more pathetic. I’m not saying that he should just lie there and accept that his skull is about to be crushed like a peanut shell underneath Herman Goering’s patent leather jackboot, mind you. It’s just that this method of defense is slightly less effective than launching a barrage of “Yo Mama” jokes.
3. EVERYTHING is a trap
Is your young-adult father on a SkyNet kill list? Has a bloke who’s really a prototype infiltration unit shown up out of nowhere to help? Resistance Command hand you a foolproof plan to turn off the machines? Congratulations! You’re about to be buggered. You don’t need to be Admiral Akbar to realize it’s a trap.
Everything‘s a trap. JC knows this. Mama Connor told him via outdated audio cassette tape. The machines are cold, calculating sods. Come on, Johnny Appleseed! You’ve been fooled a few times before. Remember your injured mom calling out for your help in the smelting plant? TRAP. Remember the T-850 in “Rise of the Machines” telling you it was able to get close and kill you because of your emotional attachment to the model? TRAP. This isn’t news, John-a-ling-a-ling. What are the odds of a SkyNet built and programmed machine practically delivered to your door is going to help you rescue your pop without it being a trap? So what are you supposed to do? “He has to save his father or he’ll never be.” Firstly we don’t really know that. That’s using “Back to the Future” temporal math. If you use Star Trek Mirror Universe math, killing off dada while Connor is an adult may not effect things at all. JC already exists. There’s nothing written in stone that he HAS to send pops repeatedly back in time to protect and bump uglies with mother. For fuck’s sake, he already knows all the bloody moves the machines are going to make.
But, I suppose if you want to play it safe Connor-mania could launch an all out search mission for daddy, then lock him in a closet for ten years. Here’s an idea, call for him during one of your fireside chats. Tell him to meet you at the burned out Starbucks. Too risky? Well you know he lives in Los Angeles. There are three people left in that burned out husk of a city. Kyle isn’t going to be hard to find.
4. If you can’t blow the bloody thing up, just run
As I covered in #1, anything short of a 80 calibre or a Howitzer isn’t really going to do jack. Sure, it may make you feel like you’re accomplishing something, but in the grand scheme of things it’s just wasting everyone’s time.
Here comes mechanized death. You have an axe, lead pipe, and nunchucks. What do you do?
A: Break out your finest Bruce Lee moves.
B: Smack its head around with the lead pipe and hope it gets dizzy and has to lie down.
C: Use the axe to smash your way through the door and get the hell out of there.
If you chose anything but C, you are destined to die a horrible, painful death. It makes as much sense as starting a fight with a motorcycle club armed with a juice box and fuzzy dice while wearing ONLY a speedo.
Run! Don’t think. Just run. Unless you have a portable rocket launcher and/or a small thermonuclear device, just beat cheeks out of there. There’s no shame in it. You’re a pansy if you run away from a bee. You’re just being realistic when running away from a soulless killing machine that wants to rip out your spine.
Running away from this = PUSSY
Running away from this = SENSIBLE
IF there’s a sequel to “Salvation” I do hope they put together some sort of Idiot’s Guide for fighting terminators and other machines that want you dead. These little facts are like the laws of physics. They do not change. They cannot be changed. You look like an asshole attempting to change them.
For decades, hell, for centuries adults have uttered the same phrase over and over again. For the Greeks it was Εκείνοι δεκάρα παιδιά κάθαρμα! For the Vikings it went a little like Þeir sem fjandinn börn fantur! The Germans, the planet’s nation of Hallmark card poets gutturally spitting out their words use the phrase Jene verdammten Bastardkinder! We English speakers just say: Those damn bastard kids!
I hated it when “old” people told me to do shit. “Don’t run.” “Don’t play in the street.” “Don’t smash a land line telephone junction box.” And my favorite, “Don’t gouge obscene messages on someone’s car,” even though you assumed it was a gesture of trust and understanding.
But, then I grew older. I’ve matured. More or less. OK, I still think it’s hilarious when I shove someone’s [read: Ren] camera into a mini bar fridge and lock it. I still giggle like a 5-year-old when I watch Adult Swim. And, as you read this, my latest mission in life is to see a movie about a supernatural, mass murdering tire.
A complete and utter conspiracy that this movie wasn’t even nominated for that piece of shit farce that is the Academy Awards. It’s because Robert the Tire is black, isn’t it? Fucking racists.
But, I am fully aware that in the eyes of the US federal government that I’m an adult. I’ve got a mortgage, car payment, gym membership, and all that good shit grown ups have to shell out money for in order to sit comfortably with society. Hell, even if you wanted to start your own militia in the middle of Montana somewhere you would still have to cover your initial expenses. You work hard to set up a state-of-the-art security fence with sensor flood lights and barbwire. That bunker isn’t going to dig itself. Next thing you know, some jackass is going to charge you $50 a gallon to haul all the necessary armor and collapsible guard towers to your Bartertown that will surely be a feature story on CNN one day (if you play it right).
Apartment or estate, condo or compound in the middle of Idaho; there is one common denominator. Everyone is protective over what they have. Stuff breaks. Sometimes it’s shit that can wait a few years until it REALLY has to be fixed or replaced (screen doors, toilet seats, starter motor). Other times it’s shit that needs to be repaired ASAP. We’ve worked hard on our hovels and already have two strikes against us. With all the snow storms, heat waves, floods, and Yeti attacks, the last thing any of us needs is to have some snot nosed little bastard breaking our shit, because he’s bored.
One fine morning in the Tresckow home (read: way too fucking early) I was woken up out of my normal drunken stupor after a night of mixing whiskey and vanilla extract. Apparently, our kitchen window was broken. OK. Fine. I’ll do something Roode never does and take a deep breath. I won’t jump to the worst conclusion. There was one hell of a windstorm the night before. Shit was flying everywhere.
It was completely reasonable that the wind from hell slammed something into our window just so Mother Nature could have a good laugh. Suck a dick, Mother Nature. I had hope that was the case and I wouldn’t have to start hating so early in the morning. I mean, if I start hating before 10 AM I get burned out by 3. It throws me off kilter. But, I should have known better.
I went outside to find the branch or squirrel, or whatever that the wind sent smashing into our window. My plan was to set it on fire and damn it to hell. Sifting around through the rubble of broken glass and morning sleep, I saw it there. Staring at me. Mocking me. It was a big ass rock. Not just any rock. It was a throw’in rock.
Let me clue you in on some of the mouth-breathing fucktarded children that roam around the neighborhood. They do not deserve to exist. They walk in the middle of the street, laugh at on-coming cars (surely 2 tons of SUV can’t hurt them), and break shit when they’re bored. You know those big boxes Verizon uses to carry land phone lines and the internet? Those shit grinning dicks demolish them on a weekly basis. Writing racial epithets on the side of someone’s house? We’ve got that too. Throwing rocks through car windows? We fucking have that! In fact, the first week we moved into this little paradise, one of those snot flinging dipshits broke the rear window of our truck. And, before you smartasses say something about my winning personality being a magnet for rocks, keep in mind that we were in the house for less than THREE DAYS when this happened. Trust me, three days isn’t enough time for the Inner Tresckow to shine. Mother f’in Theresa could have just moved in. Those shit stains didn’t know either way.
I know what you’re thinking. No, I don’t live in downtown Beirut or somewhere along the Gaza Strip. It’s your average neighborhood filled with a mixture of hard-working people, retirees, assclowns, and bored groups of free-range children. These ape shits wander around the neighborhood like it’s their job. Their parents don’t seem to give a shit. Ma and Pa are nowhere to be found when little Jimmy is taking a nap in the middle of the street or when Leroy is playing a rousing game of “dump the trash cans.” Nice parental guidance, cornholes. Prepare for the day when the only time you get to talk to your delinquent is through a sheet of plexiglass while he’s sporting an orange jumper.
The rock still sit there. I’m not sure why. Maybe as a reminder that the next generation is full of assholes. Maybe I’ll use it as a weapon. It’s quite possible that I’m too lazy to pick it up. If I knew how Voo Doo worked, I’d stick it with pins or something on the off-chance the jackass who threw it end up in blinding, mind crippling pain.
It’s not just the damage to the window that put chocolate pudding in my trousers. It’s the fact that I had to call all God’s creation to report it. I’m not paying for this shit. You have to call your homeowner’s association, insurance company, the police… Oh, yeah. The police. Maybe, if they applied themselves and really worked hard, they could give even less of a shit. Here’s a hint that the police have no interest in your little vandalism problem: they take your report over the phone. You don’t know what the hell is really happening on the other end. For all I know, the desk jockey was washing his taint while occasionally saying, “Uh-huh.”
I, suppose, the lesson I learned is that today’s kids can roam free and do whatever they want without any consequences. And, I’m still not allowed to shoot them. How is this fair?
*Editor’s note: Ren was last seen preparing for her Saint Patrick’s Day dumbassary Thursday morning. She instructed us to publish this “farewell” letter in the event of her disappearance. Since we haven’t seen her for well over 24 hours, we figured now is as good of a time as any. That and Roode wants to get started deleting all her articles as soon as possible.
Dear friends, admirers, worshipers, family, and the various stalkers I’ve grown fond of,
If you are reading this, then I am already (circle all that apply) gone/dead/passed out/in Yakima/detained by Canadian authorities. I assure you that I was awesome until the very end. But, you would expect nothing less of me, your reason for living.
Saint Patrick‘s 2011 feels different from all the others in the past. I feel that I may not make it back. There is something in the air. Some sort of morose stillness envelops the town. It’s as if fate is telling me that this may be the Normandy of Saint Patrick’s Days. That and the $2 Jameson and $3 Guinness special I saw in the paper. Let’s face it, that’s just putting a lit match next to a whisky soaked powder keg.
As I prepare for what may be my last day (circle all that apply) on earth/ in Montana/in the United States/in the Pacific Northwest/outside of federal custody, a calmness washes over me. This is something I must do. If not for me, then for my Irish ancestors. Saint Patrick’s Day was never an Irish holiday. No, Micks don’t need to have a “holiday” as an excuse to drink. I mean, I’m drinking right now. Even so, the Irish are under a lot of pressure to show you wannabe Irish how it’s d0ne. We have to kick it up a notch. While you swill on Coors, we gulp Guinness. While you drink your Jack Daniels, we up the game with Shannahan’s. Long after your sorry asses are carted off to the ER to have you stomachs pumped, we’ve tapped our fourth keg. You’re fucking lightweight Irish posers is what I’m saying.
Sure, many of you will end up with a skull shattering hangover the next morning. I assure you, my kind is still fucking drinking. After you’ve spewed the technicolored yawn into your toilet (or in your roommate’s shoe), we’ve had our fifth bar fight… that morning. Your mortal way of killing your liver and drinking years off your life means nothing to us. We, as a people, need more. Much more.
Quick, ,where is the strangest/most awkward place you’ve ever come to after an all night bender? Shut up! I don’t need to hear it. I already know it’s lame. Unless your story includes ice skates, a Canadian Mountie, or something with a tennis racket and the windshield of a car, spare me. Amateur.
Anyhoo, what the hell was I saying? Oh yeah, I’m better than you. But, you already knew that. Don’t get me wrong, I love you little people. The obscene letters help get me through the day. I know it has been your privilege to know, nay, LOVE me. My absence will make your lives shallow and meaningless. Quite frankly, I’m not sure how you can go on without me.
Alas, I enter this Saint Patrick’s Day wide-eyed and packing a ton of Excedrin. It will be a battle of wills. On one side you have every drop of alcohol in the county. On the other, me; a little blonde Irish girl with big dreams. If I go down, I’ll go down fighting. Or, I may go down on one of those hot bartender chicks. I’ll do that before I go down fighting. Shit, I lost my train of thought now.
So, as you hear the news of my (circle all that apply) death/detainment/immigration/enlistment/crime against humanity by way of (circle all that apply) family/friends/co-workers/classmates/CNN/Interpol, please know that I went out MY way; yelling Gaelic curses and double fisting whisky bottles. Maybe there was a moose involved? I don’t know, my track record for drunken chicanery is pretty extensive.
So, always remember me. Don’t just remember me as a writer, a student, or a sex object. Remember me as awesome. And as a sex object. I like that one, too.
Póg mo thóin!,
PS: Of course, I could have just made an ass of myself and woken up in the lap of a mime (again). If that’s the case, disregard all the above. Well, except for the parts about me being awesome and a sex object.
Lest we forget:
FWTC Amnesia Lane: A Girl, Her Whisky, and an Irish Holiday
P.S. We are obliged to publish Ren’s emergency article in case we don’t see her again after this year’s Saint Patrick Day’s shenanigans.
By Abby K.
If I were to tell you Len Lesser died yesterday you would give me a blank stare. Then, if I told Uncle Leo died you would immediately open palm slap your forehead and say, “No! Uncle Leo? Say it ain’t so.” OK, maybe you wouldn’t say it exactly that way, but you know what I mean.
Len Less… ah screw it… Uncle Leo had a long and storied acting career. He was in Clint Eastwood flicks like, The Outlaw Josey Wales and Kelly’s Heroes. Remember? Come on! I can let Kelly’s Heroes slide, but if you never heard of The Outlaw Josey Wales , you’re either a particularly dainty woman or a castrated man.
Don’t feel bad. The majority of the Free World really only know Lesser as Uncle Leo. To tell you the truth, that’s good enough. No, he didn’t get Orson Wells spherical nor was he well known for his penchant for hookers and rock cocaine. He just, I don’t know, COMPLETELY BECAME ONE OF THE 20TH CENTURY’S BIGGEST PRIME TIME TELEVISION POP ICONS. Don’t agree? You’re lying. Quick, which one of these characters from Lesser’s career do you remember?
Or Uncle Friggin Leo?
That’s what I thought.
Uncle Leo was a character that stuck out in a sitcom that already had tons of quirky goofy ass one-dimensional circus clowns. That’s no small feat. Sure, he wasn’t in the main cast, having just appeared in 15 episodes. 15 out of 180 episodes. That’s nothing, it’s a speck of corn in the cow pie of life. But, those 15 episodes are among the ones we best remember. Why? Uncle Leo had it all; dashing good looks, a wardrobe to die for, and one of the best catch phrases of 90’s television. “Jerry! Hello!”
But, why did we take notice of our dear, precious Uncle Leo within the sea of Neumans, Kramers, Mickeys, and close-talkers? Was it talent? Gravitas? Yes. But, it was more than that. Only one word can sum it all up accurately. Genius. Uncle Leo was the Macbeth of our time. He was Rosencrantz and Guildenstern all wrapped up into one hunk of a thrift store sweater wearing man.
The real tragedy is that Uncle Leo never had his own spin-off series. Think about it. Episode after episode of “HELLO!” We would finally get to see Uncle Leo’s personal side. His sensitive side. His studly side. Hey, don’t be so quick to judge. That description was already more than Jersey Shore gives you and those hosers make millions for being stupid and VD ridden.
Look, all I’m saying is that growing up in Alberta didn’t exactly provide a girl with an ample supply of man candy. We had Eugene Levy while the US had David Hasselhoff (in his pre- cheeseburger/bathroom floor stage).
How was this fair? You tell me!
Maybe I was a traumatized child. I did see my father in a speedo once. I guess that pushed me into the strong, slightly mothball smelling arms of Uncle Leo. Look, don’t judge me. Funny is sexy.
Apparently, I’m not alone in my Uncle Leo worship.
That’s right, a tribute to Uncle Leo set to “Hello” by Lionel Ritcie. And you thought I had issues.
Safe home, Uncle Leo. Without you, life is meaningless and dark. We no longer have the bright light of your “hello” to warm ourselves by. I guess I’ll just nurse my crush on James Earl Jones.
Oh, yeah. That eases the pain.
It’s time to re-visit Roode’s complete and utter hatred of marketing mascots.