Tuesday, January 29, 2008

So Insanely Super

I love football. And commercials. Overall spectacle and grandiosity for no apparent reason? Count me in! So logic would dictate that I am absolutely geeked out of my bald little head in anticipation of the Super Bowl later this week... but oh, how logic fails us come the end of January.

It isn't that I dislike the Super Bowl. It's just that, well, I could care less. Because let's be honest, it's not about any of the aforementioned things above that I love. It is in fact, about nothing at all, and not in the amusing Seinfeldian way, either. It has nothing to do with football (the game is always a terrible blowout), nothing to do with entertainment ( it went from pop crap at halftime to geezer crap at halftime in the flash of a nipple), and nothing to do with funny commercials (Jessica Simpson likes Pizza Hut? That's hilarious!). It is the biggest collection of nothing, nobody's and never-should-haves on the planet, and the result is that the entire planet tunes in.

I understand that we're the biggest, richest country in the world, and that we can throw a party whenever we want. I'm well aware that football is our nation's most popular sport. And I'm all for having as many national holidays as we can muster (Saved by the Bell Appreciation Day? Anyone?). But seeing Howie Long interviewing Nick Lachey about his favorite Doritos ad while Willie Nelson soundchecks in the background for his duet with Hannah Montana as part of American Idol's Tribute to Ol' Dirty Bastard isn't super at all... it's just stupid.

Monday, January 28, 2008

The Dilemma

"I try not to call a guy a douchebag anymore, you know, at least until I get to know him."
- Brad Thorne, professional man of leisure

We've all been there. You're sitting at the bar with your buddy, having a drink, and in walks a beautiful girl, followed by some dude. And that's all he is; just some dude. He could be a rocket scientist or an insurance salesman. A trust-fund baby or a 9 to 5er. And yet, whatever redemptive qualities this man possesses, whatever positive effects he may currently have on society, his crime is clear: He is some dude with a hot girl, and that makes him a douchebag. You can hear the words flying out of your mouth as soon as you spot him, can't you? The mocking tones of your jealousy, formed like concrete and steadfast in their reliability. "What a DOUCHEbag!" you will say, emphasizing the first word with sincerity to gain the nodding approval of your drinking buddy. And you will mean it, every last syllable of it, but you won't know why.

And so the dilemma, dear friends, rears its ugly head once again. Why such a rush to judgment? Where has our solidarity with our fellow man gone? Is there really no greater crime, no more offensive blight on humanity, than enjoying the attention of an attractive female? Or better still, is it so repulsive to actively pursue such a woman in hopes of gaining her company?
The answer  lies in another simple but unsightly truth: The man is a douchebag not because he is with a fine specimen of the opposite sex, but because he is someone you don't know who is enjoying the company of said female. Only ourselves and our circle of friends are worthy of accompanying women of such high caliber, and everyone else be damned. 

But choose your words carefully, fella. There's actual douchebags with hot girls roaming around your fair city as we speak, and you're wasting all of your venom on some average joe who may very well deserve that fox on his arm. Save the verbal firepower for Mr. Muscle Beach with the faux hawk, or the dorm-room hero banging out the entire Dave Matthews catalog on his six string. The guy with the barb-wire tattoo and indecipherable chinese characters on his tight t-shirt? DOUCHEBAG. The normal dude with the hottest girl in the bar? LEGEND.

Thursday, January 17, 2008

My Teef Hurt

As I was sitting in the dentist's chair yesterday, having my gums scraped by a metal fish hook, I began to wonder why technology has completely abandoned this profession. There's people walking around with fully replicated synthetic limbs, sheep are being cloned, and lasers are everywhere but Dr. Evil's shark tank. Yet the dentist's office looks like some kind of medieval executioner's lair where you'll be drawn and quartered. What gives? Are dentists not medical professionals? Do they not receive medical training? I sumbit that they are, and they do, so bring the 'ol tool kit out of the dark ages and start demanding updates already. An educated guess would put the development of all these instruments of pain somewhere around the same time period that doctors were employing leeches to do some of their most important work. Call me crazy, but it doesn't exactly set me at ease when I sit down in a chair, look to my left, and see one of the set pieces from Hostel, only to be followed by the phrase, "Open wide."

And the tools aren't the only thing outdated. Even the toothpaste they use is some strange amalgamation of sidewalk chalk and sweet tarts. Is it too much to ask to get some Crest in the house? Those 4 out of 5 dentists recommending all these toothpastes might wanna get the word out a little better and start dishing some samples to their brethren, because I feel like I've just had my gums rubbed with tangy sand.

Monday, January 14, 2008


Please stop being attracted to me. Seriously. I know I’m nice and fairly easy to talk to, but it’s starting to become bothersome. I realize I’m handsome in a realistic, highly attainable sort of way, but now it’s downright annoying. I like being able to pick up my phone at will without screening the call. I enjoy reading email from people whom I’ve willingly given my address. Sorry, but if I’ve denied a friend request on one social networking site, I’m probably going to respond the same when you try it from five other ones. It’s not like I’ll have a lapse in judgment all of a sudden or conveniently forget that you’re insane. Inconsistency like that just isn’t my thing. Which means it probably won’t work out between us, because I’d be reminding you to take your meds all the time, and you’d want to keep your doses erratic, like you’ve always done. Hey, I get it. I have no right to try and change you. You’re beautiful just the way you are, and I’m sure you’ll find someone co-dependant very soon.

But you’re not going to find someone else while you’re driving by my house everyday. At this point, even my roommates won’t date you. Banging on the front door at 4 a.m. wakes them up too, you know.

New Rules

It's a new year, so it's time for some new rules...

Rule #1: No More "Cheesy Christmas Sweater Parties"
You've got 11 months to let this one sink in, so don't get all outraged if you threw one this year. Just don't do it ever again. I got invited to 5 of these things this past holiday season, including one that was a work party. I'm sorry, but when the theme hits the office extravaganza, it's no longer clever or ironic. Pick a new theme. ( Special exemption goes to Robin, Ian and Kelly's. Theirs is awesome.)

Rule #2: No More "Getting Crunk"
Again, no longer clever or ironic. I understand that there's a funny 'lil rapper guy, and he yells a lot, and he's got a pimp chalice, and he was on Dave Chappelle's show blah bah blah. It doesn't mean you need to respond to every Evite in your inbox by claiming how "crunk" you're gonna get (see following rule). Hearing white people say it is about as cool as a cold sore. Cut it out.

Rule #3: No More Evites
Yes, it's an email invitation. No, it's not neccesary. I struggled with this one myself because I actually enjoy writing those things ( and I'm damn good at it), but let's face it: they're pointless. Just send a regular email, give the neccesary information, and be done with it. Either you get a hundred people who respond and then don't show up, or you get no responses and a hundred people at the door. The unfortunate truth is that we all like to look at those things everyday until the party because we want to gauge our own popularity. Well guess what... if no one shows up, then you're not that popular. Wasn't that easy?

Rule #4: No More "Cougars"
Again, I struggled mightily with this rule, for my own personal history with predatory older women is quite storied. Yet still I shout,"Enough!" There are two major problems with this whole subject. First of all, the word has become so ubiquitous that everyone from "Entertainment Tonight" reporters to Oprah to my own mother is dropping it into their conversations. Here's a hint: Anything that Ryan Seacrest's glue-filled head can read off a teleprompter is lamer than a Creed reunion tour. Secondly, since when is desperation empowering? A real "cougar" is a lonely older woman who needs the affection of a younger man to feel younger or prettier or well, anything at all. Demi Moore gets enough liposuction to start a soap factory and all of a sudden she's a figure of female pride and strength? REALLY?

Wednesday, January 9, 2008

Morrisey Construction Co.

So yes, I did take the name of this blog from a Smiths song, but no, I'm not some raging Morrisey fan. How could I be? I'm not a depressed Latino teenager. But I do have two quick Moz-related anecdotes:

1. When I was in college I was hanging out at a bar with this girl and we were amusing ourselves by writing stuff on each other's arms with a sharpie marker. For some (drunken) reason I wrote, "The Queen Is Dead" on her arm, and she freaked out cuz she was a huge Smiths fan apparently. "Do you like The Smiths?" she asked, to which I replied the only way you can to a hipster girl to gain any kind of credibility. "Yeah, but I like their earlier stuff better." Young romeos, take note: this response can be applied to any band in the history of the world and it will make you sound like the most knowledgeable music aficionado in the universe. Don't say I never gave you anything, kids.

2. I was driving by a construction site once and the sign on the fence said, "Morrisey Construction Co." on it. I immediately pictured Morrisey with a hard-hat sitting on top of his greased pompador, ordering around a bunch of workers melodramatically. The crew, of course, would not be your typical migrant workers, but rather, the clinically-depressed hispanic emo kids that make up the singer's cult following. Hijinks and shenanigans would inevitably ensue.
Did somebody say sitcom?

What It Is, And What It Ain't

Greetings and Salutations dear reader... let me be the first to welcome you to Big Mouth Strikes Again. Actually, I'll probably be the only welcoming you, because who the hell else would be welcoming you to MY blog? I suppose I could've hired a welcoming committee to hand out punch and pie, slapped a party hat on and smacked a pinata upside its ass. Or coerced some of your closest friends to hide around your computer desk, waiting patiently as you made your way over to this salty little corner of the internet to yell "Suprise!" as the Big Mouth page loaded. Seems like a lot of work for a silly little blog though, doesn't it? I agree. So don't worry about any pompous celebrations or self-congratulating speeches, cuz that's not how things work around here at Big Mouth. All you're going to get is me and all the weird theories, observations and obsessions swimming around in my bald little brain. And that's pompous and self-congratulating enough for all of us.