You’re smart, right? Of course you are. Or at least you think you are. Very few people think of themselves as dumb. Case in point: Fredo in The Godfather. Poor, sweet Fredo, literally shouting “I’M SMART” at his brother and the heavens after 4+ hours of getting bamboozled and steamrolled by every adult male between Havana and Las Vegas. He was too stupid to know he was stupid, so he just went ahead and assumed he wasn’t. That’s usually how it works. In fact, for the most part, the only people who won’t insist that they’re smart are the people who are actually a little too smart. They’ll probably reply with some sort of smug self-satisfaction dipped in melted false modesty like “I have my moments,” delivered with half a smile and an implied “… or at least that’s what the thesis committee thought after reading my analysis of the societal ramifications of nautical trade routes in the mid-1700s.” Which, ugh. Give me dumb people any day. We can drink High Life and talk about Guns ‘n Roses videos. It’ll be fun.
The point is, let’s proceed from the assumption that you’re a bright, reasonable individual who is capable of critical thought and seeing obvious direct correlations between things. Sound good? Great. I have a question for you:
Why are you hate-sharing things?
Actually, hold on. Let me rephrase. I know “why” people hate-click and hate-share things. There’s something therapeutic about screaming “HEY. LOOK AT THIS ASSHOLE” after reading some poorly thought out, factually inaccurate, mildly racist screed you just saw online. I get that. What I’m asking is why you, who we have just established as a smart person, repeatedly share these articles with everyone you know, knowing full well that by doing so you are providing the web traffic that the writers’ employers value as much as, if not more than, the content of the piece itself?
It’s like this: Say you have an alligator living in your basement. And say this alligator has already bitten you a few times. And say there’s no other food in the basement, so it can only survive if you chuck some chicken chunks down the stairs every now and then. The solution is simple, right? You just stop feeding it, lock the door, and wait for it to starve to death, then you walk down there once it’s deceased, put it in a Hefty bag, and toss it in the trash. Hmm. This analogy appears to have gotten very dark. I promise it made more sense when I started this paragraph. Also, I do not advocate kidnapping alligators and starving them in your basement. I’m just saying if it got there on its own, like by crawling through the window, or showing up disguised as a Comcast employee then scurrying down there and refusing to leave. And even then, maybe just call 911 or Animal Control. What I’m getting at is that you shouldn’t feed strange alligators. You know what I mean. Work with me here.
Anyway, this is why people like Andrew Sharp and the crew at Fire Joe Morgan are geniuses. They found a way to shine a light on this garbage and tear it apart from the inside through satire, rather than just directing people to the source en masse and starting a click-hate-share-click-hate-share cycle where everyone loses except the people who turn around and trade all those clicks for advertiser cash. I mean, I know it’s frustrating to see willfully ignorant putzes be given a platform, especially if it’s a prestigious platform at an outlet that hasn’t replied to your pitch for a piece about an important yet under-reported issue, like why Air Bud’s children can talk in the Air Buddies sequels even though Air Bud couldn’t talk in the originals, and whether it’s meant to imply that the puppies’ mother is secretly a human (still waiting over here, THE NEW YORK TIMES), but knowing how the business works and continuing to do that anyway is just madness.
And, yes, if I’m being totally honest, I am very, very guilty of this, despite all the accusatory “yous" I’ve been throwing around so far. That’s why, as of this post, I am making it my goal to stop doing it, or at least cut it down significantly. I’m really going to try. It’s not just the thing about pageviews, either, although it’s definitely that. It’s also the thing about how hopping around from outrage du jour to outrage du jour — as social media seems to be doing at an alarming rate lately — is really no way to live life, and I worry that doing things like devoting a whole afternoon to collectively ruining the day of some random dipshit who made an awful joke before getting on a plane might be affecting our ability to express actual, lasting outrage when there’s a legitimate call for it. Leave something in the tank, you know?
I suppose I’m probably being a little simplistic and Pollyanna-ish about all this. Saying “Guyyyyyysss let’s just stop, okay?” is kind of like being the college freshman who comes home for Christmas and starts explaining that “if every person in America donated just $10, we could raise over $3 billion to fight world hunger” without taking into account that those population figures include babies, and babies rarely have $10 of disposable income laying around. (This is one of the many issues I have with babies, for the record.) Especially when this is so ingrained in both human nature and the way we consume media now. To be honest, I’m not even saying you should never do it ever, really. I’m just saying think about it, at least a little, and decide if it’s really worth it to become the 10th person in your timeline to share the article written by the ideological hack who made the awful pun in the first paragraph, or if maybe you’re just giving him/her exactly what he/she wanted, and you’re now just as guilty of poisoning the public discourse as the author.
So, yeah. That’s my new goal, to cut down on contributing to the part of the outrage cycle that does nothing but make me upset and line the pockets of the people who caused it to happen. Maybe it can be your new goal, too! Unless your goal was already, like, curing cancer or building a functional, inexpensive time machine or something. Then go ahead and stick with that one. But everyone else, less hate-sharing. Starve that alligator.
Dearest Rrero, I sometimes think of horrible phrases with no real meaning because, and this is only my theory, my brain is broken. Most recently the vaguely dirty "Oh she's lookin like wants to ride the donkey train to buttsville" happened (there was no girl, train, or donkey, just me at a water fountain [gross I know but I knew this one was extra cold and I was thirsty]). Could you please a) provide a non-obvious context and b) tell me if there's something wrong with me or if you do it too?
Oh, he’s leavin’ (Leavin’) On that donkey train to Buttsville (Leavin’ on that donkey train)
Said, he’s goin’ back (Goin’ back to find) To a simpler place in time (When he takes that ride) Oh yes, he is (Guess who’s gonna be right by his side)
And I’ll be with him (I know you will) On that donkey train to Buttsville (Leavin’ on that donkey train to Buttsville, ooh hoo) I’d rather live in his world (Live in his world) Than live without him in mine
Dear god, I randomly started googling facts about the music video for "Hero" cause OBVIOUSLY. 1. I would totally see that movie. 2. I don't even know you but I wish we could both turn gay and gay marry each other.* *I don't know actually, maybe you are gay, which is cool and totally awesome but I'm not, so that doesn't work, but hope you still appreciate my level of commitment? What I think I'm trying to say is, I love you man.
As for hangover remedies, they are legion. There are certain unifying themes, however. When you ask people, worldwide, how to deal with a hangover, their first answer is usually the hair of the dog. The old faithful in this category is the Bloody Mary, but books on curing hangovers—I have read three, and that does not exhaust the list—describe more elaborate potions, often said to have been invented in places like Cap d’Antibes by bartenders with names like Jean-Marc. An English manual, Andrew Irving’s “How to Cure a Hangover” (2004), devotes almost a hundred pages to hair-of-the-dog recipes, including the Suffering Bastard (gin, brandy, lime juice, bitters, and ginger ale); the Corpse Reviver (Pernod, champagne, and lemon juice); and the Thomas Abercrombie (two Alka-Seltzers dropped into a double shot of tequila). Kingsley Amis suggests taking Underberg bitters, a highly alcoholic digestive: “The resulting mild convulsions and cries of shock are well worth witnessing. But thereafter a comforting glow supervenes.” Many people, however, simply drink some more of what they had the night before. My Ukrainian informant described his morning-after protocol for a vodka hangover as follows: “two shots of vodka, then a cigarette, then another shot of vodka.” A Japanese source suggested wearing a sake-soaked surgical mask.
The next time you see that one Toyota commercial, imagine being the person who lives in this apartment, and waking up late on a Saturday morning to find this scene — a car parked diagonally across the middle of the intersection; a large, ethnically diverse crowd of young people in brightly colored clothing doing a choreographed dance routine around it in the street; loud laser music blasting through the air — taking place outside your window, with no idea why any of it is happening.
A hypo in my MPRE review lecture: PROBLEM NO. 3Attorneys Franklin and Bash hire Sandy, a third-year student at a local law school, to assist them as their clerk. Sandy is not licensed under any state law or court rule that allows third-year law students to engage in practice under the supervision of a licensed attorney. For which of the following tasks performed by Sandy are Franklin and Bash subject to discipline? Where is the hot tubs? The booze?
The correct answer to this question is: “Trick question. Bash is sleeping with the head of the Disciplinary Board. All charges dropped.”
In 1995, after Jordan returned to basketball from his year-and-a-half-long baseball sabbatical, he spent the summer in Hollywood making the movie “Space Jam,” but he demanded that the producers build a basketball court where he could work out every day. Old friends dropping by the Warner lot noticed that he was working particularly hard on a shot that was already a minor part of his repertoire but which he was now making a signature shot––a jumper where he held the ball, faked a move to the basket, and then, at the last minute, when he finally jumped, fell back slightly, giving himself almost perfect separation from the defensive player. Because of his jumping ability and his threat to drive, that shot was virtually unguardable.
Currently picturing Michael Jordan shooting thousands of fadeaways in his Tune Squad uniform.
About That Prince-Loving Elvis Impersonator Who Got Framed For Trying To Assassinate The President
GQ’s Wells Tower wrote one of my favorites pieces of the year back in February, and now he’s back with another longform masterpiece. Remember the story about the Prince superfan slash Elvis impersonator who was accused of mailing a ricin-covered letter to the president, only to be cleared when authorities figured out he was framed by a Tae Kwon Do instructor slash Mensa member? I don’t see how you could forget. Anyway, Tower gets the whole, nutty story, and in the process introduces us to a mutual enemy the two have: a cuss-loving funeral home director slash state representative — everyone in this story is at least two things, apparently — named Steve Holland.
Not long after Dutschke and Curtis’s unfriendly introduction in 2006, Dutschke mounted a campaign for state House district sixteen, against long-term Democratic incumbent Steve Holland. By all accounts, Dutschke’s PR strategy was little more than a public display of bitter, empty vitriol—its rhetoric revolving around comparisons of Steve Holland to Boss Hogg from the Dukes of Hazzard and suggestions that the 9/11 hijackers were Holland’s friends. Why Dutschke loathed Steve Holland so hotly is not clear.
“I had never stood eyeball to eyeball or dick to dick with the man, but for some reason he just hated the hell out of me,” says Holland, a gloriously profane and paradoxically genteel man of 58. “He called me everything from gay to communist. Everything but a child of God. I mean, he had no campaign or agenda except to cut my nuts out…. But you got to get your ass up early and go to bed late to beat my ass. I’ve held this seat for thirty years. I can absolutely make love to a bull moose on the steps of the Lee County courthouse and garner more than 5 percent of the vote.”
December 2001: Vince McMahon steps out of a snowy night into a diner in upstate New York for a meeting with old friend Phil Thomson, now a highly placed government official. Thomson has a strange proposition: creating a new covert black-ops group using the Superstars of World Wrestling Entertainment. The WWE’s talented men and women are perfect. Highly skilled athletes with the ideal cover, they travel all across the country and the globe; no one would find it unusual to find them in a town one day and gone the next. The government would train and support the wrestlers in every way possible except one: no one must know the truth.
March 2006: The Superstars have been handed their latest assignment — take down a commercial-grade methyl-amphetamine plant that is bankrolling terrorist activities in Europe. Their mission seems simple and straightforward, until a member of their team is taken prisoner. Now all that they’ve worked so hard for is in jeopardy, and one of their own might be killed…
Kickstarter: Help me purchase the rights to this book and fund a movie that I will write and direct. I’m begging you.
“One of my favorite things about the Air Bud movies is that there are conceivably real human children on the bench (or who were left off the team altogether) while a dog is running around on the field or court. I find that hilarious. I like to imagine these children explaining it to an overbearing father.”—
When we came out dripping from the underworld, a double-decker bus rolled past, but the driver paid no attention to our extremely conspicuous group emerging from a manhole at 2 a.m. We circled around the city again, Garrett restless, looking for something. He spied a ten-story construction site surrounded by chain-link and scaffolding. There was a small gap in the fence, just big enough to slip through. Garrett hauled himself effortlessly through to the scaffold. Wary of security guards and CCTV cameras, I followed as silently and elegantly as a bear clambering into a Dumpster. We made our way up an internal stairwell to the roof and onto the ladder of a massive construction crane. Finally we were sitting right next to the control cabin 150 feet up, feet dangled over the void, London glittering to the horizon. Garrett pointed out landmarks, famous and less so: Big Ben, the Eye, the Shard, St. Paul’s Cathedral, the Gherkin, the Walkie-Talkie, King’s Reach Tower. The names sounded like constellations or rock-climbing routes. In fact, he had summited most of them.
So if you need to kill some time before kickoff today, there you go.
Given your pseudonym and all the great work that has been done under it (i.e. breakdowns of music videos, Franklin and Bash, SBTB, 90s movies), how will you explain what you've been doing for the past few years to potential employers? This is assuming you don't have a "real" job and are 100% earning a living as DG. Please provide a narrative of the real you and a potential employer reviewing the last few years of your life in an interview.
Potential Employer: So, I notice a hole in your resume for a few years after you finished law school…
There was only so much we could do when it became clear that Hurricane Irene was a really, really big deal, and that it would be sweeping up the East Coast and into the New York/New Jersey area on the 27th — which was, of course, the day toward which we’d worked and planned for the better part of the previous year. Everything was booked, the contracts set, the non-refundable deposits shelled out. Our immediate families had already started making their way to N.Y. for the rehearsal dinner. The venue was going to stay open barring an evacuation call by local authorities; the officiant and caterers were still in, too.
We knew for sure that our wedding was going to happen, but we also knew that it was going to be a very different day than the one we’d planned. The only question, then, was how many of the 150 or so* RSVP-ed guests would actually wind up making it**.