Hey readers, what’s up? You doing OK? How’s your 2009 so far? Oh, me? Yeah, things are going pretty well on my end so far.

Yes, I DID drunkenly sing “Toto” by Africa on New Year’s Eve, but not every new year can start off error-free.

Oh, what? This? It’s my new Wordpress theme, mofos!

Calm down. I know change can suck. And I know “different” can be jarring and upsetting.

Imagine how I felt when many of my favorite web sites redesigned their appearance the past few months. I cried myself to sleep every night.

True story.

I mean, check it out. Gmail got themes. Google Reader made itself look shittier. Facebook survived a redesign that caused a futile backlash, Wordpress amended its admin panel, and ESPN released a limited test version of its upcoming site revamp.

Even DC’s Metro system finally entered the 21st century with a complete design overhaul.

So it only makes sense that after 13 months of using the Fotosky theme, I am also changing my blog.

This is Thesis, a Wordpress theme by Chris Pearson who decided to create something so easy to personalize even webtards like me could figure it out.

If you’re reading this in your RSS reader, click out to see the new theme.

The first thing you might notice is the white background, which I think is easier for reading how awesome I am. Powder blue works well for 70s-era tuxedos but not so much for the web.

Also, I liked my series of photo blocks on the masthead so I kept that, but I chose new ones. They’re sort of a summary of the things that define me, like baseball, Argentine soccer, photography, toilets, and, of course, jumping.

I also changed my About page, using my 2008 summary blog post and a new photo I dug out from my trip to Mexico two years ago.

See that photo box on the right below the masthead? That motherfucker “rotates”, which means the photos will change when you refresh or click on different pages in my blog.

You’ll also notice that the comments section is different. It used to be in small font and hard to read and pretty much a sucky experience for all you people telling me how much I suck.

Now, when you want to call me an asshole or propose marriage to me, it’ll be easier to write. You can even subscribe to future comments (by scrolling over that RSS icon and down arrow on the right) so you know whether or not I accept when I reply.

Also, if you want to add a photo (a gravatar) to your name (and you really should) so you can stand out more, click here.

I made a bunch of other small changes, like adding a favicon that should appear in your web browser window or tab.

Many others, though, you might not even notice. I’m going to continue working on it (did I mention how easy the customization is?) so that visiting my blog makes you feel like you’re riding a golden unicorn.

Because not changing your theme is so 2008.

Post from: Arjewtino

An inside joke between us had been that he had never signed any of my yearbooks. But after a momentous 1991-1992 school year, one in which we got our driver’s licenses and even kissed a girl or two, I insisted he sign this one.

This is what he wrote:

Well [Arjewtino] — another year, another year, another year, and this is the first time I’m signing your yearbook. The year in review:

And then nothing. Blank. A clean, white page devoid of any markup save that preamble. He just never got around to signing it.

Even now, more than 16 years later, I give him a hard time about it, usually saying what a shame it is we can’t remember some of the tiny memories from junior year.

I don’t want to make the same mistake he made.

So, in honor of Blue… another year, another year, another year. The year 2008 in review:

January:

I beat up The Princess’s 8-year-old cousin…went skiing for the first time in 7 years and didn’t break any bones…and introduced 8 Presidential candidates you had never heard of…

February:

I had the greatest week of my life at Dodger fantasy baseball camp…failed to register in time to vote in the Maryland primary for Obama…and revealed what I share in common with Lindsay Lohan…

March:

I went back to Portland, Oregon, for the first time in 28 years to see my sister…did something illegal at the Mayflower Hotel…wrote about wearing the suit my dad passed down to me…and held a blog contest for my 100,000th visitor…

April:

I took photos of tourists taking photos of DC…avoided a Nazi rally during Passover…and ruined my best friend’s birthday…

May:

I spent a weekend in Intercourse…shamefully voted on “American Idol” for the first time…tested your morality…and saw some butt crack at a Prairie Home Companion…

June:

I scored a press pass to the Belmont Stakes…was photographed in Sports Illustrated…celebrated (and blogged about) my birthday…and found the very first girl I ever kissed on Facebook…

July:

The Princess and I went to Panama and Costa Rica…I forgot the PIN to my bank card… and Googled my name…

August:

I survived a night in a gay bar…where I got punched in the balls by a friend…ate a LOT of General Tso’s chicken…made The Princess feel better about turning 30…and did NOT eat bull testicles…

September:

I revealed that my parents nearly named me Facundo…conducted a social experiment with my yarmulke…single-handedly retired the word “douchebag”…and saw plenty of cleavage at the Maryland Ren Fen…

October:

I found a Yom Kippur fasting loophole…showed you a photo of me in my underwear…lost a bet to a Phillies fan…became a lawyer…and reminisced about my very first Playboy…

November:

I ran my first race and stole a first-place trophy…was interviewed by Washingtonian magazine…unearthed embarrassing relics from childhood…wrote a traveler’s guide to staying in my apartment…was nearly People magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive…and bit some faces and signed a boob at a blogger happy hour…

December:

Wore the most horrific Halloween costume idea ever…ran over some snot-nosed punk while ice skating…launched a workshop to help people be more like me…was offered a gig stripping at a bachelorette party…lost a 10K race to a 77-year-old man…published a blog post by my 1st grade school photo…and high-fived the Pope on Christmas…

I had planned to award a Comment of the Year. But even I couldn’t read all my blog posts.

You guys are half the reason I enjoy blogging*. So thanks for another great year.

See you in 2009, mofos.

*The other half is embarrassing myself online.

Post from: Arjewtino

“How was your Christmas? Oh, I forgot, you don’t celebrate it, you probably didn’t do anything.”

Oh, I did something, friendly co-worker. I spent Christmas night at the hospital.

Not in the hospital. At the hospital.

I was waiting for my friend to give birth. Waiting with their family and friends. Pacing back and forth. Playing checkers to help pass the time. Checking my phone every five minutes just so I could have something to do. Looking for futile ways to help just so I would feel some semblance of control over something fully out of my control.

“Looks like it’ll be a Christmas baby,” we said as my friends HAL and GoHoyas were busy delivering their first baby.

“Maybe we should name him Jesus,” I joked.

“Or Jesus Angel,” Baby Bien said.

I have about a bajillion friends with babies. And while I have met many of these babies shortly after they were born, I had never actually gone to the waiting room to be part of their birth.

So when HAL texted me Christmas morning to tell me that his wife GoHoyas’ water broke, I instantly knew one thing. I would not be spending my planned “Jewey Christmas” eating Chinese food and watching movies.

Baby Bien and I got to the hospital in the early evening. GoHoyas’ family was in the waiting room.

GoHoyas’ sister’s fiance had told Baby Bien on the drive down that GoHoyas was “a meter dilated”.

“A meter?” I said. “Is this baby going to walk out of her uterus?”

We said hello and asked questions.

How is she doing? What have the nurses said? Will he be a Christmas Baby or a Boxing Day Baby?

We talked, shared stories, paced the halls. Some of us prayed.

The hospital wing was surprisingly and completely empty. I guess Jesus doesn’t let people get sick on his birthday.

It was so empty that I even considered using a wheelchair to play Murderball in the bare hallways. One nurse glared at me like she could read my mind.

At one point, HAL came out of the delivery room to say hello and thank us for being there. He looked stressed. His hand was swollen from holding GoHoyas’ suddenly contraction-causing powerful grip.

As the night dragged on, the moment we were waiting for got nearer. We started to gravitate toward the delivery room, trying to respect their privacy yet eager to hear something.

We rocked on our heels. We sighed nervously.

Finally, at 10:31 p.m. exactly, we heard it. The sound we had been waiting for. The beautifully brutal sobbing of a newborn.

That baby wailed like he had suddenly realized he would grow up a New York Yankees fan. And we clapped and cheered and hugged each other.

Minutes later, HAL emerged from the delivery room. Not triumphantly with his arms skyward, like I had expected.

But with tears in his eyes. The tears of a new father having seen the love of his life give birth to his baby boy.

Everyone cried. Not me, though. I just had something in my eye.

I took photos. And when we saw the baby, I took more. And then some more. In fact, I photodocumented the shit out of him.

This baby who was now part of our lives.

This half-Jewish baby who would forever share Jesus’ birthday.

This baby who will now be known on this blog as…Han Solo.

Oh, right, I mentioned a second Christmas miracle in the title of this blog post, didn’t I?

I got to high-five the Pope.

Post from: Arjewtino

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I’m just a caveman. I fell on some ice and later got thawed out by some of your scientists. Your world frightens and confuses me!” — Unfrozen Caveman Lawyer, “Saturday Night Live”

I don’t understand Christmas.

I mean, I get the concept that it exists. And no, contrary to popular belief, wishing me “Merry Christmas” does not offend me.

I just don’t understand why everyone goes ape-shit this time of year, talking about how they just have to see their family or discussing the magical effects of the Christmas “spirit” or even dressing up in ugly sweaters.

I just don’t get it.

Of course, the reason is because I didn’t grow up with it. We had Hanukkah, the confusing holiday celebrated by Jews whose only connection to Christmas is that it lands around the same time.

But let me let you in on a little secret that might shock anyone who’s never worn a yarmulke or fasted on Yom Kippur. I don’t care about Hanukkah.

I did when I was a kid, of course. But that’s when I was a kid.

And Hanukkah is, for all practical purposes, a kid’s holiday.

It’s not even a religious holiday. It’s barely an important holiday.

Believe me, the only reason it has any credibility at all is because of its timing. If Jews celebrated Flag Day in December, people would think that was a big deal, too.

Let me illustrate how not a big deal Hanukkah is to me and my peeps. Every year, my family will go out of its way to call or send an e-card for every Jewish holiday under the sun, even ones I didn’t know existed.

But I haven’t had one family member this week wish me a Happy Hanukkah. You know who has? My Christian co-workers.

I envy people who celebrate Christmas. I really do. Something happens to you people this time of year that completely changes you, even makes you happier. Christmas actually means something to you.

When my co-worker asked me how many days I would be taking off this week and I told her “Why would I take any days off?”, she said, “It’s Christmas!”

When The Princess moved to Japan several years ago, she came back to the U.S. only twice in two years. For Christmas.

And when my friend MJ’s flight home got canceled last week, she wasn’t worried about her checked bags or the time she’d have to wait at the airport. She was worried she would miss Christmas with her family.

You go out of your way to celebrate this holiday, sparing no expense and jumping over every hurdle. Just to celebrate the day some fat dude who violates labor laws and exploits flying ruminants to circumnavigate the world in one night and commit millions of acts of home invasion.

I feel out of place at Christmas, like Hartman’s unfrozen caveman lawyer, trying cases in a different time.

To me, it’s the most inconvenient day of the year, when everything is closed, and all I can do is scarf down Chinese food and go to the movies with the other Jews.

This year, though, might be different. Because The Princess left me a present for me to open up tomorrow.

I think it’s a 2010 Chevy Camaro.

Happy Hanukkah, everybody.

And, yes, Merry Christmas.

photo credit

Post from: Arjewtino

This means I’m here alone. On my own. Under no supervision.

Before she left, The Princess left me explicit instructions to turn the heat down when I’m not home and not burn down our apartment.

So far, I’ve managed to accomplish half of those tasks with moderate success.

Being on one’s own can be good for a man. The time alone can be spent re-establishing one’s dominion over his things, relearning simple tasks that have been relegated to a woman like foraging for a new tube of toothpaste, and re-watching old episodes of “Quantum Leap”.

But even with my newfound freedom to order General Tso’s chicken every night and fart anytime I want, I found myself bored last night.

So I took it upon myself to Do Something. Anything.

I looked for things around my apartment that needed fixin’, putting things right that once went wrong, and hoping each time that my next leap would be the leap home.

It was tougher than I expected.

I started in the kitchen, which I like to call “the woman’s den”. I noticed that the dishes in the sink were dirty. Being the smart man that I am, I figured out that there must be something wrong with the garbage disposal.

So I stuck my hand down the drain and sloshed around. I felt metal, water, and some pieces of tomato. I tried flipping the switch to make the disposal run but I couldn’t reach it with my hand stuck inside.

None of that made the dishes any cleaner.

I moved to the bathroom, where I noticed that the toilet seat was up rather than in its customary “down” position.

So, again, I stuck my hand into the tank and fingered the filler valve and overflow tube.

These are highly technical terms you wouldn’t understand without a PhD in plumbing.

The toilet seat, however, remained vertical, further confounding my efforts.

Sticking my hand inside things, I was quickly figuring out, was just not working.

I realized at that moment that I had not heard our smoke alarm go off in…well…ever.

Something must be wrong with it, I thought.

I climbed up on a chair (don’t try this at home, I am a trained professional) and looked inside the obviously broken smoke alarm.

I poked at the empty battery chamber but couldn’t figure out what was wrong with it.

I considered starting a controlled fire but remembered The Princess’ edict to not start a fire.

Stupid safety.

After taking a break, I turned my keen eye to the living room coffee table.

It was littered with something I like to call “stuff” and realized The Princess was the one who kept it what she likes to call “clean”.

I examined the table from all angles but could not figure out how to “clean” it.

I figured there were just somethings only women could understand and moved on.

For my final examination, I decided to investigate the problem of why there was so little alcohol left in the apartment.

Strangely enough, the depletion of alcohol coincided with The Princess’ departure.

Some beers were missing and my bottle of whiskey was only half full. Usually, with The Princess around, there is plenty of liquor since we tend to get totally hammered on water.

In the end, this conundrum proved too taxing for my big brain to handle.

My clearly altruistic intention to Do Something last night might seem like a failure to the untrained eye. Sure, the dishes are still in the sink and my apartment is a fire trap.

But I did learn one important lesson.

Before your girlfriend leaves for a week, leaving you alone to survive on your own, always always always stock up on alcohol.

Post from: Arjewtino

“I’m a big fan of your blog even though I’m not into fashion and shit.” — Arjewtino, to Johanna, winner of CW reality show “Stylista”, when I met her at a happy hour last year.

We all own one.

That one article of clothing we love that shouldn’t be loved. That one shirt or sweater or pants we refuse to trash donate to a thrift store. That one sartorial choice so ugly you wonder how it ever got designed, distributed, and then retailed let alone sold to you.

For me, it’s Eye Sore, my yellow-and-brown striped Banana Republic button-down made by children the good people of Sri Lanka.

It has been called monstrous, appalling, and grotesque and has, on one occasion, made a baby cry.

But I love Eye Sore nevertheless. Probably because it is so hideous, the clothing equivalent of the Elephant Man.

You remember that “Seinfeld” episode where only Kramer thinks the pirate shirt is trendy? Well, that’s me. And Eye Sore is my pirate shirt. And damn it, I want to be a pirate.

So after not wearing Eye Sore for nearly a year due to “negative feedback”, I decided to bust it out on Saturday night.

The Princess invited me to a party hosted by one of her friends. This invitation completely ruined my plans to plant my ass on the couch all night.

Being the mature man that I am, I told her if she was going to make me shower and Go Out, I was going to do what no one with an ounce of vanity would do.

Apparently, this translated as wearing the most repulsive shirt I own.

Also, I was going to a party at which I would know no one. I wasn’t about to waste any of my A-material clothing on strangers.

I found Eye Sore deep in the bowels of my closet. I dusted it off, shook it a couple of times, and draped it around my shoulders.

As I buttoned it up in front of the mirror, I smiled. I was happy for Eye Sore. After being buried and forgotten for so long, it was going to get another chance to shine.

Despite its visual faults, it was still a good shirt and it was becoming, if I may say, more awesome before my very eyes.

“Oh my God,” The Princess said when she saw me, “why do you do these things to me?”

“If you’re making me go out I’m going to look as hideous as I can,” I told her.

“Mission accomplished,” she said.

I have never been stylish. I choose what to wear using a very scientific process I like to call Whatever Doesn’t Get Ridiculed by my Gay Friends.

My favorite shoes are these boat shoes, which people now tell me have become hip again. I figure out what to buy using GQ magazines.

And, though I was wearing a sweet-ass overcoat at the last blogger happy hour, I spent last weekend wearing what The Princess called a “gross” coat with fake fur that I found for $10 at a thrift store.

So I was looking forward to this party because I was choosing to purposely not look good.

I would show up looking like a reject from “Project Runway” (whatever that is) and wouldn’t care. I would turn this party to my advantage and make it “fun” rather than, you know, “not fun”, by looking the least stylish I could possibly be.

I would ask people what they thought of my shirt and they would be forced to pay it a reluctant compliment.

Unfortunately, no one said a word.

Maybe it was because the “party” was at a Middle Eastern restaurant obviously trying to save money on its electric bill. Or maybe Eye Sore wasn’t pathetic enough and just didn’t sufficiently stand out. I don’t know.

In the end, Eye Sore failed to offend anyone other than The Princess.

Which explains why I’m wearing it again today.

Post from: Arjewtino

Overused and deficient to many superior pejoratives, “douchebag”, I argued, had run its course and become a stale word choice “for the uncreative and the indecisive”.

My controversial stand had a noticeable impact. Since then, I have heard it much less frequently. Or maybe my friends are just not saying it in front of me to spare themselves Another Lecture.

But the point is, I stood up to the webbertudes then and I’m standing up to them again. Because I’m courageous like that.

I am now calling for the dissolution of the phrase “that’s how I roll”.

For years now, I have seen the phrase printed on T-shirts, heard it spoken in rap songs, and caught it uttered from the mouths of white girls at dance clubs.

It has been used by executives in monkey suits trying to sound “cool” and Facebook friends to update their status message.

“That’s how I roll” is defined aptly by Urban Dictionary as “What someone would say to insinuate that it was their style, or that it was the way they usually do things”.

You know you’ve said it. Many times. It’s OK to admit it. You’ve probably even said it today.

Maybe you were late for work and told it to your boss to appease him. Maybe you banged some chick but lied about your name. So you said, “Look, that’s just how I roll”. And then maybe you winked.

But like Farmer Hoggett said, “That’ll do, pig. That’ll do.”

I don’t know where “that’s how I roll” came from. Probably something to do with cars. Or yeast products.

And yes, it’s overexposed. But so are a lot of things.

The specific problem I have with it is that it is used primarily to excuse one’s own offensive behavior.

“Sorry I forgot to feed your cat while you were away,” one might say, “that’s just how I roll.”

It’s “I’m just saying” + “It is what it is” rolled into one. So to speak.

Look, I get it. You don’t like being criticized for your choices and you certainly don’t want to apologize for who you are.

But maybe you should. Maybe you’re just an asshole who uses worn-out phrases merely to validate yourself.

I know I am. But my response to being an asshole is different, usually a shrug of my shoulders followed by a simple, “Oh well!”

So please, stop saying it. At least around me. It’s time for it to be eradicated from our modern lexicon.

Quickly, before my mom uses it.

P.S. I’m this week’s featured blogger at Cleveland’s a Plum. Go read my interview. I’m hysterical.

Comment of the Week

This week’s COW goes to Jordan Baker for my blog post on new superpowers the TV show Heroes should consider. She was effectively “nominated” by my friend Carrie and “seconded” by, well, me:

Post from: Arjewtino

Look at me. Just look at me.

On second thought, please don’t, I’m a monster. Un monstro.

It’s school photo day and look at what the fuck my mom dressed me up in. I look so stupid.

A light blue turtleneck shirt? A dark blue vest knitted by mi abuela? Just fucking great. Even I want to beat myself up.

I should have never told my mom today was school photo day. “Tenes que ir vestido muy lindo,” she told me this morning.

Muy lindo? You call this muy lindo, Mom? I don’t look nice, I look like a fucking smurf who got kicked out of Studio 54.

Why did this have to happen to me today? This is the day that will immortalize me as a first grader forever. The day upon which generations of my descendants will look back and judge my legacy. And this is what I look like?

I wanted to wear my Incredible Hulk T-shirt, but nooooooo, my mom said that was inappropriate for my school photo.

You know what else is inappropriate, Mom? Dressing your kid like a Sears catalog reject.

I know my grandma knitted that vest for me, that was very nice of her. But first of all, it’s too scratchy. And second, I don’t even wear it. You only made me put it for the photo so she would think I wear it all the time. And now it will live on forever.

The clothes aren’t even the worst part. What is with my haircut? I told you I hate it when you comb my hair like that.

I’m supposed to look cool and aloof, like Maradona. It should be disheveled, untamed, and project an image of masculinity and playfulness. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you this.

I mean, look at my freakishly large forehead. It’s a fucking fivehead, is what it is. You could land a 747 on that thing.

And my freckles don’t help. But I know there’s not much you can do about that now. Still, thanks for passing on a genetic inability to produce melanin, Mom.

Now, this disaster of a school photo is not completely your fault. I must take some of the blame for looking like a retarded blue Muppet.

My pose? Not my best work. I don’t know why my head is tilted like that, it doesn’t even look natural. And what am I doing with my hands? What am I, a dainty lady drinking her cup of tea? Why don’t I just go play with my sister’s Barbie dolls and get the whole thing over with?

I also look like I’m eye-fucking the photographer with that baby-tooth smile. And I don’t even know what eye-fucking means but I know it when I see it.

You know what else? My shirt is…wait, is that Sarah over there? Oh my God, she’s so pretty. She makes me feel funny, like I need to vomit and run away at the same time.

Oh shit, she’s coming over here. She’s going to see my photo and then she’ll never be my girlfriend. I better get the hell out of here, go play in the sandbox or…

Hey, Sarah! What’s up? What? This? Oh, it’s nothing, just my school photo. Do you like it?

No, I wouldn’t say I’m pretty. No, I don’t want to play hopscotch with the other girls. Listen, it’s not my fault, my mom made me…

Oh, you’re leaving? All right, bye, good luck with your photo. Listen, if you’re not too busy at recess next week, I thought maybe we could grab some fruit punch and…

Oh, you’re sharing a fruit roll-up with Johnny that day? I understand. Yeah, he’s cool, I guess. OK, see you in drawing class. Hope you stay between the lines!

Stay between the lines? THAT’S the best I could come up with? I am such a dumbshit.

What the fuck is wrong with me? I’m already 5-years-old and I can’t even talk to girls.

God, I can’t wait to grow up. Then Sarah will marry me.

I bet life is sooooo much easier when you’re old. My cousin Santiago is like 7 and I bet he gets so much tail. I’m going to have a mansion and a Porsche and be an astronaut cop and fight evil monkeys with my jet pack.

But before that happens, I better make sure I destroy every one of these photos. Who knows what could happen if even one survives by the time I’m 33?

Man, that is soooo old!

Post from: Arjewtino

After The Maiden Metallurgist asked me last week to strip at her Vegas bachelorette party, I told her fiance Josh that he should throw his own competing, simultaneous bachelor party next door to hers.

“Once we do that,” he said, “things are on their way to turning into a bad movie starring Seann William Scott and Brittany Murphy where the two of them throw competing bachelor/bachelorette parties, each upping the absurdity of how ‘awesome’ their party is going to be.”

And from that brief exchange of emails, a movie idea was born.

Here’s the thing. I grew up in Los Angeles. This makes me immensely qualified to make a movie.

To be specific, I grew up in the heart of LA’s porn industry — the San Fernando Valley — so I’m also immensely qualified to make porn. But first thing’s first.

The way Josh and I figured it, the first step to making a movie was coming up with what we Hollywood experts like to call an “idea”.

We accomplished this with the competing bachelor/bachelorette party conceit. Such a movie has never, to my knowledge, ever been made. And my extensive research into whether or not I was right — thinking about it for five seconds — solidified this belief.

The second step in our path to fame and riches through cinematic expression was to cast the movie.

Josh’s choice to cast Seann William Scott (Stifler from American Pie) and Brittany Murphy (whore from every movie she’s ever been in) was inspired. These two “actors” have already proven they will appear in anything with a camera and Krafts service table.

They are also box office gold. According to The Numbers, Scott’s movies have grossed an average of $64 million while Murphy’s have averaged $37 million. Cha-ching.

The third step was to name the movie. “Dude, Where’s My Bachelor Party” and “What Happens in Vegas, Happens Twice (in Vegas)” were summarily rejected. Despite some creative differences, Josh and I continued to brainstorm (i.e., send emails through lunchtime) until a conversation with INPY yielded the perfect title:

“Double Down”.

Josh then added a tag line — “One Night. One City. Two Parties” — and we were nearing completion of the movie.

The fourth, and of course final, step was to make the movie poster. Enter Josh and his magical Photoshop skills:

If you read the fine print (and why wouldn’t you?) you’ll notice we went ahead and cast the rest of the film’s principle actors, including Amy Pohler, Seth Rogan, and Morgan Freeman.

We don’t have parts for them yet but that’s a small detail that will be taken care of in post (that’s a movie term you wouldn’t understand). We’re pretty sure Morgan Freeman will either narrate the film or play an older, wiser character who brings Scott and Murphy to their senses in the final act.

Pohler and Rogan will most likely play the maid of honor and best man and will serve what I like to call “comic relief”.

If you think all of this information ruins the ending, you haven’t seen enough movies.

I found this whole moviemaking business much easier than expected. My brother is an aspiring filmmaker in LA and he’s always complaining about how “hard” it is.

But I found it almost too easy. An idea, a cast, a title, and a movie poster. Done.

We’ll let you know the release date as soon as one is announced. I will give free screening passes to all commenters.

Oh, and yeah, now all we have to do is write the script.

photo credit

Post from: Arjewtino

When I watched the premiere of “Heroes” a couple of years ago, I was hooked. I told all my friends about it and blogged about how awesome it was in the hopes of starting a bandwagon.

But since then, the show has descended into a clusterfuck of boring stories, gaping plot holes, and nonsensical timelines.

Still, I can’t seem to jump off the bandwagon. Every Monday night, I watch it religiously, deflecting The Princess’ legitimate complaints and rationalizing that the episode wasn’t that bad.

Even my friend INPY, once a devoted fan, ridicules me every Tuesday morning when I come into the office.

“WHY are you still watching that piece of shit show?” he usually implores. “You should watch “Dexter”.

I don’t know why I can’t let “Heroes” go. It’s like an ex-girlfriend who used to be hot and even though you realized long ago she’s nothing more than a crazy chick who stole your money and told all your friends you gave her herpes, you’d still hit that if you could.

One of the worst things the show has done this year is introduce a bloated cast of heroes with ridiculous powers. Most of them are simply too retarded to be classified as “powers”. “Sound manipulation”? “Puppetry”? Really?

The show is spinning out of control (do they have a hero with gravitational manipulation?). So with last night’s mid-season finale marking the show’s winter hiatus, INPY and I brainstormed some superpowers the show’s “creative” team might resort to if they keeping using up all the good superpowers.

Seriously, I just might be the last one to leave and turn off the lights when it finally does get canceled.

1. Thermostat Man (+/- 3 degrees)

Power: Can raise or lower the temperature in any room by only 3 degrees. If it’s too cold in your living room, he can instantly make it, oh, let’s say, 69 degrees. He can sweat out any enemies by making them slightly uncomfortable.

Weakness: A functioning thermostat, which can be hard to find.

2. Parking Meter Jammer

Power: Can jam any parking meter with a “mental slug”, forcing enemy drivers to find a non-ideal parking spot, perhaps even a couple of blocks away. Creates administrative turmoil as city workers are unable to collect parking fees to help pay for needed highway projects.

Weakness: Handicapped parking spots.

3. Irony Definer

Power: Can accurately define the word “irony”, embarrassing enemies who use it incorrectly and coming across like a pretentious blowhard at house parties. Most people mistakenly believe this power makes him a really good writer, which, he informs them, is ironic.

Subpower: Can tell you when you use the word “literally” wrong.

Weakness: Alanis Morisette.

4. Decaffeinator

Power: Can take caffeine out of any beverage, mostly sodas and coffee. Often uses this power to make enemies who need their morning’ cup o’ joe deceptively sleepy.

Weakness: Can’t recaffeinate beverages, so if you’re looking for a surge of energy, better order a Red Bull.

5. Rainbow Maker

Power: Can create a rainbow anytime, anywhere, using only his power of prism-filtering. Popular at gay parades and kindergarten classes.

Weakness: The absence of humidity. Say, Death Valley.

6. Human Spellcheck

Power: Can tell you when any word is spelled incorrectly. Knows that the word “embarrass” has two “r’s” and that “harass” has only one. Constantly mocks Microsoft Word yet suffers from a crippling inferiority complex whenever he sees a Merriam-Webster dictionary.

Weakness: Punctuation, making his career as a technical writer rather a short one.

7. Jew

Power: Being Jewish. Can do your taxes, is available on retainer, and is responsible for all the wars around the world.

Weakness: Catholics. Constantly apologizing and asking if “we’re cool about that whole Jesus thing”.

Archnemesis: His own mother.

We expect to receive screen writing contracts any day now.

Post from: Arjewtino