Brett Ratner’s Rules For Netflix
By Brett Ratner

Back in the late 90’s I had a great idea. An idea to blow the top off the internet video rental world. That idea was Netflix and I am sure you are very thankful. I don’t own it anymore, but I sold it and made a a lot more money on the deal then you will ever see. It’s a lot. But anyway you’re welcome. Although it doesn’t seem like you are. I was playing pool in Soho which is in New York City with Charlie Sheen and talking about how unfortunate it is that there are still so many who are either new to the service or just have their head clearly up their asses when it comes to Netflix. It’s not like directing a 100 million dollar movie. That’s hard. Netflix is easy peasy. So I decided to come up some ground rules to help you get your head around what’s going on. Actually I let my friend, write them and then I amended them. They are not numbered because life shouldn’t be that easy.

A) Your Queue. For the uneducated military folk, it’s pronounced “Q," like the letter. You are so dumb.

Your Queue should be no less then 250 titles long or you will be thought of as unambitious and people will question your character. My mother is a society woman, and is constantly checking her “Friends” to make sure they have the right movies on there. Just the other day she said, “Did you see Nicole Kidman’s queue? He has only 50 titles on it! Did Keith Urban get out of rehab and start working at a gas station?” And my Mom is always right.

B) Since your plan is what I assume to be the pedestrian 3 at a time plan, (I have the 4 at a time plan, and I think anything else is a waste of money and if you didn’t already know that then I imagine must also have trouble controlling the function of your sphincters like you do your life choices) it is important to keep the ratio of prestige or foreign films to no more then one a month. I go as far sometimes as one every six monthes.

No matter how badly you tell yourself that you want to watch it and that you only go by the best of list in Film Comment (which I have been reviewed in several times) or who’s nominated for the Oscar (Which is fixed. Did you know that? I bet you didn’t.), if you don’t have a Chris Tucker or Jackie Chan movie buffer, you’ll never get through anything and waste your money. That prestige movie by the likes of Ridley Scott or something will be sitting there rotting in its red envelope forever.

Netflix is just as much for watching bad movies the made lots of money and you may have seen already as it is those little film school foreign films that no one really watches and make no money.

C) On the weekends, it is equally important to keep as many TV shows in your possession as possible. Unless you are Communist, then you do not get mail on Sunday. And we do not ship on Saturday or Sunday. TV show discs are typically longer then movie discs (unless you are a special features person (ride the short bus wink wink) so you get more out of them over the weekend. So get your season 4 disc two of Mad About You in the slot by Thursday so you can have disc 3 for the weekend. Paul Reiser will be giving your funny bone a deep tissue massage in no time. I’m not kidding. That show was like super underrated. I’ve met Helen Hunt several times and the guy who played Paul Reiser’s brother, that guy can drink man. Wow.

D) If you have Netflix you can cancel HBO. There’s no point unless you owe someone there a favor. (It’s why I had Luck Louie axed.)

E) If you have Netflix then you have no need for more then 3 close friends. Everything else is a distraction. Unless of course they are your Netflix friends. You should collect them as unconsciously as you do any of the inferior MySpace or Friendster bullshit sites that mean nothing except to cyber stalkers and porn addicts. That reminds me.

F) While there are Unrated and NC 17 movies on Netflix (not so with Blockbuster online), there is no porn. I think. I’ll look again.

G) You should review as many movies as possible. It’s only polite to let others know what you think. If you have seen it, it is important to make other aware of your tastes. Conversely if it is a movie by a friend of yours like Ashton Kutcher or Wilmer Valderamma and you have not seen it, feel free to label it with one star just to kid around with them and then tell them at a party what you did and then say, “You should see the funny ‘Two Cents Review’ I wrote about it, it will really crack you up.” I give all of Hugh Jackman’s movies one star as an assumption of how bad it would be if you were in a coma and it came on before and your eyes started to bleed because of the toxic shit level of the movie. He really is a tool, I can’t stress that enough. Do you know he played a fag on Broadway? Makes you think.

H) If you are gonna watch it more then once, buy it shit brick. I have like 10,000 DVDs. I don’t even really need Netflix, but whatever, I made it up. So you know.

I) Be careful what you wish for you just may get it. Once I put Private Benjamin on my Queue when I was hammered after a night of drinking with my ex Serena Williams (who I had a threesome with, with her sister what’s her face. True Story. But it was like a one time thing and they'll totally deny it if you ask them about it, because their Dad would be so pissed, but it happened.) and like it actually showed up in my mailbox like a month later, and I never watched it and then I lost it. And my maid said she never found it but I think she’s lying and stole it and sold it to her brother. He’s always saying, “Very Interesting but stooopid,” like that guy from Laugh- In, so I bet he has a thing for Goldie Hawn. I was totally Kurt Russell’s side by the way. Wait, that was Dennis Quaid/Meg Ryan. Whoops. Whatever. Bros before Ho’s man. BTW I don’t hate all Mexicans just the stupid ones I seem to find as maids.

J) So if you lose a DVD just lie to Netflix and click the “It’s in the mail and you didn’t get it” button. And if you break one you can just say that the mailman broke it. I once put mine in my back pocket after going to mailbox and then I had to go to meeting about doing the sequel (or I should say prequel) to Memento. And I was sitting on the damn thing like all day and I totally forgot. So I blamed the mailman. No questions asked. Suckers.

K) I looked again no porn, but I got a blowjob during Basic Instinct 2 from some a certain former Mouseketeer. I won’t say who. Not Britney or Xtina, but you know. You will totally get it in a sec. It’s not Justin either. I’m not playing on that team. What am I a scientologist? BTW Travolta, not straight at all.

L) Netflix Top 100 are mostly must sees and I’m not just saying that cause XMen3 was number one for like 11 days but well you know. Have you seen the Lake House? I wish I had done that. I know Keanu pretty well.

M) The correct way to verbalize it is as follows. Let’s say I’m at the Coffee Bean with my pal Jack Black.

Me: Hey Jack, so when are we gonna get together to talk about our new project together?

JB: Totally soon dude.

Me: Did you see X Men 3 yet?

JB: No I was out of the country when it came out, sorry man. But I’m totally gonna Flix it.

Me: I heard Peter Dinkledge has it on his queue, or at least that’s what my Mom says.

See “Flix it” sounds really cool right. And Jack Black has Netflix too. Makes it even cooler right.

N) Actually never mind this whole thing and totally disregard rule F, it was a stupid thing to mention anyway. I just signed a really cool deal with Blockbuster over a game of pool with the owner to exclusively offer my movies on Blockbuster Online. So take everything I just said and instead of Netflix just say Blockbuster Online. Same thing it’s just better and it will make you sooo much happier. I promise. Awesome.

Where Is My Sexy Parade?

It’s been over a week now and I’ve buried my discontent long enough. I would go as far as to say I am damn near cantankerous. It just sits there, everywhere, mocking me. In newsstands, book stores, websites, on Entertainment Tonight AND the Insider (that’s a straight hour). I could no longer hold back the flood gates of frustration. I had to know. How is it possible that, for the eleventh straight year of eligibility (although I was confirmed as a man by the Catholic Church at 15), have I been overlooked again for Sexiest Man Alive. Sure George Clooney won, I get it, I would be his man whore, but he’s already won before. Hell Richard Gere’s won twice. There is obviously very little thinking outside of the box going on in the editorial offices. Where’s the creativity? Are they just thumbing through Esquire and pointing when they see a splash page? Why tell people what they already perceive when they can be a voice of true authority?

I mean I could understand for the first few years of my youth. I was young and needed to be batted around a bit. In college, I was frequently covered in very un sexy paint stained clothing and rarely showered as much as I should, but I always cleaned up very sexily. So I needed to spend some time learning the ropes of sexy and paying my sexy dues. I was fine with that then, but now, even after all of my toil and preparation, it’s like they’re not even considering me. I have the hair, the eyes and my body isn’t gonna get any less fat. My time is now, I may never be sexier.

I need a real answer. After searching around a bit, using my sexy charm and calling in some favors, I finally got a number to an editor at People. Her assistant’s name was Barbara. Barbara had the cute and cordial accent of a girl from coal mining town, but I wasn’t disarmed. I was on a fact finding mission and immediately asked to speak to her boss. She said that my request, “was impossible,” and I knew it was crap. I should have held out but I just started in on her.

“Why haven’t I been considered for Sexiest Man Alive?” She then asked who I was and I told her. She said she’d never heard of me. I said why does that matter? She explained that you had to be famous to be Sexiest Man Alive. So I asked since when does being Alive have anything to do with being famous. Was she saying that my life was in balance with my Q rating? Or is anonymity like a malignant cancer? Would I live longer if I had starred in a movie with Susan Sarandon or Shaquille O’Neal? That’s when it became obvious that I was taking dead aim at Nick Nolte Mr. 1992, who is neither sexy nor alive. There’s been a distinct Weekend at Bernie’s vibe with him since Streisand denutted him in Prince of Tides. Did you also notice George Carlin started to suck right about that time? Also in POT. Then I listed past winners I was definitely more sexy then: the other being Ben Affleck.

I was too worked up to make sense. After taking a few breathes in the nearest black bodega bag, I laid back and thought of all the things I do have: like a very comfortable couch to lay back on. Then I apologized to Barbara. It wasn’t her fault, it was the editors, but next year I would prefer a phone call and left my number. I snapped my phone back into its folded rested position and took up my Play Station 2 controller. I felt, although no one could see me that I was very sexy at that very moment. Definitely sexier then Affleck and the world was just a phone call from finding out.

STEVE "PROCRASTINATION" DEANE or THE STORY ABOUT HOW I FUCKED UP THE OPPORTUNITY OF A LIFETIME: a response in 3 parts.

Wow. I'm completely depressed now. It's like scratching a winning lottery ticket, then spazzing out in joy and accidentally scraping off that "Void" box. I would have killed to find a box of porn. Considering "the talk" from my parents consisted of.....well absolutely nothing, finding a big box of sexual education would have done wonders for my formative years. All I had around to reference regarding the female angles of penis/vagina intercourse was a bi-annual Sears cataloge and Harlequin novels. Do you know what was out in the 1990's? Men referring to erections as their "throbbing manhood, straining against the seams of the codpiece", that's what. Ladies were also not as prone to "verily swooning, thrusting forth their heaving bosom in rapture" as I was lead to believe. You can imagine what a shock it was to find out from my first serious girlfried that not all women's underwear was cut like the sail on clipper ship. Stupid sexy illustrations of Sears' items on sale.

I wonder if somewhere on the wide world of "internet" someone has written a story on their blog about how they found the sweetest box of porn known to man. It'd probably start out talking about these "weirdos" they used to see down by the river. They'd be down there everyday floating random trash through a tube because they were too jackassey (read: not radical enough) to play Nintendo. Then they'd probably go on to talk about how awesome the porn was and how "my buddy totally thought I couldn't jack off to the chello chick again, but I showed his ass (not literally 'cause that's gay LOL!)" The post would wrap up with some sort of hackney pseudo-deep statement about how that box is a metaphor for life and it made them the man/woman he/she is today. Preferrably that person isn't a complete sexual deviant, but who knows. At least if they were we'd have some evidence from their blog to present in court.

If you ever find that post, we should totally kick the shit out of them.

Also I did a search for "dirty gutters" and Google gave me this. I think Google is racist.

So I am not even sure where to start this, so I'll just get into it.

I lived in Annapolis for a while a few years ago and one of the jobs I had was waiting tables. I was easily the oldest of the crew at the Chevy's on Riva Road with most of them being in college, or just getting ready to go. I was 28, and always eager to make friends and impart knowledge and life lessons. (read drink and talk a lot of shit.)
So after work, a bunch of us made it down to what is undeniably the pinnacle of restaurant chainage- TGIFriday's. As the night wore on, and people filled their bellies with red headed sluts and Miller Lite, things started to get, let's say, animated. There was some good natured wrestling and I took out a pen and even drew cocks on one of my coworker's faces.

ImageIgloo.com
Needless to say, we were having a good time.
I had just lit up probably my sixth heater when it happened. I gambled and lost. My face fell. I had just fucking shit my pants. So even though I had just peed, I worked my way out of the corner and headed to the bathroom. In the stall I marveled at my own recklessness. How could I have been so dumb? I slipped off my shoes and then gingerly pulled my soiled off boxers with my thumb and forefinger. I cleaned up and dumped the evidence in the hole in the middle of the counter between the sinks.
I looked back and saw them peeking out and waving good bye as I exited. Now I am not one to often go without boxers. It stinks of desperation, porno, and filth. Not that I usually have a problem with any one of those, but it's like driving without my seatbelt on. Just not used to it, nor am I totally comfortable. I'd better drink more and forget my woes.
I got back on the ball and ordered more shots and settled back in. I had been cozying up to Nicki, a cute blonde girl that was going to be attending U of Maryland in the fall, so when the idea of an afterparty was brought up, I offered to give her a ride. Somewhere on the five mile drive to the after party, all the booze started to catch up with me. I was pretty drunk. *I no longer drive shitty btw*
We were getting close to the party and for some reason we pulled off in the neighborhood before we got there. I dont know why, but whatever the reason, we started to make out in the car. I was so drunk by now that I had to keep one eye open while I was kissing her so that I wouldnt spin. It's a hot look, I suggest you try it. At some point she says "do you want to fuck me?" My mind is totally alert now! Somehow what I was thinking didnt really make it to my mouth right. "I want you inside me," I blurted out. "Wait, what? No, I uhhh, you know..."
I dont remember much else of that night except that I woke up on my friend's couch. Moral of the story: Your mom is right. Always wear clean underpants.
I think I left my brain in mine at Fridays.

The following is the closed captioned transcript of the You Tube telecast: Danvers Movie Loft. Streamed live at Danvers Square Pants in Danvers, MA and at Bob O’Dell’s house on Maple Street.

BIGPAPI044EVA Hey theah ya Schmitty’s and welcome to the Danviz Movie Loft I'm Mikey O' Dell of Danviz Squah Pants live at Danviz Squah Pants in gahgous Danviz Mass. Go Pats Peyton you got lucky. And this my brother…
bobbythepantsman Hi I'm Bobby O'Dell live from Maple Street.
BIGPAPI044EVA Weah heah to talk about Mahtin Scohsayzee's the Depahhted on ouah ferst eva live web stream of Danviz Movie Loft.
bobbythepantsman ...and his pantz.
BIGPAPI044EVA and his pantz.
bobbythepantsman This movie was an all around hit. It really had it all. Big stahs... action packed... and lots of blood
BIGPAPI044EVA Lotsa blood and that DiCahprio chick eats it hahdcoah.
bobbythepantsman yuh... well, don't give away the endin...
bobbythepantsman not yet at least...
BIGPAPI044EVA Oh yeah ignoh that
BIGPAPI044EVA But what about Mahtin Sheen gettin dropped from the buildin’
bobbythepantsman Dude.
I think that this one really hit home for us... because these ah the types of things that would go on in ouah back yahd growin' up in danviz
BIGPAPI044EVA Oh yeah
bobbythepantsman living so close to a city like boston, the irish mob is everywheah... like uncle mac...
bobbythepantsman woops... shouldn'ta said that eithah...
BIGPAPI044EVA he was just like Mahk Wahlberg
bobbythepantsman right Mahk...
BIGPAPI044EVA cause he usedta lift cinda blocks insteada weights.
bobbythepantsman Yuh, totally... I think that the moral of the story was that everyone is in the mob. I mean, that's what all of ouah uncles yousta say anyways... He was especially mobby b/c he knew jacky nick so well... but nevah "had enuff evidence to move on him..." kinda like how uncle mac is still around...
BIGPAPI044EVA I think Scoahsayzee should give up on new yahk and only do movies in the Danviz airea from now on.
BIGPAPI044EVA BTW Uncle Mac was so full of it
bobbythepantsman Is that a cah like the Touhreg? Which you can get at Danviz Volvo right next to Danviz Squah Pants.
BIGPAPI044EVA he told me once he was gonna get Freddy Lynn fa my birthday pahty
BIGPAPI044EVA never happened
bobbythepantsman well... maybe we should write Scorsayzee a lettah... offering our store... and some more of those amazin' pants...
bobbythepantsman for filmin
BIGPAPI044EVA did u see matt damon's pants btw
bobbythepantsman yuh... big "p'dy squah pantz" logo on the bac
BIGPAPI044EVA theya a buncha hoahs
bobbythepantsman fuckah
BIGPAPI044EVA the guy act like he doesn’t memba when he was just a little movie stah and we would fit him with some slacks. He was just like regulah people back then.
bobbythepantsman yuh... he was a good kid...but you know hollywood.
bobbythepantsman so... let's shift geahz and talk abowt the accents in the movie
BIGPAPI044EVA I thought they weah lackin
bobbythepantsman lots of these people ahnt from around danviz, in case you didnt know
BIGPAPI044EVA Jack totally phoned it in
bobbythepantsman nicholson?
BIGPAPI044EVA Total phone job
bobbythepantsman whatta about daymon's gir?
BIGPAPI044EVA I’d get a phonejob from her anyday.
bobbythepantsman Soahry about that folks. My brotha has a mouth on him.
BIGPAPI044EVA My apologees to the fucha missis Danviz Squah pants. Did ya like DiCapri-girl’s accent?
bobbythepantsman she sounded like aunt jeannie who moved out to nebraska and came back every yeah foah crismas... tried too hahd. too fake...
BIGPAPI044EVA Oh yeah memba the yehah she got us all those cotton culottes
BIGPAPI044EVA the stitchin was horrible
bobbythepantsman seriously... dumb brod leaves the noth shoah and her family... thinks she can staht her own pants stoah in nebrasksa...
bobbythepantsman i mean, i like the vision theah... but keep it local hun...
BIGPAPI044EVA we heah at Danviz Squah pants do not condone makin them Oriental kids make ya pants
BIGPAPI044EVA they should be American made
bobbythepantsman yah.. .by american kids
BIGPAPI044EVA or mexicans livin in america
bobbythepantsman so... intrestin fact about the Depahted..
BIGPAPI044EVA yeah bro.
bobbythepantsman they said that it took the most paiahs of pants evah to make this movie
BIGPAPI044EVA wow
bobbythepantsman i don't believe it...what about all the munchkins from the wizahd of oz?
bobbythepantsman that's a lot of little people, and a lot of pants
bobbythepantsman what'd he do? change 'em fah evry scene?
BIGPAPI044EVA those weah some nice pants on jack
BIGPAPI044EVA i can call him jack you know
BIGPAPI044EVA he came into the stoah once in 92 lookin foah a nice pair of black jeans
BIGPAPI044EVA I pointed out ouah button fly collection
BIGPAPI044EVA and he left
bobbythepantsman i just dont' undahstand people who don't know a quality pahr of pants when they see 'em
BIGPAPI044EVA theah was lotsa blodd memba so I could see the pantz changin’
bobbythepantsman theah was so much, that i thot i was gunna look down and see some on my pantz oah sumthin. Prahbably not gonna stock this one at Danviz Squah pants.
BIGPAPI044EVA Wheah we stock a liberry of VHS recohdins so you and the little ones and watch some quality entatainment while you shop foa pants.
bobbythepantsman i liked how not everyone was shot.
bobbythepantsman they threw the captin from the buildin... i thot that was a nice touch
BIGPAPI044EVA that musta been awesome to throw the president from the building like that
bobbythepantsman guns ah too easy sometimes
bobbythepantsman yuh right
BIGPAPI044EVA i woulda pretended he was Gahge Bush
BIGPAPI044EVA i would also like to remind oah viewas that John Kerry was hosed in 0 fouh
BIGPAPI044EVA fuckin Ohio
BIGPAPI044EVA hey Bobby did you vote fa the black guy?
bobbythepantsman i did... it took a lot of thinkin... but that othah bitch had an accent worse than aunt jeanies
BIGPAPI044EVA she was probably a Moahmen like Romney that Cahpetbagga
BIGPAPI044EVA anyway ouah producah is telling us to wrap it up
BIGPAPI044EVA so on a scale of how retahded to thought the depahted was what would u say bobby
bobbythepantsman wicked retaaaahhed... but, in a good way... membah?
BIGPAPI044EVA not like actual retahds
bobbythepantsman yuh...
BIGPAPI044EVA I would give the depahted a wicked mega retahded
BIGPAPI044EVA Scohsayzee should neva make a movie outside of bahston eva again
bobbythepantsman as always... i'm bobby o'dell and this is my brothah mikey...
BIGPAPI044EVA and remember
bobbythepantsman take off yoah pants...
BIGPAPI044EVA and put on ouahs
BIGPAPI044EVA DANVIZ SQUAAH PANTS
bobbythepantsman DANVIZ SQUAAH PANTS

Open on Donald Rumsfeld. He's on a street corner dialing a cellphone. He sighs softly and puts the phone up to his ear.
Rumsfeld: Hi George. It's me.
Bush: Rummy, you know you shouldn't be calling me.
Rumsfeld: Oh right. Sorry. What time is it there?
Bush: It's 8:15.
Rumfeld: Oh really? I'm sorry, I haven't slept in days. I've been working on this new theory to make our army more lethal while reducing the number of troops on the ground.
Bush: *with pangs of regret in his voice* Oh Donald. It's been 3 months now. I've moved on.
Rumsfeld: Oh I know, I know. I probably should have too.
Bush: Donald, where are you? You sound close.
*Bush looks out the window to see Rumsfeld standing on the sidewalk outside the White House fence*
Bush: Donald. Rummy, you look terrible. Have you been eating?
Rumsfeld: Look, I'm fine. I thought maybe we could meet up for lunch? Maybe even just coffee?
Bush: I don't think that's such a good idea. Look I can't really talk right now. Robert's in the next room.
Rumsfeld: Oh he is? Robert Gates is a nice guy. I can see you being happy with him.
Bush: Robert is very nice and he treats me well. *pause* Look, Donald, you know I'll always love you.
Rumsfeld: I know, I know. I also was no good for you. You deserved better.
Bush: *sigh* I wouldn't say that. Don't beat yourself up over this.
Rumsfeld: Well I wanted to try and make it up to you. That whole Iraq thing wasn't the best anniversary gift in the world.
Bush: It was fine, Donald. I loved it. I knew what I was getting into with you. Look, I really should go.
Rumsfeld: Just hear me out. People are complaining about our brave men and women dying, right? Well what if we got someone else to fight the war instead? Something the American people don't care about?
Bush: Gays?
Rumsfeld: Even better.
Bush: Gay robots?
Rumsfeld: Come on George. Be serious.
Bush: Rummy, look I have to go. Robert's coming and I don't want him to know I'm talking to you.
Rumsfeld: I don't want to give too much away, but I caught Jurassic Park the other day and I've been scouring ebay for pieces of amber. If I can get the right one we could clone dinosaur soldiers to do the figh...
*Robert Gates comes into the room, wearing a robe and slippers. Panic briefly flashes over George's face.*
Bush: *stuttering* I'm, I'm sorry I don't have time for your survey right now. Thank you and God bless america!
Robert: Who was that?
Bush: It was nothing.
Robert: Are you sure? You look like you've seen a ghost.
Bush: I'm fine. Finish getting ready Robert.
*Bush turns away from Robert to gaze out his window. Rumsfeld has disappeared into the early morning bussle. Bush puts his hand gently on the window and scans the faces of the crowd, as a single tear rolls his cheek.*
Bush: Take care Rummy. *choking back a sob* You magnificent bastard.

I've heard it said, that it's not what you get. It's what you give.

Last time y'all heard from me I ranted about some guy from Charlton who fleeced me for $20. Well, that dude has not made good on his promise. The mailman hasn't delivered the duckets. One might ask: Has Turtle lost faith in human nature?

As of this moment I have not. It appears that since this chance encounter my shit luck has taken a turn for the better. Maybe that cash was the cost of reversing the karma wheel for a short time. Instead of feeling like the storm clouds loom above. The winds of change are moving things about in such a way that I can see daylight now and again.

I recently had to buy a Kia. I'm not proud. Hey, it rolls...

This purchase felt like it took place at gunpoint. My '97 Taurus died in the first week of August. In the first week of October I placed my wife's car on the "injured reserve" list of vehicles. Fate forced my had to spend cash I didn't have. On October 10th. '06 I had a white, year 2000, Kia Sephia delivered to my doorstep. Little did I know I could become so preoccupied by a car. This "marshmallow" caused me to spend more time underneath it than behind the wheel. I was a man obsessed with trying to pinpoint where a mysterious stream of green piss was originating from.

This vehicle began "marking its territory" like a dog almost as soon as it arrived at my house. Anti-freeze flows green in the driveway should be the title of this car's biography. The long and the short of it is. Thank God for the lemon law. After four, count 'em FOUR trips to the shop in three weeks. I was ready to tell the dealer I wanted a full refund. His hired goons couldn't find any issues. They made me feel as if my imagination had blurred the boundary between the real world and the fantastic realm where dreams are made.

As a last ditch effort, on Halloween, I brought the car to my mechanic. He found the problem in 30 minutes. The problem was solved by replacing a cheap part that was warped by engine heat. I had the satisfaction of proving that the cheese had not slipped entirely off of my cracker. I called the car dealer and exclaimed, "We found the leak."

"Get me a price," he said before hanging up the phone abruptly.
My mechanic rang him back and an agreement was reached. The leak was fixed.
So, my friends, I may not have received my $20 back. Nonetheless, I was able to get my marshmallow repaired with someone else's money. Cosmic justice? I don't know. I still have a car that gets me to and from work; the karma wheel continues to spin.

Update!The 18 hour Vegas trip details! At least the recollection of it anyway...

Friday 335PM, the bug has finally crawled far enough under my skin to really get me excited. So I went in to the head of the development department to ask if I could go. I explained I was getting ready to go on a trip and wanted to bomb out a little early. I didnt tell her my flight wasnt until 930 and really wanted to get shitty.

I got home at just before six so that my girlfriend and her sister could marvel at how sweet I am before getting on my flight. They were impressed. Sorta. Elia came and got me and I cant say that I really remember the ride to the airport, but I did remember to buy us two shots of Jag at the airport before getting on the flight. It was a steal at $24.00. Some guy made some smart ass comment about my choice of shot. For some reason, he refused to make eye contact with me when I said "What was that?" loud enough to startle the deaf fuck sitting next to me. Vegas, here I come.

I had another two cocktails on the plane and then cozied up to the industrial plastic window that keeps the oxygen masks in the plane's attic and me in my seat. Elia, Matt, and I found each other in the Airport in Vegas at which point my headache was starting to kick in. I desperately needed a cocktail to keep from fading or succumbing to the pain in my head. Nothing can kill a buzz more than walking outside to grab a cab and find a line of 200 people in front of you. We killed time by making circles with our hips and humping the air. People we're pleased.

We dumped our shit at the MGM Grand and then blew over to meet the rest of the guys at Mandalay Bay. In the center of the casino there was a bar with a band playing cover songs. I was astounded at how good a small Asian girl was at singing "Cult of Personality." Everyone was in great spirits at the bar. Drinks were flowing almost inundating people at times. It was great. I ordered 3 vodka red bulls for $34.50, fucking Vegas, and we all got down to business.

Things flew by, but before I knew it, my phone said it was almost 5am. I got dragged to bed. There was some sort of ruckus in the room, but enh i dont know what it was all about. My guess is that no one wanted to take in an aerial tour of the Grand Canyon at 510am. Pussies. Much to everyone's delight, I slept with my mouth open. No tea bags, thank you.

No helicopter looking for a murder Two in the mornin got the Fatburger. Actually, Ice Cube was right. There were no helicopters, but I did have Fatburger at 830 the next morning for breakfast. They had the loudest juke box in there and I made sure that everyone witnessed what could be considered virtuoso air guitar to Iron Maiden's Two Minutes to Midnight. Then we went back to the hotel changed into our swim suits and hit the pool. By 930 I was sipping some sort of cocktail that had 151 in it. I was trying to catch my liver napping, but he was up and all fucking business.

The weather was perfect. 78 degrees and sunny. Some guy lost a bet and had to walk the length of the pool in pink boy shorts and a sports bra. The crowd went wild. I told him that if I had been on my back when he walked by that I would have become a human sundial. Wink wink. So we just sat around drank, and talked about how I claim to have a thumb nail on my dickhead, for digging purposes, and much blood in your stool is a bad thing. When your turd is marbled like a fine $50 steak, you might have reasons for concern.

Eventually we headed back to the room for some more cocktails, and I had to start thinking about leaving. A security guard came by and told us how many people die in a month in the casino on average (3), and that Michael Jordan lost one of his championship rings while gambling here. I finished my drink and hopped in a cab.

Since I had no bags, I went right to the gate. Actually, I went right to the airport bar and sat down. I was feeling pretty haggard by this time and was zoning out watching tv. I had just finished a jag bomb and ordered another beer when our fearless leader showed up on the screen looking smug as ever. "What an asshole," I muttered, loud enough for the guy next to me to hear. Turns out, he was a marine and LOVES GWB. It didnt take long for this to get heated. I dont know why, but I asked him if he was a cowboy. Then I moved seats and tried to make out what the people at the next table were saying. It was Chinese.

I could get into the fact that I had to sit next to a woman so large that we couldnt put the armrest down and needed a seatbelt extension and had brought candy for the in-flight movie, but I wont. I ordered two more Jack and Cokes and sort of passed out.

I got off the plane and hopped in a cab and went downtown to meet my girlfriend at a bar. Three more drinks later and I was devouring my pillow.

So, how was Vegas? Awesome. 18 hours of awesome. I spent more on booze than I did on my ticket, almost got my ass kicked in an airport bar, lost my socks, got a tan, and saw a 6' 8" woman's ass hang out at the bar. So how did I do? As far as I am concerned, I came back even Steven.

Science!!!



You're gonna want to watch your eyes and groin around this thing.

I hate David Eckstein.

Everything about him pisses me off, which is odd considering he's not really an offensive person. He's an inspiring story I suppose. Bust your ass hard enough you'll be rewarded even if you're one of the least talented people in your profession. Baseball has brought us complete douche whistles like Barry Bonds, Albert Belle, and 12-time "Most Racist American Award" winner Ty Cobb, yet this shortstop with the vanilla personality makes me so goddamned angry. Kind of funny I guess. Maybe pathetic is the better word.

The day after his Game 4 performance, I spent most of my day at work stewing over how much I hated him. I was watching Sportscenter on the treadmill that morning listening to the baseball analysts thoroughly clean his penis. Chris Berman even went so far as to say he willed the game winning double out of Craig Monroe's glove. I'm not sure exactly how Berman thinks he did that, since I didn't see Christopher Lloyd or any orphaned jackasses having seizures at the game. I think for me it's gotten to the point where I'll hate any athlete that gets overly praised to the point of redundancy (See: Jeter, Derek) just because I'm so sick of hearing how fucking great he/she is. Maybe it's time to accept the reality that I'm a hater. So be it.

At least with a guy like Jeter you can hate him for valid reasons. I've lived near Boston all my life and love the Red Sox. He owns New York and plays for the Yankees. He's a guy with genuine talent, but with an outrageous sense of entitlement and a smugness that you can actually see hanging in the air. He's also constantly lauded for his so-called "intangibles" and the amazing ability to make routine plays seem extremely difficult (i.e. the dive into the stands at Fenway. That shit won him a gold glove for fuck's sake). This usually results in announcers saying the mostly patently retarded things about him and his personality to the point that his whole persona is blown up to these mythic proportions. Also, he's solely responsible for ruining Mariah Carey and he's gorgeous in the way that only mixed race men can be. See? He's pretty easy to hate.

Eckstein is a different story. On the whole he's kind of bland. He's got terrible throwing mechanics, limited range at short, little power, his OBP is unremarkable and he's not particularly quick. Now he plays in the inferior National League where numbers like he puts up gets you in the leadoff spot. When he was in the AL, (outside of his decent 2002 year) he's should have been a number 8 hitter. I drafted him in my fantasy baseball league in 2003 and dropped him for Orlando Cabrera. Sound familiar? Unlike guys like Jeter, he's a huge dork. People probably mistake him for one of Jim Edmonds' kids on "Bring Your Son to Work Day". Tigers manager Jim Leyland said he looked like a "cute, little kid". He got carded at the World Series celebration because someone thought he was a bat boy. I'm not kidding, look at this photo:

Seriously, he's 31 years old and he had an Alice in Wonderland themed wedding at Disney World. What the fuck is that? Instead of being shunned for his many flaws, he (like Jeter) gets constantly talked up like he's the soul of baseball. Guys are constantly praising his grit and his motor and all kinds of other metaphors to make up for his lack of talent. I'm too lazy to look it up but I'm sure some manager has said "Give me 9 David Ecksteins and we'll win a Championship" at least once. Guess what? You're a liar and have no business managing even the shittiest of Babe Ruth teams. You know what 9 Ecksteins in the lineup gets you? A phone call from the last living Cleveland Spider to let you know how god awful your team is.

I don't care that he makes people believe they too can make the Major Leagues if they want it enough. It's the Major Leagues, not a pick-up softball league. These guys are the best of the best and I want to be jealous of them always. So cut the shit Eckstein (and by extension, baseball announcers talking around his cock). I don't like scrubs like you winning two World Series and a MVP award based on your plucky amount of gritty gumption, while I sit at home feeling bad about my complete lack of motivation. Oh and put a bend in your hat for chrissakes. You look ridiculous.

I guess I should amend my opening sentence. I hate David Eckstein for no good reason.

IN THE PAPERS

On page eight of the New York Sun,
It says,

You know I saw him once.
NYC NY1 C list star Pat Kiernan.
He’s Canadian.
NO Roger Clark.
(his side kick)
Or Roma Torre.
(his arch enemy)
Or Black guy who looks like a muppet.
I call him the Black Muppet.
No IN THE PAPERS at 8:43 in the AM.
Just his perfect blonde children
And his perfect blonde wife.
They were eating tacos and chips and salsa.
In a striped golf shirt.
Not caring at all.
He’s fucking Pat Kiernan.

I know you’re leaving Pat.
I’ve seen the signs.
World Series of Pop Culture.
Best Week Ever.
VH1 is grooming you out of my morning.
To be Alex Trebek.
Bagel sandwich,
Diet Coke,
Pat Kiernan.
That is New York before 9.

Pat I think we should talk.
And he would put me at ease.
With a joke.
Or a disarming aside.
But I’d try and stay on message,

I wanted to ask you.
Why?
Is it for the money?
Cablevision will pay more.
Is it fame?
Why would you want more then what you have?
A big fish in a small pond.
It’s only the pond that gets bigger buddy.
You’re just the new fish.

New fish.
New fish.
They’re making bets.

But I’m unnerved.
He is much too happy.
Too fucking content with his kids
and his money.
VH1 money.
He’s fucking PAT Kiernan.
Like Shatner.
Canadian at large.
Who misses his bizarro brand of Canadian Wheaties.

There will never be another Dick Albert for me.
Or Bruce Schweggler.
I met him too.
But they was never on the cusp.
So join Sam Champion.
Be Regis.
Do drugs.
Wear sunglasses.
Date Sienna Miller.
Trash Pittsburgh.
Then date a Steeler to prove you’re sorry
I didn’t want to know you anymore
Anyway.

And that’s what’s
In the Papers.

Good morning. My name is Old Overholt and I like to crop dust.

I'm not afraid to admit that in my old age, some things have started to wane. No more aggressive jewelry, I am in bed way earlier than midnight, but I still have my passions. One of them is crop dusting.
What is crop dusting you may ask. Leaking methane from your fartbox in public without making an audible sound is crop dusting. The other day I was out at a networking meeting, which I have to attend a lot of for work. This one was particularly boring with at least a dozen stuffed shirts posturing and pretending to not be engaging in some corporate mating ritual. So went over, and made some small talk for a few moments, and then I "let the rats out of the cellar." Two seconds later, "Awesome, they brought out more vienna sausages. Be right back." Oh I wasnt going back. I had just tasted the hell I had let out, and wanted to watch them pretend that it wasnt there.
This is not a conversation you will hear at these meetings:
Dipshit A: Hi Charles, how's the market treating you?
Dipshit B: Landry! You old salt! Waitress! A round of Sperry Topsiders for everyone!
Dipshit C: Christ! Who fucking farted?!?!?!?
Stew in it fuckers. Smell the inside of my ass. I'm off to watch the Minnesota Rollergirls where they dont serve Veuve Cliclot and no one cares about the price of Talbots stock.