Killing Me Sweetly Part II- Sugary Tooth Extractors

There are some things in this world that even when they are not all that good, they are still somewhat enjoyable. Examples would include pizza and sex. Even less-than stellar intercourse that does not result in multiple orgasms is still better than no sex. At least that's the way I feel. You would think candy should fall into this category. After all, it contains sugar, which is the universal feel-good compound that makes all the right chemicals surge through our beleaguered brains. Unfortunately, there are items in the candy world that take us down the road to saccharine perdition, and often times, that road is paved with the expensive dental work or cavity-laden molars of their victims.

The Gouda today will chastise the candies that try hardest to keep the world's dentists in business:

Milk Duds and/or Riesen
JuJubes, Starburst, Now & Later

I mean... what the fuck? Where does the joy lie in rigid, sweet clumps of misery adhering to the cracks and crevices of one's chompers? These virulent rogues of the confectionary world violate the one rule I have for the enjoyment of any foodstuff:

If more time trying to get the crap out of my teeth or out of its natural encasement must be spent than actually chewing, swallowing, and enjoying said foods, it's not worth eating. Life is short, people. I'd rather spend it living off the nourishment I'm putting into my body than fighting with it before ingesting it. Other foods falling under this category include sunflower seeds in the shell, shellfish that has not been cracked open in advance, ribs, and corn on the cob. It's not that I don't eat these things, it's just not something toward which I tend to gravitate first. But let's save those offenders for another post and focus on the sweet stuff.

It's not that the above-mentioned candies don't taste good. I love the combination of caramel and chocolate. No- check that- I want to drown myself in it. I also enjoy the fruity fakeness of the Jujubes and Starbursts, although they don't really trigger in me the "I'm going to die from the sheer lust I'm experiencing from eating this" vibe.

So even if it tastes alright, the act of eating a piece of Riesen, for instance, is akin to using a pair of hedgeclippers to trim my fingernails. Why go to all that trouble and potentially disasterous result by eating that when I could so much more easily swoon myself into the titillating utopia of sucrose saturation by eating one or two (okay, a dozen) of something like, say, a Hershey's Kiss?

I do have a grudging admission, though. Maybe one good thing about candies like this is that by their very irritatingly laborious nature, they halt the tendency to binge. Of course, my tendency to binge (or eat, period) would also be halted if I had to make an emergency trip to the dentist to have the amalgam shoved back into my upper-right bicuspid. I'd rather just not go there.

I almost convinced myself to concede defeat on my own point, but not now!

No... no... Molar-adhering candies are officially dead to me, and I'm sticking to it, dammit!

Now... where are my Kisses?

An Annoyance of Apocalyptic Proportions...

Getting goods from Point A to Point B often involves some kind of insulation from the shock of transport, be it a bumpy ride in a truck or the rough hands (or boots) of a disgruntled shipping clerk. There is an array of options at our disposal, from bubblewrap to these little strung together bags of air I've been seeing more recently. Those are all well and good. Bubblewrap can be rolled up and stored away for later use. Or popped during one of those fits of boredom that seems to require a form of repetitious stress relief. There is something particularly pleasing about that latter activity. So pleasing, in fact, that bubblewrap might be considered a Talisman.

But there is one packing substance that causes me to go through convulsions of disgust, frustration, and downright irritation from the tips of my toes to the ends of my eyelashes every time I open a freshly shipped box:

Ah yes, the stryofoam peanut. You know, maybe I am just having mental issues with things that pretend to be peanuts that really aren't, but there is something so inherently disturbing to me about these viscious little vittles that makes me want to scrape my throat raw with screams of outrage. I wouldn't call it a phobia so much as a source of unending irritation at their lack of practicality, their considerable bulk in that they cannot be stored compactly, their tendency to break apart and stick to your clothes when you're rooting through them, and worst of all- that squeaky rustling sound they make when the kernels rub together that produces needly little vibrations that worm their way in through my ear drums, tickling the little hairs of my inner-ear, making me writhe in revulsion.

Seems kind of extreme, I guess. I'm certain that this is a little quirk of mine that many people do not share. All I know is that any joy I feel when I receive a long-awaited package is drained away like a plug pulled too soon from a warm bath when I see the goods swimming in a sea of styrofoam. In fact, clouds of wrath gather across my sunny psyche while tiny, silver little blades of fury shoot from my pupils. I am even hesitant to reach in and pull the item out of the box because I know the fucking little pellets are going to go spilling out everywhere, and then I have to wonder how in the hell I'm going to get rid of them.

So I really really dislike these Nuts of The Apocalypse. In fact, I absolutely loathe them. I appeal to all those who have to ship a package to my house to please have mercy on me now that you know how I truly feel about them. I know I can probably do something creative with them. Some goofy craft project with the kids, or maybe break them apart and cover my lawn in fake snow. I can probably even drop them off at the UPS store or some other place that deals in domestic styrofoam terrorism, but I'm just saying that I don't even want it to get to that point. At the risk of sounding like one of those crazy people on Maury Povich who belts shrieks of terror at the sight of a cotton ball, I'd rather not have to be forced to touch them.

Go ahead and laugh. Just... go ahead!

Killing Me Sweetly Part 1: Circus Peanuts

Is that title not confusing enough?

I figured that there are several candies out there that need to die a painful death, and there are too many to fit in a single post. So Memoirs of a Gouda is pledged to do a multi-part investigation on Friday's Leave it Dead column on the legion of tooth-rotting gastronimic nightmares from our childhood. As opposed to the tooth-rotting, gastro-orgasmic treats of love that we want to keep.

What inspired me to go down this path, you ask? Well, as I was swooning through a mental climax that can only be inspired by creamy mashmallow covered with chocolate and cashews, otherwise known as a Rocky Road Bar, I found myself wondering what could possibly kill this moment.

And out of nowhere, a Circus Peanut popped into my head. You know what they are- the fake, foamy, formidably funknacious, fucking GROSS candies that look like this:


I know they aren't "dead" in the sense that my regular Friday entry typically requires, but I think I need to work this bit of mental anguish out. To not "leave it dead", but to once and for all make them "dead to me". I saw some of these disgusting capsules of evil dangling in a cellophane bag in the corner gas station just last night, and I had my typical flashback involving my first bite of the pugnacious puffy peanut. It was in the third grade, and the girl at the desk next to me asked if I wanted a piece of candy. Upon my eager nodding, as any healthy child in elementary school is wont to do, I accepted in my hand the finger-like, flesh-colored morsel and took my first bite, whereupon the dire urge to vomit assailed upon me like a pair of rough cops on Rodney King. I remember looking at my friend, grinning sheepishly, placing the entire peanut in my mouth, and feigning joyful chewing with all of the skill of a taster on the Iron Chef who has just sampled a spoonful of salmon roe ice cream. When she looked away, I immediately removed said peanut, now tacky with sucrose-laden juvenile saliva and tried to figure out what to do with it. In a fit of ingenuity that would only befit an 8-year-old, I plastered it to the underside of my desk, where I promptly squashed it with my fingertips, like a giant piece of chewed bubblegum. I flattened it as much as I could, and there it stayed for the remainder of the school year, and as far as I know, for years after that.

I imagine that desk now lies rotting in the bottom of some landfill, but that mutilated, petrified circus peanut remains as intact as ever, holding my DNA like a solid piece of amber, only it's been avoided by every specimen of bug, mold, and vermin that exists in such places. Nature will not reclaim what is not of this planet, I am convinced. And I'm also convinced that the Circus Peanut should forever reside in the Hall of What Should Never Have Been and What Never Again Will Be.

Stay tuned next week when The Gouda investigates another conspiracy likely cooked up by evil dentists. The Easy Tooth Extractors known as Ju-Ju-Bees and Milk Duds.

Melons of the Apocalypse That Aren't On Pam Anderson's Chest

It's like the little fucker is grinning at me...

Awhile ago I talked about how olives were Satan's dingleberries, and I seemed to get an equal amount of validation and disagreement on that to help me realize that I am not, in fact, crazy.

Now I need your concensus on another food item that rankles my gastronomic sensibilities to the very core:

Melons.

Namely, cantaloupe and honeydew. Watermelon is just on the brink of being acceptable, but I have to be in the mood for it. It has a fibrous texture that has a tendency to bother me on occasion, but on a hot summer day, its abundant, mildly sweet juiciness is a godsend.

Honeydew is a step below watermelon but only moderately so. I recently made a fruit salad that had honeydew, blueberries, and mango all tossed in a lime-ginger reduction that was fantastic. The dressing had a way of masking what I have come to view as a "garbage" flavor emanating from these dastardly orbs.

This brings me, however, to the ultimate offender. The Hannibal Lecter of fruits, otherwise known as... Cantaloupe.

Oh killer of joyous sustenance consumption!

Oh vile, malicious melon of mirthful malevolence!

You reek of rot, and taste like taint! Be gone from my presence, oh orange-hued perniciousness, and leave only in your wake a withering rind to remind the world that there is such a thing as elemental evil, for that is your only value!

Perhaps when I've restored my smiting power after this little rant, I will go after the citrusy Damien to the melony Satan: Grapefruit. Until then, I only have this left to say to the melons of the world:

You're dead to me.

3 Car Fads of Shame...

A car is often someone's platform of self-expression, and people will spend thousands of dollars customizing their vehicles to set them apart from the other motorists out there. Sometimes, you come across real works of art, usually indicative of someone who put thoughtful consideration not only into the modifications, but whether or not they suited the vehicle. Often times though, customization ends up being outright automobile abuse, and if the car had the ability to speak, it would be screaming like Pat Robertson in a gay bar. Right now I'm just going to single out a few aesthetic offenses, and I'll let you all try to come up with some more. Lord knows, there is no shortage of them out there.

Like Pamela Anderson, there's something a little fake up top...

1. The Fake Convertible Top: Face it folks, you're not fooling anybody. Having a car with a roof that looks like it might come down is not making you look as cool as someone who has a car with a roof that actually does. In fact, it's making you look like a downright nimrod, but I am not just going to attack the driver on this one. Perhaps he/she bought the car used and they had no choice but to accept the blunder. Fair enough. How about the guy who actually said: "Hey, it would be too much work to make an actual convertible, but we can getcha halfway there!" Yeah, halfway to Dumbville.

Are you faux wheel?

2. Wheel Woes: In most cases, outfitting your car with a new set of rims isn't terribly cheap, particularly when you have the desire to get all fancy. A lot of people can't afford to plop down a few grand on the set they really want, but rather than be content with the factory standard while saving the dough, there are some folks who are willing to commit the equivalent of basting a poop kabob with a urine marinade and that is: Plastic Wheel Covers. Oh the humanity. Getting caught with these bad boys is like your girlfriend finding a sock in your shorts. Is there really a factory wheel that is ugly enough to require the attachment of these fancy frisbees? My advice? Wait it out for the real thing, people.

Hey, won't you just go? Away?

3. Pissed to Death: How many damn things can Calvin pee on? Seriously. When I see one of those decals, I don't care what the kid is pissing on, I just want to grab my sharpest key and scrape away. Or at least find a decal of Calvin just peeing so I can place it above the OTHER peeing Calivn. Now that would do the trick!

Instruments of the Apocalypse: Moviegoers I'd Like to Assassinate With Poisoned Darts Blown Out of My Giant Coke Straw

It's inevitable that when you stick several dozen strangers into a dark room together, there will arise an occasional situation where you will get to imagine your deepest, darkest fantasies about what violent acts you'd like to perform on another human being, and then hate the fact you live in a society that insists on a system of law and order which prevents such fantasies from coming to fruition. At least without an accompanying prison sentence.

Freakin' law and order! Gosh!

Let's break the offenders down into categories and I will let you the readers choose the proper, befitting punishment.

The Loud Talker: Do you ever notice that The Loud Talker is a species of sub-human who only likes to perform its visciously infuriating mating call while behind people who are trying to actually pay attention to the movie? Why is this, exactly? Years of research have yet to bear this answer out, but I'm beginning to think that they and their close relatives, The Loud Joke Crackers, have been left out of the latest clinical trials on drugs for the treatment of advanced Dipshitosis, and that is truly a shame. Perhaps it's because scientists are reluctant to enter the ethical gray areas associated with testing meds on retarded people, but that is only a guess.

The Snorer: I can think of so many other places I'd rather take a nap, especially if I was aware that when I slept I sounded like a rhino choking on a puppy. I could blame this problem more on the makers of boring films, but if you are actually snoozing through Mission Impossible 3- a movie that plays on the nervous system like a three year old on a diet of Jolt and crank, you have a serious problem and you should stop making the rest of us suffer with you.

The Bringer of Children: This is not a generalized complaint. This is dedicated to the assclowns who bring their 5 year olds to a screening of Sin City because it's a "comic book movie." Perhaps they think the R stands for "Romping Good Time." And maybe they think that the kid will feel as happy as daddy does watching Jessica Alba dance that way (and maybe mommy too because let's face it, that was pretty damn hot) and that they are being "cool" parents by not being so uptight about what movies the kids watch. Look, I'm not going to debate the merits, or lack thereof of letting kids watch R rated films. I watched plenty of them with my parents when I was growing up. It's just that my parents let us watch whatever we wanted at HOME because they realized that some people don't feel comfortable watching folks getting their brains blown out while knowing a freaked out or bored second-grader is sitting next to them. This also goes to the parents who took their kids to The Passion of the Christ because somehow the Precious Moments bible stories weren't effective enough in the whole indoctrinating business.

And finally:

Cell Phoners: I must address you directly, because it's that important. I know maybe you're thinking that the endless requests by the movie theater to turn off your cell phones before the movie starts are just about as meaningless as the invitations to visit the concession stand for some $6 popcorn, but please- for the love of all that is good and right in this world (and you know such things are beginning to dissipate faster than our oil supply), STOP pissing on my weekly moviegoing experience by thinking that your phone call is more important to the 10 people sitting near you than what is on the giant screen with the moving picture on it. I don't care how much the movie sucks. Your Sir Mixalot ringtone will never be a better alternative.

Ever.

Thank you for your courtesy. Please enjoy the show.

Instruments of the Apocalypse: Celebrities Who Give Their Kids Stupid Names...

It's a given that most rich, famous people have ids that make my three-year-old appear patriarchal by comparison. Of course if I had enough money to buy God, I'd probably think I should be a character in the Bible too. But that's all beside the point.

Living life by the pleasure principle might make for a fun night out on the town, but these short-sighted people are failing to recognize that they are spawning a generation of children who are going to grow up having their asses beaten senseless by the offspring of people who live in the bubble of reality.

It's not that it's bad to have a name that is unusual, if not distinguished. There are certainly a ton of Allisons in the world, so it can be refreshing to hear something different from time to time, but it takes a real ego trip into the stratosphere for someone (like Sylvester Stallone) to name their kid Sage Moonblood. I actually like the name Sage. But Moonblood? Why do I envison some kid with pointy teeth drinking thirstily from someone's carotid? Okay, so that one is relatively mild. How about Rob Morrow naming his daughter Tu? Tu Morrow.

Cute. Thankfully she's a girl with the option to take her husband's name, if she so chooses.

Then... there is Gwyneth Paltrow. Already naming her first child Apple (imagine in high school all the guys who are going to be talking about getting a piece of "Apple Pie"), her newest addition has been blessed with the moniker Moses Martin, making her a two-time offender for wishing repeated lunch money theft upon her children.

But let's get down to the weirdest of the weird:

Jason Lee (who is now claiming his name is Earl) begot Pilot Inspektor. Penn Gillette of the comedy duo Penn and Teller named his daughter Moxie Crimefighter, because apparently he thinks his daughter isn't an actual person who will have to grow up with that name, but the object of some inky comic book fantasy.

But who knows- maybe some of these kids will grow up embracing their unusual labels. Already the offspring of people who are outside the mainstream, they might use it as a way to further distinguish themselves as a separate entity from their parents. But I'm also being optimistic. Parents who are hellbent on branding their children with the hot irons of their own selfish desires through naming choices and other rituals best not mentioned here are essentially playing dice with the feelings of actual people. It's a way of thinking that is more myopic than my 75-year old grandmother. I mean, come on- Audio Science? Yes, that is a real name.

Save the funny name for your dog and cat. Speck Wildhorse would be a great name for a Chihuahua.

Not John Mellencamp's son.

Instruments of the Apocalypse: Culture-Killers

There is a zen saying that goes something like this: "Wherever you go, there you are."

It's one of those things that has always intoned for me the importance of being good and true to oneself. It doesn't matter where you end up, because it will always be YOU there. Essentially, the world is what you make it.

I like thinking that. I take comfort in my internal locus of control, and I am a firm believer in the concept of reciprocal determinism (thank you Albert Bandura).

There just comes a time, however, when the life we bring to the party just isn't enough, where we find ourselves trapped in a place so lifeless, so insipid, so completely drained of color and originality that we begin to assimilate with the dreary landscape, becoming Bland Borgs of Boredom.

You wonder where this is?

Sadly, in my opinion, all you really have to do is take pretty much any random exit ramp from any U.S. freeway, and you've found it. The standard features are typically as follows:

McDonald's/Burger King
Denny's/Applebee's/Red Lobster/Olive Garden
Chevron/Shell/Texaco/Exxon/7-11
And of course the overly ubiquitous Wal-Mart and/or Target.

These are fixtures on the American landscape that we not only come to expect wherever we go, but we feel deprived when they are not there. How many times have I caught myself saying in the course of travelling: "Let's keep going until we find a McDonald's [or other familiar restaurant]." or "Oh there's [insert massive chain name here] at the next exit. We'll go there."

How common and trite we've shaped our world. How dependent we've all become on the mass-produced, stamped out of the assembly line predictability of these places. We've become saturated with the sense of security provided to us by nameless faces and faceless names who could care less who we are, so long as we're willing to keep filling their pockets with money if they offer us the right prices and the right names.

Of course many will say that American culture has always made itself a sort of walking advertisement for its own ingenuity; it should be considered a beacon and a blessing that we have been able, as a people, to create such monolithic symbols as Ronald McDonald and Sam Walton's great blue hope, because certainly- at least up until recently- you couldn't ever get Nachos Belgrande in Iraq! It just stops being a positive force for me whenever I feel like wherever I go, the only things that make those places worth being at are the same "comforts" I've left behind.

It's all starting to feel so homogenized and generic. Everything is sponsored by a massive company. There is no such thing as just an ordinary sports stadium named after its own team. It's just a building carrying the bannerhead of the biggest financial contributer on the outside, and when we hear the name Qwest Field (that's the Seattle Seahawks stadium for those not sure), instead of invoking the spirit of the team playing inside, we think of a fucking phone company. Yay!

So yes, wherever we go, there we are. Only I feel like I'm becoming more like the lifeless things that are there, and pretty soon it'll feel like there is no determinism to reciprocate, because both sides will eventually be the same.

And that, Congenial Readers, will really really suck.

Instruments of the Apocalypse: Sudoku

"Oh great", you say, "Here comes that cheese girl again to totally beat up on something that I totally love!" In the words of Jud Crandall from Pet Sematary, I say this unto thee:

"Ayuh."

But don't worry, Congenial Readers, I plan on keeping the fare rather light for 2 reasons:

-I'm getting sicker by the minute today. Fragging sinuses.

-I have experienced a level of frustration this morning that can only warrant me ranting about it on my blog for a few minutes. It's only helpful that it happens to be Tuesday, the designated slot for my more passionate diatribes.

Sudoku: How When paired with Pokemon and Delicious Teriyaki Food, the Trifecta of Japanese World Domination is Complete

Oh sure, these little number puzzles look innocuous enough. And perhaps you're even feeling drawn to copying and pasting this little diddy onto your own computer so you can print it out and enjoy.

"It's only one," you reason with yourself. Then suddenly you are wandering the aisles of your local Barnes & Noble, Target, or Walgreen's looking for an entire book of them. And then you realize that your house isn't clean, there is moss growing on your teeth, a family of racoons is living in your hair, and that you haven't paid your bills in two months as evidenced by your grimy hands clutching the Sudoku book as you fill in yet another puzzle- in complete DARKNESS.

I was introduced to this game by my lovely father-in-law who was at the time recovering from heart surgery. As he tells it, by the time he left the hospital, pretty much all of the doctors and nurses in his unit were hooked. When I first attempted one of these puzzles, I was completely lost. I've never been much good at brain teasers or things requiring a whole lot of strategy. I enjoy strategy, but that part of my brain remains flabby. Involve numbers in these endeavors, and my IQ drops from a respectable 136 to uhhhhhhhhhhhhh.... nummmbers....

So imagine my surprise when I actually found that I was sorta kinda enjoying these mini-apocalyptic-brain-traps! I left my in-law's house that day, however, satisfied that I'd had my fill of the latest Japanese sensation. It was only a few weeks later when I discovered that this "harmless little game" had become a massively popular phenomenon. Entire sections of the bookstore were devoted to it. There were boardgames, online tutorials, messageboards. It was basically EVERYWHERE, and because I am the kind of person who at least attempts to avoid following the herd in the beginning (the iPod didn't suck me in until about three or four years after its initial release), I was successful in avoiding it.

Then I took a harmless little trip to Target to buy a muffin tin and a makeup mirror, and what do I see in the checkout lane but a row of Martial Arts Sudoku books, each difficulty level represented by a colored belt. Before I could even begin to talk myself out of it, I grabbed White Belt Sudoku and tossed it on top of my other purchases. I rationalized I would keep it in my book bag and only pull it out when there was a lull in activity.

Then I woke up sick and needed something to pass the time laying pathetically here on my couch other than my equally soul-sucking laptop. Suffice to say that the horrendous White Belt Sudoku book is now lying on the other side of the living room. Where I threw it. It reminds me of a deadly, hypnotic Cobra that bites me every time I try to touch it, and I feel compelled to go back for more, because I'm either stupid or I'm a masochist.

Or both.

Instruments of the Apocalypse Part III: Sequels of Shame

It's Tuesday again. I'm starting to think that Tuesday is a good day to pontificate on the end of the world and the things and people that will eventually bring it about. Henceforth, it is time for another weekly installment of Instruments of the Apocalypse (*cue scary music and screams*). Did you really think that Roundabouts and Laws For Dummies were enough? Congenial Readers, we really haven't even begun to scratch the surface.

Bad Movie Sequels: Myopic Hollywood Executives on Crack and the Films They Greenlight

This topic has been sitting in the inbox of my mind waiting to be expounded upon for most of my life. I suppose that's because every year that passes brings a fresh batch of inspiration. This year in particular has been rather harsh, and by the looks of the commercials and trailers, it doesn't appear to be improving much. So let's just narrow the focus to horrendously egregious movie sequels (read: ways to pound something into the ground until all memory of what it was previously is completely obliterated), rather than mediocre ones (parts 2 and 3 of the Matrix trilogy) or especially rare ones that have managed to either match or better their predecessors (Spiderman 2 or Toy Story 2).

You all know what I'm talking about. If not, let me name a few, and I will just let the titles speak for themselves:

Son of the Mask
Dumb and Dumberer
Big Mamma's House 2
Home Alone 3 and 4
The Whole Ten Yards
Speed 2: Cruise Control
Miss Congeniality 2
Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo

Mind you, I could have gone on for several more minutes there, but my goal is not to nauseate my readers. I bet you are thinking: "So what? How can a handful of awful movies be an Instrument of the Apocalypse?" (*cue scary music and screams*)

Well, it's simple, really.

Whether or not it can be proven that the movies listed above create stupidity in our culture or merely enhance it in those who actually enjoy these films, it is stupidity nonetheless that is being pedalled by the aforementioned Hollywood executives on crack, and in this day and age we do not need more of it, especially the willful sort, because we live in a modern society that protects stupid people instead of letting them extinguish themselves (see Laws for Dummies).

But let's say you are an unwitting victim of one of these movies (i.e. a smart person who is stuck at the house of a friend who is heavily baked, or perhaps on an airplane owned by an airline with a sadistic need to torture its passengers with more than stale snack mix and uncomfortable seats), and you find that a small portion of your soul has been sucked out through your retinas by the mere act of glancing at the screen while one of these films has been playing. And now imagine that there are millions of people just like you (there are). Although it has not been scientifically proven just yet that people can die from experiencing extreme disgust, I have a feeling that in a few more years, it might just become possible.

The combination of furthering the spread of stupidity through genetics and smart people dying from having their souls eaten will bring about such an end-of-days scenario that makes horrible sequels a first-chair Instrument of the Apocalypse (*cue scary music and screams*). Sure, folks like Rob Schneider and Sandra Bullock will continue to have healthy careers, but the cost against humanity is much too high.

I think the only reasonable alternative would be for these actors and executives to be hired by a black-ops sector of the C.I.A. to make their wares to be used as Weapons of Mass Destruction against rogue nations. Sure, sarin gas and A-Bombs do plenty of damage, but you make people watch Batman & Robin, and dying of radiation sickness might just become more preferrable than being exposed to the likes of Ahnold playing Mr. Freeze, and without all of the negative environmental impacts!

Somebody, get me the President!!

UPDATE: Several hours after making this post, I stumbled upon a bit of news that is guaranteed to hurtle us about 50 years closer to the end of civilization as we know it: They are making another Jurassic Park. Start placing the claymores around your bunkers, people. The end cometh.

Instruments of the Apocalypse: Laws for Dummies

Yep, it's that time again. The time when I feel the need to stack up some double-reinforced soap boxes (so I don't fall through them, ya know), and tell y'all how I think it is and I think it should be. I have found another Instrument of the Apocalypse, and I fear, Congenial Readers, that this one is much more dire than the Circles of Death I tore to shreds the other day. I'm out to be controversial, damn it. Shout hoorahs if you want. But keep the boos to yourself. Like our Great Fearless Leader, I only like to surround myself with people who agree with me and who will blow at least 10,000 watts of pure sunshine up my nether-region. I'm sure you all understand. ;)

Now, on with it!

Laws for Dummies: Forcing Natural Selection's Hand

I not only believe the government should stay the hell out of people's private lives, but that they should also stop trying to interfere in the very important process of Natural Selection. Which brings me to my point:

Helmet laws, seatbelt laws, prostitution laws, and to a certain extent- drug laws. These are laws that are mostly designed to keep people from hurting and/or killing themselves. If I decided to be stupid enough to hop on a motorcycle without putting on a helmet, then I would really be the only one to suffer the consequences. Sure, you could argue that it would cost ALL of us money in terms of medical costs, etc, but to me that is truly irrelevant, because even with a helmet on, a person who suffered injuries in an accident would still incur some expense.

So let's put it this way: Natural Selection is a very important process that involves the "survival of the fittest". It insures that the strongest genes continue on to further the existence of our species. Any idiot can follow the law, because any idiot can understand that there are consequences to breaking one, such as getting a ticket or going to jail. But you take these laws away, and all of the morons on the block will come out to play. They will leave their seatbelts off. They will leave their helmets in the garage. They will try to snort pure heroine bought from the local pharmacy and die of an overdose. And perhaps most importantly, they will help to make sure that only the strongest genes survive. Genes that are stronger because some folks realize that there is such a thing as common sense that isn't mitigated by legality. Sure, there are a few mavericks out there who break the above laws anyway and pay the price. These people should be honored for their sacrifice made for the better of the human race. They are, in fact, heros.

With law upon law being pushed through in an effort to shield people from the impact of their own stupidity, in a few millenia we will be living on a planet filled with folks who worship Larry the Cable Guy, think Chicken of the Sea is actually chicken, and our national slogan will be "Git 'er Done!!" Actually, given the mental midgets currently running our country, we're not too far from that, but if it continues, it will be the end of the world as we know it. Do you really want that?

I didn't think so.

While it's important to give people the freedom to be smart, it is even more important to give people the freedom to be stupid. For the love of humanity!

Instruments of the Apocalypse: Roundabouts

Roundabouts: Circles More Deadly Than Krispy Kreme (not to mention less delicious).

It goes without saying how I feel about these rings of death, lethal cousins to the equally infuriating 4-Way Stop, that have popped up among the quaint Olympia/Lacey metropolis over the last couple of years, but if there is one thing that might make them more bearable, it would be the implementing of "Idiot Detour" signs at some point before the approach to the roundabout begins to send them off on their merry, perpendicular ways. This would at least spare those of us with brains in our skulls from being subjected to assclowns who:

1. Think a solid line in a road changes its meaning once it's no longer going straight, and therefore:

2. Think it's perfectly reasonable to cut right over on you to exit the circle simply because they were too stupid to enter the circle in the correct fucking lane, and therefore:

3. Cause people to stop in the circle, creating the potential for rear-endings and multiple visits to chiropractors, and therefore:

4. Deserve to have their cars riddled with buckshot for every stupid offense involving said circle of death.

While 4-Way Stops are more time consuming and almost as annoying, they at least allow people to have a little more pause and reaction time rather than just have them hop into a revolving idiot trap. And if that fails there are always traffic lights. And if those fail, manufacturers could work on developing remote, electro-shock devices to be installed into our cars that woud allow us to buzz the living shit out of the offenders from the above list. Perhaps it would cause more car accidents, but fuck it would be fun!!