Generic Halloween Entry

Halloween is an interesting time of year. It allows adults to pretend to be something else so that they can surprise and frighten children who want nothing more than candy. They might as well call it Internet predator day.

I don’t wanna be a party pooper or anything but Halloween just makes no friggin sense! It’s a bunch of people who wear odd clothing, annoy strangers, and are rewarded with food. You gotta imagine that the novelty of Halloween is totally lost on the homeless. I’ve always wanted to walk up to a hobo on Halloween, knock on his box or whatever habitat he’s inhabiting, and scream ‘TRICK OR TREAT!!’ Then cry until he gives me either candy or money. Or sexual favors.

The problem with this plan is that I’ve never been able to find a homeless person on Halloween. My theory is that there’s no such thing as a ‘hobo costume,’ only a trick-or-treating hobo. I can only imagine the intensity of Halloween when you trick-or-treat to survive.

Still though, it’s amazing to see how entire communities can come together for a holiday with a main subtext of devil worship. Entire neighbourhoods decked out with orange lights, and scarecrows. There’s always one house that just takes it to far. That one house that covers the lawn with graves. Has scary music, and surprises waiting. You go walking up the path and somebody jumps out from behind a bush or a tree and kills one out of every three children. Those were good times. I sure do miss Mr. Somberland.

On the other hand there are those families who don’t wanna buy candy, decorate, or deal with little children. You can tell these houses by several subtle signs. First of all the lights will always be off to trick children that nobody is home this particular Thursday evening at 7. Secondly there will often be somebody just barely visible staring out the window with shifty eyes, praying to their god that you don’t knock. Thirdly there will be eggs splattered all over these houses.

The third group is by far the best. They’re well intentioned but just don’t seem to get the point of Halloween. These are the houses with pumpkins on the porches with little smiley faces drawn on with black magic marker. The houses with a grown man dressed as a character from ‘The Wizard of Oz’ wishing you a merry Christmas.

Sadly, once you reach the age of around 18 it’s shunned to be seen asking for Candy. Majority of these individuals tend to resort to the next best thing. Partying. Traditional Male costumes tend to aim for offensive and over-the-top: JFK (suit, lots of blood), erotic superheroes such as DildoMan, or simply an abortion. Traditional female costumes are very varied: Slut.

I prefer to spend my Halloweens in a unique way. I like to dress up as The Grim Reaper and go to the nearest retirement home. The rest pretty much writes itself. You should see the elderly’s eyes when they spot me. The range of reactions I get are almost as colorful as the stains that form in their pants.

Yup, Halloween truly is a time of terror. Gotta make you wonder how it all began. Was there a formal agreement that every year we change the rule from ‘never accept candy from strangers’ to ‘never accept candy from strangers, unless they’re dressed as a pirate’ on one day of the year? Or was it more an independent project that sort of gained a cult following.

Jim: Honey, what do you want to do tonight?
Samantha: I don’t know darling.
Jim: How about we dress up as Mr. and Mrs. Pacman and ask our neighbours for candy.
Samantha: That sounds like fun. Let me just hollow out this pumpkin, so I can place a miniature fire inside it.

I mean, how does that tradition catch on? It’s amazing how illogical people will act for free candy.

What’s truly amazing is that you don’t see more Santa Clause’s on Halloween. Christmas is only two months away, why not get a costume you can reuse. You don’t even have to be Christian. Hell, even if you’re Jewish go as Santa. It’s just practical.

I’d love to keep writing, but I’ve got a pile of candy to eat, and a Hurrican Katrina costume to put away. So try not to eat too much, and whatever you do, stay away from Mr. Somberland’s house.

Happy Halloween

Have the Time of Your Life

Please don't take the time to read this. Go outside; I have nothing productive or insightful to say.

These are the prime years of your life. Your older and wiser now then you’ve ever been and you’re spending your free time reading this dribble. I literally wrote that sentence while sitting on the toilet taking a crap.

Take it all in. This is your life.

Every second of every day you get older. Every passing moment you’re closer to death. Your good looks, your smarts, and that thing you can do with your tongue are all temporary. Enjoy them while you can, ‘cause soon enough you’ll have to page that nice new Intern to help you shit into a bag.

There is a saying from a very wise man about the nature of life. He says. “Life is a roller coaster. It moves really fast, and if you can’t handle it, it’s not stopping ‘till the ride’s over.” That wise man was me. Just now. And I completely forget what my point was.

I can’t believe you’re still reading this; you make me sad.

The beautiful thing about time is that once you’ve used up a part of it, you can never have that again. That’s why time travel is so appealing to all of us. Think of all the things that you could do with the ability to travel in time. Bring a cigar, a top hat, and little tuxedo to your own birth, so that you’re born smoking a cigar and dressed to kill. Bring a pack of condoms to the night your children were conceived, or simply perform your own rendition of ‘Ice Ice Baby’ to a group of cavemen. The possibilities are endless.

Even more enticing is the ability to travel to the future. Go to where you’re going to be, jump out from behind the corner and make your old self crap your pants out of fear. Then you can travel back in time and surprise your future self surprising yourself so that he craps his pants. There are literally a limitless supply of ways to make you crap your pants.

If only.

Time travel isn’t real. Everybody gets old and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. So enjoy your youth while you can. Take it from somebody who’s young and doesn’t spend much time with the elderly, that being old sucks. As my grandfather once said:

“Being old sucks. Please, kill me.”

Trust me on that one. He’d probably deny ever saying it if you confronted him, but what does he know? He’s senile.

This is your life. You get one shot and then you die. Do something productive or at the very least enjoy yourself. Don’t waste time.

And for god's sake, don't you dare read this again.

A Planet in Our Hearts

Recently, while conducting some research for a paper I just made up for the sake of this story, I came across some very startling information. Among the chaos that the world is going through; war in the middle east, the tragic and completely unpredictable death of a man who fights crocodiles for a living, and Rosh Hashanah, one story dwarfs them all by comparison, and in light of this new information, I simply have one question,

WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN PLUTO ISN’T A PLANET!!?!?!?!?

First my therapist tells me there’s no Santa Clause, my brother tells me I’m adopted, my dad tells me there’s no such thing as a female orgasm, Mel Gibson’s dad tells me there’s no such thing as the Holocaust, and now you scientist fuckers are telling me there’s no planted called Pluto!? This has been a terrible week.

I was raised my entire life believing that Pluto was a planet. It’s what allowed me sleep at night. Whenever I was feeling down and out, I could look out my window and now that Pluto was out there somewhere doing it’s thing: being a planet.

These so-called “ass-trologists” were the nerds that used to pick each others noses and practice French kissing with each other because they knew no girl would ever do it. These pathetic bastards held all their anger inside and finally decide to take it out on the most vulnerable culprit; Pluto. Beloved by all, cute, tiny, adorable, and doomed. “Hey,” one scientist says to another, “look there’s Pluto,” then simultaneously both scientists proclaim, “DWARF PLANET!!!!” then laugh so hard they shit their pants. Trust me, that’s what happened.

I mean, what the hell is a Dwarf Planet? It’s still called a planet, but it’s not really; sort of like ‘little people.’ Tiny, cute, still technically called ‘people,’ but I mean come on, who’re we kidding? We only still quasi-respect them because it would be such a hassle if they attacked.

Oh my god! What if Pluto decides to attack? What if Osama gets a hold of it and Pluto goes all meteoric on our asses? It will be like a tragic ending to a Hollywood film. Crashing towards earth at an incomprehensible speed, heartbroken Pluto seeks its revenge. After a failed brief stint with a nearby traveling meteor group Pluto has nowhere left to turn. Shunned by all his friend for his forbidden love of another planet, Pluto has nothing left to live for and focuses all its energy on the one planet that took it all away; Earth. As Pluto comes careening toward earth his lover can faintly be heard blaring in the distance. “PLUTOOOOO” comes the futile last scream from a heartbroken Jupiter; but it’s too late. A single tear comes streaming down Pluto’s face as he careens with the earth. The music picks up and suddenly all that can be heard is Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World,” over the image of a tragic end for both Pluto and its old friend, Earth. Roll End Credits.

Perhaps I’m being too dramatic. Perhaps Pluto will take it all in stride, going on to bigger and better things. I mean, who are we to decide who is and who isn’t a planet? Earth, with its one moon to Jupiter’s two. Earth has Moon. Pluto has Nix and Hydra, two European beauties who have run away from their strict and controlling parents to have carefree unprotected sex with dwarf planets day and night.

It is not Pluto that I worry about, for Pluto is a planet composed of methane, carbon monoxide and pure testicular fortitude, it is us that I worry about. For in the future, when my grandchildren are sitting on my lap asking me of what was in my day, I shall regale them with tales of Pluto. I will tell them of its size and it’s moons. I will tell them back when Pluto was a planet and life was easier. I will tell them of better times.

You're Worthless; You're Welcome

I’ve always had a supportive family. They’ve always told me how great I am, and how ridiculously awesome a human being I am, and how much potential I have. All this support has naturally left me to believe that I am the prime benefactor of some multi-billionaire’s will, and they’re just kissing ass before it’s too late.

I’ve been pampered and complimented all my upbringing, and I’ve grown up soft. What I need is a good ol’ fashioned ass whooping. I need to be beaten when I disobey, and whipped when I speak out of line. I need to know that I’m worthless.

This doesn’t apply only to me, but to millions of people growing up like me. To the pampered youth being raised in loving households with families that believe in them; you make me sick.

Don’t get me wrong, everybody needs love and everybody needs support but with this needs to come a dose of reality. Most of us are raised being told how special we are; which coincidentally happens to be true in my case, but for the rest of you, it’s a lie. You suck.

We’re raised to believe that we can do anything and be anything we put our minds to and this is simply not true. You can not do anything you put your mind to. If you could we wouldn’t need pumps and internet ads for penis enlargement. Some dreams are unattainable.

What about little Jimmy who wants to be nothing more than a stapler when he grows up, who are you to build up his hopes of one day fulfilling that dream? Imagine how much more heartbroken that guy you just accidentally stepped on, sleeping on the sidewalk is when he wakes up and realizes he’s not a big Hollywood director. Imagine little John Kerry’s disappointment when he realized that when his parents told him he could be the President of the United States of America one day, they lied.

I know that it may seem disheartening to think that the best you can aspire for is middle management, but it’s really not so bad. There’s nothing wrong with being average, nothing wrong with being normal. Besides, if you’re a female, you’ve got a vagina. Use it.

My “thing” has always been writing. My family has always told me it’s good and that I can have a profession in it. They read my work and they tell it’s great, they tell me to keep writing. I love my family and appreciate all the support they give me, but now I have a set of expectations. I can be a writer if I apply myself, and if I don’t achieve this, I’m a failure.

So again, for these reasons I repeat: Beat your children. Tell them they’re useless, convince them they’re adopted, spit on them for fun. Tell your offspring they’re ugly talent less hacks, and remind them how lucky they are that the clothes hanger missed their head when they were inside their mother. Remind your kids that they are not special.

If we were all without expectations than we would all be without disappointment. Life would be easy. We would be happy. Have dreams, but make them reasonable expectations. Family support is important.

My family will read this, and they’ll tell me how well written it was, and how much they enjoyed it. They’ll tell me to keep writing.

Don't Believe Everything You Read

Believe me when I tell you that the people that I am referring to in this entry are not you. The people I will be talking about are simple, easily manipulated, curious, literate, confused individuals. Not you. I promise.

There seems to be a large amount of people who take anything they read quite seriously. Just because you read something on the internet does not make it true, I cannot stress this enough. Just because you read some jackass express his opinion does not mean he is correct. Trust me.

If I were to write ‘the English language was created by an underground terrorist group of pedophiles with the sole intention of communicating with their fellow child-abusing buddies,’ you would probably have a small snicker (because the large ones have too many calories) and go to another site; probably porn. However, if I were to disguise my name and make it sound authentic, before you know it half of North America would be speaking Pig Latin.

Distracting Side Note: Pigs cannot speak. Even if they were to speak, I doubt their language of choice would be Latin and if it was then why is ‘Pig Latin’ spelled and pronounced entirely in English?

My point is quite simply: take everything you read with a grain of salt. Oh, and also Pig Latin is no longer considered socially appropriate. It was created by a terrorist group of pedophiles for communication purposes.

Just because you read it doesn’t mean it’s true. Think about it people, if everybody simply accepted everything they read, than we would all follow the ten commandments. There would be no stealing, no killing, no lusting, and no fun on a Saturday night. Without independent thought there would be no great wars (not to be confused with ‘okay wars’).

No wars means no war films. Apocalypse Now, Saving Private Ryan, Platoon, Patton, Schindler’s List; gone, gone, gone, gone, gone. A human being who does not reject everything he/she reads is a human being who detests American film and doesn’t support our troops.

In order to successfully instill freedom of speech we mustn’t always agree with what we read. The problem, however, is that today people have become so articulate and precise with their writing that it becomes difficult to disagree with an argument being made. We must therefore take preemptive action. We as ‘Planet-Earthians’ must decide before we have even begun to read an argument whether we agree or disagree with the author’s stance. Seeing as how you have not been previously told to do this, you have not already made this decision regarding this article and therefore will obey me blindly, knowing that I am correct. You are correct in your assumption.

While it is important to have some hesitation and logical thinking while reading another’s work, you may feel comfortable reading my writing with no analysis or comprehension of the facts, for I, fellow Planet-Earthian, would never; EVER, lie to you. Trust me. I love you.

While it is generally hard to distinguish the reliable from the retarded there are several clues you can look for. For example, if the article has any combination of the words: Secret Society, Bigfoot, Aliens, Conspiracy, or Female Orgasm in it, it’s probably bullshit. If the author writes for a local newspaper named after some obscure animal it’s probably best to stay away. For example, if Ted from The Oklahoma Chinchilla writes about the dangers of alliterations then I really wouldn’t be too concerned. Ted tries to type tantalizing tales telling of true terror today; but Ted’s tales tend to be un-true. Ted’s a tool.

Also, avoid anything written by Fox.

If the article requests or requires you to send any money to anybody then chances are you’re being had. Stop reading it, and if you’re gonna send the money to some jackass, you might as well send it me. At least I tried to warn you.

Journalistic integrity is an element sorely missing from literature today. Honesty is a dying art. However, without an fair and balanced audience demanding the truth and questioning the absurd there is no necessity for factuality in our writing. I think we would all agree that nothing can be taken as it is written and you should never do or believe something simply because you read it somewhere.

Get your information from a reliable source. Don’t base your beliefs and opinions on something you read in 2 minutes from somebody you’ve never heard of. And whatever you do don’t garner your information from a shoddy, unreliable source that could just be written up in 10 minutes by some snotty teenage know-it-all.

Like a blog for instance.

Viva La Revolution!!!

The other day I went out with some friends (yes, I have some) to see ‘Subplots of the Caribbean.’ It was okay. That’s not what this entry is about.

In the lobby there is an arcade full of quasi-hip videogames, amongst which is my favorite game: Dance Dance Revolution. For those of you who have never heard of it, you’re screwed, because I provide horrible explanations. Have you ever been anywhere near an arcade and seen some overweight guy stomping around like he’s crushing ants on top of a series of strobe lights? That’s Dance Dance Revolution.

I have nothing personal against DDR (I’m sure you can figure out this abbreviation), in fact I praise it. It gives hope to the dozens of people who lack the social skills and pigmentation to go out in public. It allows those who are not permitted into any clubs a place to dance, and it provides those of us shallow enough to pick on people for looking stupid in public a goldmine of material.

Dance Dance has excellent gameplay and was a breakthrough in style, but if I had to choose one fault to the game; and trust me, I do; it would be the title. Granted the game is from Japan and I should just be thankful that it’s not called ‘Super Happy Fun Dance Star,’ but I am not. I am not satisfied with this name for the sole purpose that it doesn’t make any sense.

First of all, why are there two dances? Would ‘Dance Revolution’ not suffice? Did they feel that the game was so cutting edge that one ‘dance’ did capture the true essence of the game? Is it a typo?

Perhaps the marketers were afraid that people would not understand the concept of the game, and so by repeating the word ‘Dance’ they could clarify that in order to successfully enjoy this game, there would indeed be a necessity for Dance… if not Dance Dance.

Secondly, why is this a Revolution? What are they revolting from? And why with dance? Excuse me, dance dance.

In the late 18^th century we went through the Industrial Revolution which changed the ways in which manual labor was done, shifting our society towards one dominated by industry. In the 17^th century the Scientific revolution changed the very foundations of science and our views of the world, and in the 20^th century the Dance Dance Revolution would forever change the way we did the ‘foxtrot.’

I propose that we change the name of this game to something a little less…. Stupid. My suggestion: “That Dancing Game.” Of course then you would also have to change the names of ‘Karaoke Revolution’ and any other spin-offs which would be a large hassle, but a worthwhile cause. With DDR leading the way we can lead a revolution against their own names. Then, and only then will Dance Dance Revolution truly deserve to be called a Dance Revolution…. Unfortunately they will have already led the revolution to change their own names, thus rendering that name obsolete, and forcing them to choose a new and different revolution. Don’t worry, I’m not really sure what I’m talking about either, the point is… Actually I don’t really remember.

Fuck it, I’m going to sleep.

Viva la Revolution!

O, Canada!!

God Bless Canada. No seriously, I mean it. Canada is, in my completely unbiased opinion one of the single greatest places in the world to live. We’re the United States, only without backbone, attitude, or pizzazz.

Loved and praised all around the world Canada truly is a beacon of hope for handicapped individuals everyone. I mean seriously, think about it. Our largest claim to fame is beer. We’re ridiculed for our accents, have no real army, and national mascot is a large, buck-toothed rat. Our largest exports are wood and stand up comedians, and our most recognizable celebrities are the world’s most hated woman, Celine Dion, and the always loveable, always vibrating Michael J. Fox.

Yet despite our embarrassment of a resume we have still managed to leech ourselves onto the United States coattails and be dragged out of obscurity. We truly are America’s retarded cousin. We act like them, we think like them, and we dress like them. The only edge we seem to honestly have on the States is in broadcasting. Just so long as Canadian television can keep punching out original hits such as ‘Canadas Next Top Model’ and ‘Canadian Idol’ I see no reason why we can’t keep bringing home award after award for our programming. That’s right Canada, move those Gemini awards out of the way and make room for some… more Gemini awards!!!

At least Canada can take pride in their distinct and unique culture. We know who we are and what we believe in, and no matter how strongly our Southern brothers urge us, we will not cave into their demands. No, I’m just fucking with you. America’s our Sugar Daddy, and we don’t wanna do anything to slow the Gravy Train. For god’s sake, we gave half of our country back to the Inuit (it’s Spanish for Eskimo) a few years ago. That’s it, there’s no punch line. I’ve done no research on the matter, and frankly see no reason to. We gave half our country to some friggin’ Eskimos. I mean come on people!

Though our appreciation of curling may give us the appearance of having suffered some sort of major head trauma, Canadians do in fact know the pressing matters of the moment. Not because we’re so up to date with international (American) problems, but because we’ve simply stopped giving a damn. Every time I open the newspaper to catch up to date on America’s pressing issues I’m bombarded with a new catastrophe threatening to raise President Bush’s approval ratings.

Monday: Iraq has Weapons of Mass Destruction
Tuesday: Gay Marriages against God’s word
Wednesday: Cheney shoots Harry Whittington in the fucking face
Thursday: Iran has Weapons of Mass Destruction (wait didn’t we already.. Oh!! Iran, with an ‘N’. Okay, nevermind, proceed)
Friday: Mexican’s are taking everyone’s jobs (What the fuck?)

I don’t understand this whole Mexican border thing. How is this a sudden pressing issue? Did the Mexican’s just suddenly appear in your country? Has there been some big unspoken plan that all the Mexican’s would sneak over the border together while the entire population of America was sleeping? Did George Bush just wake up one morning, and realize, “HOLY SHIT!!! There’s Mexicans EVERYWHERE!”? This isn’t news.

Don’t cry to us that Mexican’s are taking your jobs, take some goddamm initiative. Sneak into Mexico and work for them. Besides, you should be thankful. If Miguel hadn’t come to America, how would you keep your lawn looking so nice?

This isn’t a problem in Canada. We don’t have lawns, just large snow covered terrains that we travel on via dog sled. (All information provided by Tucker Carlson). Maybe it’s because I’ve been drinking too much maple syrup, but I don’t understand the American news system. How can so many fucked up things happen in such a short period of time, and then seemingly resolve themselves before people even have time to forget there was a problem? Remember the Avian Flu? You know, birds carrying diseases, threatening to destroy mankind as we know it. What happened to that? Oh that’s right, Sweeps week ended.

I guess in hindsight, Canada ain’t so great. If we’re the retarded cousin, America is the acne (Mexican) riddled teenage bully with low self-esteem. We’re more than content just eating our boogers and laughing at how easy life is.

Canada may not be the most glamorous place to live.

But it’s home.

Jesus was a Pussy

I was reflecting on something my brother said recently (god help me), and I realized that he was 100% correct. Jesus Christ was a pussy. I mean seriously… he was a scrawny, little bitch.

Don’t freak out or anything, I’m not doubting his existence or divinity. I don’t care if he was the son of god, and by no means am I claiming that he was not. I’m sure Mary was a virgin (if you don’t count anal), and I’m sure Jesus walked on water (Ice). Regardless of your beliefs you cannot argue the fact that the son of god was weak as a motherfucker.

I don’t want any arguments from all of you who are now finished ‘Da Vinci Code’ proclaiming, “Jesus wasn’t a god, he was a painter” or whatever Dan Brown’s point was, I’m just stating a fact. If I had an arm-wrestle with Jesus I would flat out kick his pansy ass. And that’s before we stick rusty nails through his hands. Shit, even Buddha would kick his ass in a fight.

Aside from that whole ‘son of god’ thing, Jesus had things pretty crappy. I mean sure, he had divine powers and all, but there’s more to a man than magic powers. As David Blaine has demonstrated, there’s also pointless publicity stunts, but I digress. Jesus’s life wasn’t that great. His birthday was on Christmas, so he only got one present instead of two, and he was a carpenter. He freaking built things out of wood for a living. Tables, benches, crosses, e.t.c. On top of that, he was cursed with the bodily physique of Olive Oyl from ‘Popeye’.

Jesus overcame these short-comings and even became a bit of a fashion icon. He invented the ‘hippy look.’ Long hair, shaggy beard, long flowing hair, unrealistic views, and no apparent concern for hygiene. God probably referred to him as ‘my faggot son.’ But what can you really expect? Gods clearly not around to raise the kid, so he’s left with Mary and Joseph. I’m sure Mary did her best, but she can only do so much in this man-ruled patriarchy, and where’s Joseph’s inspiration? His wife had a child with another man. And the other man was god. Joseph’s sitting at home with blue balls, when Mary walks in the door.

Mary: Surprise, I’m pregnant
Joseph: WTF!?!?!? Who’s the father?
Mary: God
Joseph: JESUS CHRIST!

Now Joseph has to raise his wife’s messiah love child, and he doesn’t even get any play out of it. God is such a playa.

Wait, what was my point again? Oh yeah, Jesus was a little biatch. Clearly if you were to organize a game of Dodgeball among all religious icons, Jesus would probably be the last one chosen. He clearly throws like a girl and if you hit him, he’d probably die. Face it people, Jesus was the acne riddled nerd with glasses. This applies to all sports: football, soccer, ping pong, basketball. Just because you can turn water into blood doesn’t mean you can hit a three.

Imagine Jesus in the gym. Struggling to bench press the bar. Curling fives and sweating bullets. Practicing Yoga, and participating in the ‘Cycling’ classes. What a sissy.

I’m certain that I had a reason for writing this, but I’ve completely forgotten what that was. So…. I guess I’ll just end by apologizing for everything I just wrote. Please ignore everything preceding this statement.

Jesus rocks.

Amen.

Why Aren't You Reading Dan Brown?

If you're reading this then I have to assume that you've already read Dan Brown's "The Da Vinci Code." If you hadn't then you would be among the millions of other people who are giving handjobs in alleyways to get copies of it, because god forbid they see the movie before reading the book.

This logic puzzles me. Thousands of movies have been made based on books, but people have no intention of reading these books before going to see their films. 'Curious George' was an excellent movie all in by itself. You don't need to read the books to get it, the movie stands by itself. There's a monkey. He's fucking Curious. The end.

Millions of people flock to these movies without reading their source material. The Perfect Storm, Catch Me if You Can, Road to Perdition and many many more are seen by the blissfully illiterate. But Dan Brown claims Jesus got it on, and we've all gotta read it before we see Forrest Gump discover the truth. You didn't read H.G Wells before seeing 'The Time Machine', you didn't read W.P. Kinsella's "Shoeless Joe" before crying through Field of Dreams, and you sure as hell didn't read "Mein Kampf" before watching Passion of the Christ.

Don't get me wrong, I read 'Da Vinci Code' last summer and thought it was pretty good. Aside from the fact that Dan Brown writes under the same rules and regulations as my last blog entry, it was decent thriller with some trivial religious theories. I'm not a christian freak or anything, I'm a jew, I just don't think 'Code' was as fact-based and meaningful as "Fahrenheit 9/11" (<---Sarcasm). For all I care Jesus was a coke sniffing, whore murdering, baby eating, fire breathing, ninja... just so long as you can prove it.

I've got nothing against people reading this book, in fact I encourage it. I just don't understand that because a movie is coming out based on the book, you all have to read the book first. If you were planning on reading the book, then you have read it. Now if you're only reading the book because you wanna read it before you see the movie, then you're an idiot. If you didn't plan on reading the book, don't read it. If you were planning on seeing the movie, go see it. These two have nothing to do with each other. It's like demanding to fuck your fiancee's mother before marrying her. Read the book if you wanna read the book, see the movie if you wanna see the movie. Don't read the book because you wanna see the movie. Are you people retarded? I feel like I'm taking crazy pills.

Secondly, the book is usually better than the movie. So see the movie first so you can enjoy it, then read the book to appreciate the source. Don't be that guy coming out of 'Lord of the Rings' with his fake troll feet, Gandalf hat, and back hair complaining about how they changed this and moved that. Reading books ruins movies. You can't enjoy a movie if you know what's gonna happen. That's why nobody has fun watching films about the Holocaust. Don't believe me? Snape kills Dumbledore. There, enjoy the next Harry Potter movie, asshole.

It's amazing how people can be so desperate to read this book and see this movie and yet know absolutely nothing about the book. What I've been doing is going up to everyone I know and casually telling them that Da Vinci dies. They FREAK OUT!!!! For the record, Da Vinci, is Leonardo Da Vinci and......*SPOILER ALERT... he's been dead for almost 500 years.

I'm thinking about turning this into a video blog so I guess I'll just stop ranting and finish it here so you'll be able to finish reading it in time for the film.

How To: Survive a Zombie Invasion

As I am writing this the world is being put on notice. The dead are literally rising from their graves in pursuit of brains. Your brains. That's right Zombie's are real, and coming for us, and it is imperative that we come together as one and fight these monsters.

No, I'm just kidding. Zombies aren't attacking... yet. But what if I was telling the truth? What if Zombies were attacking? Do you know how to defend yourself? Could you keep your brain in your skull and out of their intestines? Don't actually answer, those were rhetorical questions.

Fear not fellow readers, for I am here to teach you how to survive a Zombie attack. Just picture the scene: You turn your television to channel 8 and staring straight at you is the living dead as you try to interpret his moans. "That's all for the Price is Right, and don't forget to spay and neuter your pets.' You then change to channel four news and BAM!! Zombies everywhere. In a fit of panic you call your best friend, Todd.

You: Todd, are you watching the news
Todd: B-braaaaains
You: Brains? What are you talking about? Dude, focus.
Todd: BRAAAAAAAIIINNNNSSSSSS!!!!!!!
You: Okay brains, yeah, whatever. Go to channel four
Todd: BRAAAAAAAAAIIIIIINSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!
You: riiiggghttttt.... I'm gonna... call you back.

And then it hits you. Todd's been dead for 6 years. Which, of course, begs the question as to why you phoned him in the first place, but before you can answer this question you're killed by a zombie.

So how is one to defend themselves from the living dead? It's simple, you kill them before they kill you. So how is one to kill a zombie before the zombie kills them? Well there's several effective tools which can be used:
-Shovel
-Machette
-Air Supply Records
-Heavy objects
-Anna Nichole Smith

The essential objective to destroying a zombie is to take off it's head. Bullets aren't gonna do the trick, regardless of what Charleton Heston tells ya'. If 50 cent can take it, I'm pretty sure a freakin' zombie can too.

If you don't think you're up to killing them, you can always pretend to be one. Most people are pretty stupid, and when they die and are brought back to life, they generally lose that little bit of intelligence they have, so it shouldn't be too hard to trick them. I know that we've all been taught to say no to peer pressure, and that just because everyone else is doing it, doesn't mean we should, but I think when what everyone else is doing is trying to destroy the human race, it's probably best to just play along.... That is unless the zombie's are smoking cigarettes, because that is not cool!

The most difficult part of fighting a zombie attack, for most people, would be decapitating a relative or loved one. Nobody wants to have to kill their grandmother again. Plus, her clothes would probably have rotted away, and you'd have to look at her saggy, undead, breasts. But i digress. I think the point I was trying to make is that you should get some practice in. Find a relative, preferrably a wealthy one, and just cut off their head. Don't feel too bad about it, they'll be back just as soon as that Zombie attack begins.

It's probably best to avoid locking yourself in a mall with a bunch of strangers, and if possible try and get to England for the attack. I hear their Zombie invasions are much more humorous. It might also be a good idea to find a way to be around Dick Cheney. I'm pretty sure a shotgun blast to the face would take them out.

So that's it. Now you know how to survive a Zombie attack. I'll be back next week with an outline of how to maintain your house through a flaming hail storm. Until then, happy zombie hunting.