Hypothetical scenario: If a guy from ComEd ordered you to marry your ex or he would cut the power to your home...would you play along?
Imagine paying upwards of 100 clams a month, then some grinning jamoke shows up on your front porch and says, "You can keep your precious electricity--but only if you marry that loser ex-husband!"
That's an idiotic premise, isn't it? That a woman in that situation wouldn't just slam the door and say, "Whatever, jackass." It's not just me, right? Please tell me I'm not missing something in this latest round of dipshit commercials spewing forth from Comcast's marketing brain trust.
Most folks know Comcast has a reputation for having the worst customer service of any company or agency in existence--scoring even lower than the IRS!--but their lame TV ads are like a vicious kick to my brain's nutsack.
In what fever dream does an individual participate in a scenario where they're put on stage and told to choose between getting tackled by Brian Urlacher or having their cable service discontinued?
And what's their (unstated) prize? To keep paying $45 a month for the same service their competitors charge $25 for? That's some upside!
I switched from Comcast to AT&T earlier this year. The only change I noticed was a two-second delay while waiting for YouTube videos to buffer. That gives me a much-needed moment to reflect on why I'm even compelled to watch a monkey bathe in a sink.
"People will do anything to keep their Comcast"?
Not the ones with principles.
* I like that, upon researching the "comcastic" slogan, I found 13 definitions in the Urban Dictionary and they were all negative.
8.31.2008
8.26.2008
Social Network, You Shall Not
Hiroko Yoda, a Japanese author/translator, was denied a Facebook profile because she shares a last name with a fictional Jedi Master...all because George Lucas' character is on a list of blocked names.It's sad when a person wants to use their real name on the Interwebs but can't.*
Yet it's funny that one can create a profile for George Lucas-Douche in mere minutes--complete with a portrait drawn with a Sharpie.
Check it out while you can. The Lucas-bots up at Skywalker Ranch's legal department are scrambling.
"Stay on target! Stay on target!"
UPDATE: As you may have noticed, I eventually changed George's Facebook profile to my own. You'll have to trust me that it was awesome while it lasted.
* Or when they get fired for doing so and can't use their real name ever again (*wink*)
8.25.2008
Last Blogger Standing
"Where the hell's Rider?"
I heard your bitching.
If you must know, I slipped into the pop culture equivalent of a coma. With the TV season still weeks away, I resorted to renting V: The Original Miniseries and playing Donkey Kong (only 500 Wii points* on the Wii Shop Channel!)
It was like 1983 all over again, minus the low self-esteem and inescapable Fixx songs.
On the bright side, I finished reading the final collection of the Y: The Last Man series from Vertigo/DC Comics.
If you haven't read it, Brian K. Vaughan and Pia Guerra crafted a superb 60-issue story about a mysterious plague that wiped out every individual on the planet with a Y chromosome. Only one man, Yorick Brown, survived the "gendercide."
It's a fascinating read and impossible to put down. Vaughan delves into the way society would change with women running everything from governments to the entertainment industry to black ops.
The only thing he doesn't explore is how the blogosphere would change...which got me thinking.
If a plague killed off every blogger on the planet except me, it'd be interesting to see exactly who would be left. Many questions and suspicions about the identities of my online friends would be confirmed by the sheer number of blogs with no new entries.
For example, I've met Slinger and McGone and I know they are fine, upstanding representations of the human male (the latter proving it by not wearing Crocs, but that's beside the point).
But who out there is actually a man writing as a woman (or vice versa)?
And how else would the Interwebs change without guys?
Please post your guesses in the comments section.
And ladies, hug a man today. The world would suck without us.
* That's five bucks to you, you non-Wii-playin' loser!
I heard your bitching.
If you must know, I slipped into the pop culture equivalent of a coma. With the TV season still weeks away, I resorted to renting V: The Original Miniseries and playing Donkey Kong (only 500 Wii points* on the Wii Shop Channel!)
It was like 1983 all over again, minus the low self-esteem and inescapable Fixx songs.
On the bright side, I finished reading the final collection of the Y: The Last Man series from Vertigo/DC Comics.
If you haven't read it, Brian K. Vaughan and Pia Guerra crafted a superb 60-issue story about a mysterious plague that wiped out every individual on the planet with a Y chromosome. Only one man, Yorick Brown, survived the "gendercide."
It's a fascinating read and impossible to put down. Vaughan delves into the way society would change with women running everything from governments to the entertainment industry to black ops.
The only thing he doesn't explore is how the blogosphere would change...which got me thinking.
If a plague killed off every blogger on the planet except me, it'd be interesting to see exactly who would be left. Many questions and suspicions about the identities of my online friends would be confirmed by the sheer number of blogs with no new entries.
For example, I've met Slinger and McGone and I know they are fine, upstanding representations of the human male (the latter proving it by not wearing Crocs, but that's beside the point).
But who out there is actually a man writing as a woman (or vice versa)?
And how else would the Interwebs change without guys?
Please post your guesses in the comments section.
And ladies, hug a man today. The world would suck without us.
* That's five bucks to you, you non-Wii-playin' loser!
8.20.2008
Hal's First Cheeseburger
Attention Google Reader users: I know you think you saw a post appear on this blog with the above title, but it's actually over here. Another blog entirely. Never mind me. I'm a dumbass.
8.18.2008
Advice to Collins
Phil Collins just gave ex-wife numero tres a $46-million payout in their divorce. That's more than McCartney gave Mills and she's down a limb.
After three divorces, he's lost 84 million of his $280,000,000 fortune.
My suggestion: rather than lose all your cash by the tenth divorce, Phil, give it to PETA now. Help them with their battle against KFC. Jeezum Crow--think how many beakless birds you could've saved already! Those autographed drumsticks you donated in 2005 didn't help as much as millions of sussudio dollars would.
FUN FACT: Collins notified his second wife of their divorce via fax
After three divorces, he's lost 84 million of his $280,000,000 fortune.
My suggestion: rather than lose all your cash by the tenth divorce, Phil, give it to PETA now. Help them with their battle against KFC. Jeezum Crow--think how many beakless birds you could've saved already! Those autographed drumsticks you donated in 2005 didn't help as much as millions of sussudio dollars would.
FUN FACT: Collins notified his second wife of their divorce via fax8.17.2008
Phelps Blog Reaction #865,000
I didn't want to write about Michael Phelps' eighth gold medal win in the Beijing Summer Olympics, but I've been told I have to.
I was watching last night's relay race, but only because Mrs. Rider didn't want to watch Ruins with me. (Apparently "horror" movies make her "scared" and she doesn't like feelings of "dread.")
I'll say this: it was pretty cool watching history being made.
Michael Phelps represented his country on the world stage, kicked ass, and instilled feelings of American pride that we'll all be talking about for years to come.
It's Wheaties boxes and Speedo endorsement deals for Phelps from here on out. In 30 years he'll have replaced Chuck Norris as a pitchman for exercise equipment. And good for him; he deserves it.
The truth is, I appreciate him for no other reason than we've needed someone to rally behind for the last seven years.
I hope this fulfills my obligation.
Side note: As cool as Phelps' win was, I actually had more of a patriotic reaction from this comic book page. Keep in mind it came out around 2002.
Dear Mr. Rider,Alright, already...but let the record show I'm writing this under duress.
Please be advised that Blogger's Terms of Service (specifically, section 8.6's "Content in the Services") indicates the following: "You agree that you will blog about matters of national pride as exemplified by athletes, politicians, celebrities, etc., etc...up to and including prop comedians. Failure to do so may result in deletion of your blog."
We here at Blogger have noticed it has been 12 hours since U.S. swimmer Michael Phelps set a new world record, yet you have failed to post any content related to your feelings regarding his achievement.
We do not want to delete your blog. It is mildly amusing and fills a niche among popular culture blogs written by folks with differently-shaped heads made of wood.
If I may suggest a topic: speculate on the size of Phelps' "johnson." But do it from a heterosexual male's perspective. We here at Blogger love the dick jokes.
Get with the program or join the jamokes over at Wordpress.
Best Wishes, Phineas T. Blogspot
Founder and CEO of Blogger
I was watching last night's relay race, but only because Mrs. Rider didn't want to watch Ruins with me. (Apparently "horror" movies make her "scared" and she doesn't like feelings of "dread.")I'll say this: it was pretty cool watching history being made.
Michael Phelps represented his country on the world stage, kicked ass, and instilled feelings of American pride that we'll all be talking about for years to come.
It's Wheaties boxes and Speedo endorsement deals for Phelps from here on out. In 30 years he'll have replaced Chuck Norris as a pitchman for exercise equipment. And good for him; he deserves it.
The truth is, I appreciate him for no other reason than we've needed someone to rally behind for the last seven years.
I hope this fulfills my obligation.
Side note: As cool as Phelps' win was, I actually had more of a patriotic reaction from this comic book page. Keep in mind it came out around 2002.
8.12.2008
Rider's Clone Wars Review
I attended an early screening of the new animated Star Wars movie, and I knew about the embargo on published reviews until the day of the film's release. But now that Warner Brothers forced Harry Knowles to remove his negative review, I'm gonna tempt fate. Come get me, you bastards.
George Lucas has never made a bad movie in his entire career. He has stayed true to his own vision, while simultaneously pleasing die-hard fans whose imaginations were kick-started by his creative genius.
Still, Star Wars: The Clone Wars stunk like Oprah's septic tank in 120-degree heat. It was full of gaffes, strange plot twists, and odd choices, beginning with the new Lucasfilm logo: a unicorn with a pink lightsaber horn. Then things got worse.
A JEDI TALKS NOT THIS WAY: Yoda (pictured) uttering the phrase "Can o' whup-ass"
The opening musical number seemed out of place. "Winchester Cathedral"? Really? Director Dave Filoni didn't stop there with questionable music from our world appearing in a far away galaxy. At one point Jar Jar came out of the closet and played "I Will Survive" on the kazoo while roller-blading in biker shorts. He's gay, yes, but come on.
How could Admiral Adama and the crew of the Galactica appear and join the conflict against the Jedis? That's an entirely different franchise. And why was everyone pantsless? Did they really have to include CG rendering of Edward James Olmos' acne pockmarks...then explain them as midi-chlorians gone awry?
Technical glitches and product placement plagued the entire production. At one point Senator Palpatine was inexplicably replaced by the squirrel from Ice Age who suddenly threw an acorn at Shrek-Wan Kenobi. Then he hoisted a can of Pepsi and launched into a monologue about Cool Ranch Doritos. "They will be my downfall," he cackled, loosening his belt another notch.
I also didn't understand why the producers chose America Ferrera to provide Yoda's voice.
Spoiler: Stay through the end credits. Lucas teases the final title of the upcoming TV series. (Clone Wars: Anakin at 15.)
George Lucas has never made a bad movie in his entire career. He has stayed true to his own vision, while simultaneously pleasing die-hard fans whose imaginations were kick-started by his creative genius.
Still, Star Wars: The Clone Wars stunk like Oprah's septic tank in 120-degree heat. It was full of gaffes, strange plot twists, and odd choices, beginning with the new Lucasfilm logo: a unicorn with a pink lightsaber horn. Then things got worse.
A JEDI TALKS NOT THIS WAY: Yoda (pictured) uttering the phrase "Can o' whup-ass"The opening musical number seemed out of place. "Winchester Cathedral"? Really? Director Dave Filoni didn't stop there with questionable music from our world appearing in a far away galaxy. At one point Jar Jar came out of the closet and played "I Will Survive" on the kazoo while roller-blading in biker shorts. He's gay, yes, but come on.
How could Admiral Adama and the crew of the Galactica appear and join the conflict against the Jedis? That's an entirely different franchise. And why was everyone pantsless? Did they really have to include CG rendering of Edward James Olmos' acne pockmarks...then explain them as midi-chlorians gone awry?
Technical glitches and product placement plagued the entire production. At one point Senator Palpatine was inexplicably replaced by the squirrel from Ice Age who suddenly threw an acorn at Shrek-Wan Kenobi. Then he hoisted a can of Pepsi and launched into a monologue about Cool Ranch Doritos. "They will be my downfall," he cackled, loosening his belt another notch.
I also didn't understand why the producers chose America Ferrera to provide Yoda's voice.
Spoiler: Stay through the end credits. Lucas teases the final title of the upcoming TV series. (Clone Wars: Anakin at 15.)
8.11.2008
No Virtual Cuddling
There's nothing good on TV. I've been teased by promos for fall shows, but we all know the good stuff won't air until late September.
Right now it's all jocks in China and I couldn't care less.
(Note to self: First track off my new album Jocks in China should be "I Couldn't Care Less.")
Where do I turn for my entertainment fix in the meantime? I'm tired of playing "Magnifying Death Ray" with insects.
As if answering my fist-shaking challenge to Mount Olympus, I received this intriguing email.
I'd almost forgotten that I had joined the online Second Life community a few years back.* I hung out there long enough to discover a few things before bailing:
1. I like who I am, so my avatar looks just like me. But other people's avatars were giant floating penises with penises for arms and a huge eye for a penis. Or they were nude albino elves with machine gun limbs.
2. Just like in real life, I avoided interacting with strangers. In either reality I prefer watching the freakshow from the sidelines.
But out of perverse curiosity, I wanted to find out what a Shakira Night Invite w/ a cuddle rug could possibly be. My Google search was fruitless.
"No, silly Google-bot," I said out loud, "that's not what I meant--and how does that make any more sense?"
I don't want to visit Second Life to find out. That's like giving in--on so many levels. Besides, what if Bearacb Darkstone is a scary dude waiting for me there? It's possible cuddle rug is ironic Second Life slang for something sinister. The Sea Bass/bathroom stall scene in Dumb and Dumber might have been funny for most, but in terms of sheer terror, in my mind, it ranks right up there with Ned Beatty in his tighty-whities silently gathering his clothes. I don't want to be man-handled, is what I'm saying. Even virtually.
I just want to know what a Shakira Night Invite w/cuddle rug is, fer cry eye.
And I wouldn't care about any of this if my favorite shows were back on. This summer hiatus is killing me.
* As the Dwight Schrute line goes, "Back then my life was so great I literally wanted a second one." Click here for the clip before NBC legal yanks it. (Those last four words could be graffiti in a men's room at 30 Rockefeller Plaza, come to think of it.)
Right now it's all jocks in China and I couldn't care less.(Note to self: First track off my new album Jocks in China should be "I Couldn't Care Less.")
Where do I turn for my entertainment fix in the meantime? I'm tired of playing "Magnifying Death Ray" with insects.
As if answering my fist-shaking challenge to Mount Olympus, I received this intriguing email.
"Bearacb Darkstone has offered you 'Shakira Night Invite w/cuddle rug' in Second Life. Log in to accept or decline the offer."
I'd almost forgotten that I had joined the online Second Life community a few years back.* I hung out there long enough to discover a few things before bailing:
1. I like who I am, so my avatar looks just like me. But other people's avatars were giant floating penises with penises for arms and a huge eye for a penis. Or they were nude albino elves with machine gun limbs.
2. Just like in real life, I avoided interacting with strangers. In either reality I prefer watching the freakshow from the sidelines.
But out of perverse curiosity, I wanted to find out what a Shakira Night Invite w/ a cuddle rug could possibly be. My Google search was fruitless.
Did you mean: Shakira Night Invite we/cuddle rug
"No, silly Google-bot," I said out loud, "that's not what I meant--and how does that make any more sense?"
I don't want to visit Second Life to find out. That's like giving in--on so many levels. Besides, what if Bearacb Darkstone is a scary dude waiting for me there? It's possible cuddle rug is ironic Second Life slang for something sinister. The Sea Bass/bathroom stall scene in Dumb and Dumber might have been funny for most, but in terms of sheer terror, in my mind, it ranks right up there with Ned Beatty in his tighty-whities silently gathering his clothes. I don't want to be man-handled, is what I'm saying. Even virtually.I just want to know what a Shakira Night Invite w/cuddle rug is, fer cry eye.
And I wouldn't care about any of this if my favorite shows were back on. This summer hiatus is killing me.
* As the Dwight Schrute line goes, "Back then my life was so great I literally wanted a second one." Click here for the clip before NBC legal yanks it. (Those last four words could be graffiti in a men's room at 30 Rockefeller Plaza, come to think of it.)8.10.2008
8.07.2008
Oh, Smitty, You Will Scream Like a Bitch!
I'm going to rush through this post, but there's a good reason: I need your suggestions and time is short.
I watch a lot of TV. Some might say too much. From Friends reruns to zombie movies to my afternoon telenovelas, I'm viewing satellite goodness 23 hours a day.
I have a 137.9" Samsung DLP, pictured here next to a one-armed midget wrestler.
It turns out the average life of a DLP lamp is 5,000 hours.
I burned that puppy to a smoking cinder after only 18 months.
Fortunately I had purchased a service plan from a certain Big Box electronics retailer, so I called the 888 line for a service call. The repair guy is on his way to the Block as I type this.
I want to play a joke on him. Here's where I need your help.
I want to put something in the TV's service hatch to shock or startle the unsuspecting repairman.
Imagine the look of surprise when "Smitty"--as I will repeatedly call him even after he offers his real name--unscrews the plastic door and sees...
...What?
What should I stick in the compartment?
Here are the items I'm considering.
A tin foil robot, a can of Green Giant Niblets, a half-eaten Peep, and a live gecko.
I'm not sure if I want to go with humor or sheer terror--what if Smitty has a grabber? I don't own a shovel and, besides, the neighbors would see me digging the hole.
Please offer your suggestions in the comments. Do it quick! He'll be here between 11 and 1!
Update: I went with a block of C-4. Smitty will be missed.
I watch a lot of TV. Some might say too much. From Friends reruns to zombie movies to my afternoon telenovelas, I'm viewing satellite goodness 23 hours a day.
I have a 137.9" Samsung DLP, pictured here next to a one-armed midget wrestler.
It turns out the average life of a DLP lamp is 5,000 hours.
I burned that puppy to a smoking cinder after only 18 months.
Fortunately I had purchased a service plan from a certain Big Box electronics retailer, so I called the 888 line for a service call. The repair guy is on his way to the Block as I type this.
I want to play a joke on him. Here's where I need your help.
I want to put something in the TV's service hatch to shock or startle the unsuspecting repairman.Imagine the look of surprise when "Smitty"--as I will repeatedly call him even after he offers his real name--unscrews the plastic door and sees...
...What?
What should I stick in the compartment?
Here are the items I'm considering.
A tin foil robot, a can of Green Giant Niblets, a half-eaten Peep, and a live gecko.
I'm not sure if I want to go with humor or sheer terror--what if Smitty has a grabber? I don't own a shovel and, besides, the neighbors would see me digging the hole.
Please offer your suggestions in the comments. Do it quick! He'll be here between 11 and 1!
Update: I went with a block of C-4. Smitty will be missed.
8.06.2008
Now She's Writing to Me
I received this email yesterday from a celebrity.
I know she's trying to help, and it's nice that I'm not the only one she's reaching out to, but sometimes constructive criticism, political or otherwise, can be hard to take.
Especially from someone about to marry a Canadian.
Dear Rider,
I was Googling "Beowulf" and found your blog. I read it from beginning to end here on the set of The Spirit (coming Christmas 2008) and I am very impressed. I showed it to my fiancé Ryan and he even smiled once. Your message is relevant to people of my generation, and you have the drive and talent to become the best blogger in our country. A few criticisms, though:
• Your writing is lazy. Try to use more colorful, inspirational phrases.
• Your posts are too long. If a reader has to scroll down more than twice they'll lose interest. My generation has a short attention span. Stay on message.
• It's cruel to cover your dog's head with a wooden block for your silly gag photos. Animals are people too.
• Try not to write more "mythology" posts. Don't trick your readers into thinking you journeyed through "Mordor" or slept in a Target. Folks my age are smarter than that; give us some credit.
I hope this helps.
Voting Obama,
Scarlett
P.S. Write more about global warming. And Beowulf.
I know she's trying to help, and it's nice that I'm not the only one she's reaching out to, but sometimes constructive criticism, political or otherwise, can be hard to take.
Especially from someone about to marry a Canadian.
8.01.2008
Dear Parking Lot Superhero
You were standing in the AMC Theatre parking lot with your hands on your hips. Your Zubaz fluttered in the wind and you couldn't have looked cooler if you were wearing a cape.
I had gone to see the 6:20 showing of Step Brothers, but how could I have known my heart would swell even before I entered the theatre?
Yet there you were!
You seemed to be guarding one specific handicapped parking space--one of 20 available--and the look in your eyes said, "No foe shall invade this blue plot of tarmac as long as I draw breath."
I passed and you nodded slightly, as if to say, "Good morrow, citizen."
Just when I thought you couldn't look any more awesome, I turned to see you had produced a bo staff from the folds of your puffy pants. You placed it atop your shoulders and hung your wrists from it.
You suddenly looked like Jesus if Jesus were a 60-something dude with tiger-striped foofy pants and a bushy 'stache who stood around for no apparent reason.
But goddamn if I didn't feel safe for those few moments.
Bless you, Parking Lot Superhero.
I had gone to see the 6:20 showing of Step Brothers, but how could I have known my heart would swell even before I entered the theatre?
Yet there you were!
You seemed to be guarding one specific handicapped parking space--one of 20 available--and the look in your eyes said, "No foe shall invade this blue plot of tarmac as long as I draw breath."
I passed and you nodded slightly, as if to say, "Good morrow, citizen."
Just when I thought you couldn't look any more awesome, I turned to see you had produced a bo staff from the folds of your puffy pants. You placed it atop your shoulders and hung your wrists from it.
You suddenly looked like Jesus if Jesus were a 60-something dude with tiger-striped foofy pants and a bushy 'stache who stood around for no apparent reason.
But goddamn if I didn't feel safe for those few moments.
Bless you, Parking Lot Superhero.
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