I had a delightful conversation with my wife the other day in which she suggested, no, insisted, that I was an elitist, a cynic and a pessimist.

I gave Meggie a “sincere” thumbs-up to let her know “she was right.”  Then I asked her to go make me a sandwich because “these pants aren’t tightening themselves.”

Her rolling eyes told me she was about to be super-obedient, so I was way shocked when she got up and left to mess around on the computer my study, a place where there most certainly ISN’T delicious sandwich meat and tasty fixings.

I briefly entertained the notion that my lovely wife was looking up amazing sandwich recipes or that maybe there was a hoagie shop in my study.  Then I realized that despite my best efforts, I’m pretty much the world’s worst domineering husband.

“Okay, I’ll get my own sandwich, babe!  I love you!”

That’s how I roll, bitches.  Domesticated like a motherfucker.

Still, as I made my mega-meaty sandwich and cursed Jesus for making me forget to buy Miracle Whip, I couldn’t stop thinking about what she (Meggie, not Jesus) said.  Sure, I’m an elitist and sure, I am a cynic.  But pessimist?  I don’t want to be a  Núñez Negativo (that’s Spanish for Negative Núñez, putos).  Then it came to me.

I need a fucking Predator Drone!

Holy shit, if I had a drone, I could stop being a pessimist because I could obliterate everything that makes me furious.  And dear God, there are so many things that fuel my rage:

First thing I would take out would be The Hills.  That show is so insipid, and whenever Meggie watches it, a piece of me dies.  Hopefully, all The Girls Next Door would be around and taken out as collateral damage when my drone’s “missile of justice and awesomeness” hit.  Especially Kendra.  That retard makes me want to punch really helpless things really hard.

Oh, and also Chris Crocker.  Is he still relevant?  Was he ever?  I don’t know, but his whining still haunts me.  Go get Chris Crocker, Predator Drone!  Get him with your STFU gun so I never have to see this again!

After all The Hills are destroyed, and all The Girls Next Door are incinerated, and Chris Crocker is liquefied, my drone would self-pilot over to Twitter and drop a massive payload on every green-tinted avatar showing support for the Iranian election trending topic.  My drone, fully self aware and capable of rational thought, would know that most people green-blasting their avatars don’t even know where Iran is or what the fundamental structure of their government is (hint: it’s not really secular).  Following the elimination of green from the color spectrum, my drone would nuke the bejesus out of any tweeter who habitually uses “marketing” and “SEO” or who thought it would be cool to send me a #spymaster request.

After purging Twitter of things that bother me, my Predator Drone would stop off at Fuddruckers to get me an ostrich burger and then take off on its next mission: Find and destroy Shia Labeouf.  Here’s the thing, I really don’t have the same problem all of you have with Shia.  I just don’t want him to be in Transformers 2.  We already had enough “story” in the first film.  Now, all I want is two hours of robots beating the shit out of each other.  Shia will just take away from that, and as such, he must go.  I’d like to imagine that as I took my final dramatic bite of my delicious ostrich burger, I’d hear a high-pitched squeal in the distance as Shia gets drOWNED by a Predator laser beam (Drones have lasers, right?  No?  Whatever.  Mine will.).

Ostrich burgers always make me sleepy, so I’d take a nap, and when I woke up, the following would also be super extinct, courtesy of my Predator Drone:

bills
work
uneventful poops
homemade commercials
dance shows
Lady Gaga (I don’t even know anything about her.  I just hate her name.  BOOM!)
wait staff who talk to me like a pal
shaving
Auto Tune
possums
Patrick Swayze’s cancer
Scott Stapp
Nickelback
the asteroid that killed the dinosaurs (asshole)

My Predator Drone would kick so much ass and make me so much happier.  When Meggie explained that I was an elitist and a cynic, I’d agree.  When she added, “And you are so happy.”  I’d turn to my Predator Drone, give an approving wink.  Then I’d let off a triumphant, 80s-era cartoon end-of-episode laugh as it jokingly flew off into the sunset.

Someone get me a Predator Drone!

- David C. Garcia, aspiring optimist

Drag Me To Hell’s tagline:

Christine Brown has a good job, a great boyfriend, and a bright future. But in three days, she’s going to hell.

Reasons to see this movie:

• You like horror
• You like Sam Raimi
• You like throwbacks to Evil Dead 1 & 2.
• You like old denture-wearing gypsy hags tormenting, beating the shit out of/vomiting bugs on young, blond damsels in distress.

Reasons not to see this movie:

• You don’t like any of the aformentioned badassery.
• You have a problem seeing kittens sacrificed and later puked up by a demon.

This movie was so much fun.  It retained the campiness, humor and crudeness of Evil Dead and Army of Darkness.  But it also brought the horror.  Like real horror.  Go check it.

EDIT: Go read my friend Retainer Girl’s hilarious post on DMTH: http://retainergirl.blogspot.com/2009/06/drag-me-to-hell.html

On a totally unmrelated side note:

The world’s most pointless machine. 

One of my coworkers just watched this and said, “Wow.  I can relate to that.  That’s like my life.”

- David C. Garcia, button giver

When I was in the 8th grade, I picked up a copy of White Zombie’s La Sexorcista: Devil Music Volume 1.  Led by techno-acid-horror-kitsch-retro-art singer, Rob Zombie, it was a take on rock I hadn’t heard before.  I still love that album and all other Rob Zombie music projects that followed.

When I was 25, I watched House of 1,000 Corpses and The Devil’s Rejects back-to-back under some very strange, sweaty circumstances.  *giggity*   When I look back on that evening, the circumstances are condemnable at least.  However, the movies are not.  1,000 Corpses and Rejects raised the bar for the slasher flick in a way that Hostel and Saw  tried at but failed.  They played on the basic vulnerable “this could happen to anyone at any time under any circumstance” horror that the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre parlayed.  That’s how I saw it anyway.  Plus, Hostel was retarded as shit and the Saw series became too formulaic.  I’ll take Otis Driftwood quoting Charles Manson and wearing your face over Jigsaw the handicapped sadist any day.

Anyway.  Rob Zombie proved (especially with The Devil’s Rejects) that horror is still alive and well if dealt with properly.

Then Zombie did something I wasn’t sure I approved of.  He sought to remake Halloween.  What the hell, right?  I learned about this at the same time that there were talks of remaking Cronenberg’s The Fly (and don’t say it’s a remake of the Vincent Price film, or I will…I don’t know…snap your arm in an arm wrestling match).  

Okay, I didn’t just disapprove.  I was pissed.  Great!  They’re remaking The Fly, possibly my favorite horror movie of all time, and now Rob Zombie is remaking Halloween.  Fucking great, Rob.  Now I have to hate you.

He totally passed, though.  What an amazing job.  He didn’t just “re-shoot” Halloween like Psycho was reshot but with color in the late 90s.  Instead, he paid tribute to the original, reinventing the story from a different and brilliantly shocking angle.  A true reimaging.  Both Halloweens are now seperate and wonderful entities.

Halloween was amazing.  It helped sweeten the soured taste in my mouth of all of the Ringesque movies that promised so much but delivered nothing.

And now, Halloween II is set to chop into the minds of pop horror buffs once again.  August ‘09, putos.  I am so excited about this.  I watched the preview, and I am already sold.

I’m not even second guessing the man again.  A few years ago I said that Rob Zombie may singlehandedly bring back horror.  I’m going to go ahead and retract that statement, especially since Sam Raimi of Evil Dead fame just unleashed Drag Me to Hell.  But I think Rob Zombie is going to be a MAJOR driving force in the reinvention of good horror.

Thanks Rob Zombie.  Keep it up.

-David C. Garcia “ain’t goin’ nowhere, bitch.”

Idiots and douchegoblins have spent countless hours contemplating answers to the age old question: What makes a man?

“A real man provides for his family.” - Sap

“A real man is in touch with his feelings.” - Wuss

“A real man fights for what he believes in.” - Dumbass

“A real man would be able to pleasure me.” - Meggie… Wait! What?!? Fuck!

Whatever.  You buttmonkeys go ahead and spend all the time you want thinking that gobbletygook and hullabaloo.  I’ll be sitting here watching Steven Seagal’s Out For Justice and listening to his acoustic masterpiece, Songs From the Crystal Cave–SIMULTANEOUSLY!

Because I know.  I know what makes a man:

An average-sized wiener and a couple of lopsided testes.  What’s up ladies?

Yeah, I’m rockin’ what it takes to be a man, but I’m also representing something else: A sleeveless shirt.  I’ve got the package to make me a hot-blooded hombre.  But when I need that extra edge, that little something to supercharge my masculinity, I slip into one of my many BADASS SLEEVELESS SHIRTS.

And as a full-fledged badass, I need that little something all the time.  You got it.  I wear sleeveless shirts constantly.  Everywhere I go.

When I came to work today, I was jamming to a cassette tape called 200 Animal Mating Sounds on my iWalkman.  I let the soothing sounds of track #127, “Musky Male Moose” motivate me. I was sporting my Tuesday Morning Sleeveless, a faded “Bad Boy” shirt I nicknamed “Lady Killer.”   I originally broke Lady Killer in at the gym while I “shredded my guns” with some intense curls.

My boss saw me, peeped my gear, sprouted a fat vein in his forehead and shouted, “Goddammit, Garcia!  Are you TRYING to piss me off, or are you just that stupid?”

This is the kind of challenge to my dominance and badassery I face every day, and as my homeboy Woody Harrelson said in the Oscar-deserving classic,  White Men Can’t Jump, this shit “ain’t no thang but a chicken wang.”  I promptly dropped into a horse-stance, cocking back one hand at the hip and confidently thrusting the second forward.  With the fury of a donkey-punched feminist, I roared something indiscernible and kung-fu sounding as my fist passionately raped the air.  I stared into The Boss’ eyes with determination.  And yes, my headphones were still on.  Track #129, “Rough Riding Rhino.”

“What does that even mean, Garcia? That stupid thing you just did, what does that mean?  Are you fucking retarded?  Get to your office!  I’m not paying you to pretend to be cool!”  The vein in The Boss’ forehead reached critical mass.  I wanted to poke it, but I was kind of stuck in my horse stance.

I wiggled my way out of my intimidating pose, gave The Boss a nonchalant “pfff” and strutted to my office, making sure my pecs did a dance as I walked by.

Had I arrived at work in a vagina button-up or a lame-ass polo with sleeves, things would have been a lot different.  I probably would have lost The Boss’ respect or even been asked to go work/assimilate with the rest of the staff.  That is most certainly not my style.  My sleeveless shirt is like a magnificent shield against all things stupid.

These pythons must be free.  My sensual shoulder flagellum, or what the haters call “nasty-ass arm hair” needs to breathe.  When I raise my hand to high-five another badass or swat at a mosquito trying to eat my pheromone-rich blood, I want the breeze to cool my Old Spice Original Scent-caked armpit that’s been fully exposed through the 26-inch anti-sleeve.

Sleeveless shirts, motherfucker.  Only to be worn by TRUE BADASSES.

- David C. Garcia, the man with no sleeves

I had a little scare today.  I was doing what I do best:

Surfing the Interwebz, pretending to do actual “work” at my “job” and getting my news from the Twitternet.  Suddenly, I got this tweet:

I was all like, “AWWWW HAIL NO!”

I guess my boss heard me.  He called my office and blabbered, “Blah, blah, blah, paying you to do a job, blah, blah, get to work, blah, blah.”

I politely replied, “Stop player-hatin’, G.  Ain’t you heard the news, homebread?  Swayze be kickin’ it with da Grim Reaper!  Ya hearrrrrd?”

“Jesus Christ, Garcia, shut the fuck up!  You’re on thin ice right now.  Get back to work!”

“Yeah, a’ight…dayuum.”

“And Garcia!”

“”Sup, naggle?”

“YOU’RE NOT FUCKING BLACK, YOU SPIC PIECE OF SHIT!”

“A’ight. Word.  Damn, bitch.”

If I hadn’t been overcome with an unthinkable sadness, I would have busted a cap in that bitch’s ass fo’ sheezy. 

***

Was it true?  Was Patrick Swayze, or as I know him, The Swayze, dead?  He couldn’t be.  The Swayze has been with me through every important benchmark that has defined my badass life. 

When I was forced to break up greasy bar fights while simultaneously pissing off crime bosses, I turned to Road House for inspiration.  When I wanted to make out and sexy dance with the bitches in small towns, I looked to Dirty Dancing for guidance.  When I wanted to haunt horny widows, I studied Ghost.

I am a walking tribute to The Swayze.  I rock dance moves everywhere I go, my tight-tapered jeans not hindering my skills.  When women talk to me, I look into their eyes with unadulterated interest—interest that says, “You’re really important and people care what you think, beautiful.”  When dudes talk to me, I listen intently with just enough hardcore conviction to remind them that I could head-butt the shit out of them at any point.

The Swayze has made me the man I am today.  I’ve decided not to name my firstborn, Alexander David Garcia.  His name will be The Swayze Garcia.  I wish I could do more, The Swayze.

I finally got the good news though.  The Swayze is apparently okay.  That is awesome.  I love The Swayze because I love freedom, and I think the only reason God is trying to kill him with cancer is because Heaven is basically mediocre without that dude.

The Swayze: Original Badass

- David C. Garcia, Relieved Swayze Superfan

Wow.  Wow.

“This movie is drenched in more blood than me when I went down on that hemophiliac girl on the rag.  While wearing a razor blade attachment on my tongue.”

That’s what I would say if I was the marketing manager for this film and had to sum it up for the viewers.

Wow.

Um.

Yeah, wow.

Vampire Girl Versus Frankenstein Girl is exactly why Japan is still the word’s foremost leader in splatter horror.  I don’t even know what this movie is about, and frankly, I don’t care.  I just know that I want to watch it.  Now.

Oh yeah.  Wow.

Dear Earth,

Today all these retards are celebrating how awesome you are.  People are rejoicing your rivers, saluting your forests, praising your atmosphere.

Not me, Earth.  Today, I hate you harder than ever.  Don’t get me wrong.  I hate you all the time, but today, I am putting as much effort into hating you as I possibly can.

When I came into work today, dressed in a Styrofoam suit, one of your retarded fans asked me what my beef with you is.  I’ll tell you what my problem is, Earth.  Wait.  I’ll tell you what my PROBLEMS  with you are.

First: Ever since Al Gore made his insipid crockumentary, An Inconvenient Truth, I’ve had to recycle.  I hate recycling.  It’s stupid and it is totally inconvenient.  I drink A LOT of soda, and instead of just throwing my cans into the trash or on the floor or into a nature preserve where they belong, I have to walk ALL THE WAY to the recycling bin.  That takes like 10 seconds.  Like I said, I drink a lot of soda, and those seconds add up.  Trying to take away MY life Earth?  I don’t think so, bitch.

Second: Whenever I turn on the TV, I have to watch these retarded “green” commercials.  One or two is only slightly annoying, but like soda, I watch A LOT of TV, and I end up having to see like a zillion stupid commercials on how I can keep your shit clean.  You’ve been around for like 4.5 billion years, Earth.  Something tells me you can deal with me using CFC and DDT-laced aerosols so that my feet don’t itch. Fuck off, Earth.  Quit making people air these commercials. 

Third: You act like you are all benevolent, but let me point something out, Earth: volcanoes.  Volcanoes, while badass, kill like tons of people all the time.  I know this for a fact because I saw it happen in Dante’s Peak.  How come people are spending all this time protesting tire-burning and carbon-footprints when volcanoes are exploding all over the place?  I’ll tell you why, Earth.  It’s a corporate-backed conspiracy, and you are involved.  You are a dickface, Earth.

Fourth: While I’m on the subject of disasters, let me point out some other shit you let happen: extinction of the dinosaurs.  Dinosaurs kick ass.  I do more polluting in one day then those sweet, sweet GIANT lizards did during a hundred-million year period.  If you are so cool, Earth, why didn’t you move out of the way when that gigantic asteroid was coming at you?  AND, if your stupid atmosphere is so cool why did it trap all that dust and make the dinosaurs stop breathing fire and eating cavemen?

I could go on and on, Earth.  But it obviously won’t do any of us any good.  So I’ll tell you what I am going to do, you round piece of shit:

I am going to take like 30 dumps today, and I am going to use an entire roll of toilet paper to wipe my ass each time.  I’m not even going wad it up.  I’m just going to use the whole roll to wipe my ass.  Obviously, the roll won’t flush, so what I am going to do is douse each roll in gasoline and then light it on fire.  Oh, don’t get me wrong.  I’m still going to flush 10 or 11 times per dump.

If you have a problem and want to step, Earth, that’s fine by me.  I will be in my apartment this evening stomping on endangered animals and leaving all the lights on.

Sincerely,
David C. Garcia

Transformers 2 is on my list of stuff to watch as soon as I can.  The first one was awesome, and I think this one will be, too.  But godammit!  I don’t care about “story,” Michael Bay.  I don’t care about douchey Shia LeBeouf.  I want to see Megan Fox’s tits and robots with absolutely no personality beat the shit out of each other for like two hours.

David C. Garcia, Film Critic

A few years ago, Meggie and I were watching TV when we saw The Room Store commercial:

“That lady is so fucking weird looking.”

Meggie agreed.  “Yeah and something tells me she is a freak in the sack.”

And over the next few years, every time I saw a Room Store commercial I wondered about Room Store lady.  Depending on my mood, I found Room Store lady to be creepy, “interesting-looking,” and at times, I even found myself sexually attracted to her.  Of course, that was before I was married.  Now that I am married, I NEVER think about things like banging the Room Store lady.

Here are some other things I have thought about when I saw her:

She’s a lesbian.

She is asexual.

She’s a dominatrix/sexual deviant.

She is an elf/goblin.

She is a school teacher.

She is either 20-something or 40-something.

She is a stretched out primordial dwarf.

She is Janine Melnitz from The Ghostbusters.

Last night, I saw a Room Store commercial, and I decided to get to the bottom of all of this and find out who The Room Store lady is.  I turned to the old obsession-enforcer, the word wide Interwebs.

Here’s what I found out:

The Room Store lady’s real name is Kristen Swanson, and along with being the spokeself (or spokesgoblin, depending on my mood), she is also the star in a “Taming of the Shrew”-inspired YouTube short called “Tamed”:

Yeah.

Meggie was right, she is a total freak:

At about 4:50 into “Tamed,” she says, “We are going to have rough sex, damn it and you are going to like it.”

I’m wondering what I am going to think next time a Room Store Commercial airs…

- David C. Garcia,
  Not a stalker, just really obsessive

I generally hate kids movies.  Hate.

They are boring and irritating.  And before any of you open up your yaps and say something to make my blood boil like, “Well, you had better get used to it,” let me offer up a preemptive I KNOW!

I also don’t like baby poop, but I am certainly going to be handling a lot of that.

I just don’t like kid’s movies.  My wife and friends say things like, “Oh, they’re cute!” or… I can’t think of anything else they say.  It’s usually about the movie being “cute.”  Cop out.

If I want to see cute, I will go to the ASPCA and look at puppies.  It’s closer to my apartment than the movie theater, and it’s free.

There’s just nothing appealing about most kids movies. Exceptions include Shrek, Wall-E, Milo and Otis and Commando.

Oh, and The Tale of Despereaux.

Yesterday, Meggie sent me an e-mail telling me that she wanted to see a movie.  Valkyrie seemed like the only possible movie we would both agree on.  Usually our movie tastes are in complete opposition.  She likes to watch movies about brides fighting, and I like movies crammed with more f-bombs and blood than Ryan White in a room full of razor blades.

But she insisted that we go see The Tale of Despereaux.  ”Oh great,” I thought, “Another movie about rodents.  Another KID MOVIE ABOUT RODENTS!”  ARRRGGGGHHHH!

Well, props to Meggie.  The Tale of Despereaux ruled.  It was wonderful.  It was an amazing story, it was visually pleasing, it was funny, it was at times eerie, and it was certainly an excellent allegory for our times.

So, cheers to you, Meggie Garcia.  You chose an excellent movie.  When our little baby is born, this may be one of the first movies I get him or her to watch!

If you were planning to go see something ridiculous like Yes Man (aka Liar Liar Part 2), you’re an idiot.  Go see The Tale of Despereaux.

- David C. Garcia