I’m seriously really upset this guy left us. Like way more sad than the passing of MJ and the rest of this week’s Celebrity DeathFest 2009 participants. I think it’s because Billy Mays just seemed to be a regular guy. A nice, happy, motivated regular guy.
Anyway, here’s a pretty neat tribute comic. 
(source: http://www.ctrlaltdel-online.com/comic.php?d=20090629)
-David Garcia, Still way sad
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
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
“No, David! Don’t watch Battlestar Galactica! That’s too much nerdiness for our home!”
That was Meggie pleading with me last night when I said I planned to start watching the first season of the show that changed up the word “fuck” with “frakk.”
I have always treaded on the fringes of nerdiness. I like some nerdy things, hate others. My best friend, Brandon J. Carr, is a full-fledged nerd - kind of. Not really. I play videogames for admittedly unhealthy amounts of time. I like gadgets and gizmos and spend way too much time on the Interwebs.
Still, I am completely indifferent, maybe even opposed to such nerdiness as comic books, Star Wars (HATE HATE HATE Star Wars), LARPing. Um, what else do nerds do?
Not sure.
I started reading an interesting article in WIRED Magazine (okay another nerdy thing) that said we are essentially in “The Age of The Nerds.” Nerdom has become the norm, of sorts. No longer the stereotypical high-water-wearing, pocket-protecting doofuses we all became familiar with in the Revenge of the Nerds movies, these creatures lurk amongst us completely incognito. It could be your teacher. Your neighbor. I could be that homeless guy who always tries to bum cigarettes from you. Probably not, though. That guy is just annoying. Anyways, the article said something about nerds being pretty prevalent now.
There may have been more to the article, but like I said, I just started reading it. I take quick poops.
I guess the point is. Umm…
Oh yeah. I think I am just concerned Meggie may be right. Am I going to cross the nerd threshold? I mean, would that be bad? Maybe being a nerd is just the next benchmark in social evolution. Maybe not. I mean, if I start watching Battlestar Galactica will everything change? Will I become fascinated with Star Wars mythology? Debate which is better - original Star Trek or The Next Generation. I don’t have time for that shit.
I think ultimately, I just want to see how hard Meggie freaks out when I start quoting the show.
Even if I hate it.
- David C. Garcia
Imagine, if you will, that your television line-up was the meats section at your local grocery store - A huge smorgasbord of high, medium and low-end animal flesh. Please note, I decided to use the meat analogy for television because like meat, TV rules. I am going to reserve the vegetarian analogy for something that doesn’t rule: work, bills, other people’s opinions.
So, as you stroll through the fine assortment of meats, you will notice the Grade-A Prime Angus Beef of television - shows like Dexter, Californication, and The Sopranos. These are the high-end shows. You need to pay a little extra to see them, but that few extra dollars, if you can spare them, is totally worth it. Then there are boneless chicken breasts. Excellent food that almost everyone will enjoy, shows like Lost and Grey’s Anatomy fall into this category. Some people don’t really care for chicken, but generally your typical audience will gobble these shows right up. As you peruse the meat, you find ground turkey meat. It’s cheap, it’s easy, and generally speaking, it will almost always taste good. Shows like Friends, Frasier and Scrubs fall into this category. Then you have the assorted deli meats. This is reality TV. With an assortment of different deli meats for every taste, reality TV is usually over-processed, packed with fillers and made of sub-standard meat. It’s what you watch when you need something quick and don’t have time to cook steak, chicken or even ground turkey. While you may think you have sophisticated tastes, chances are you have eaten your fair share of deli meat when you are in a pinch. Last night I watched a new reality show that can’t even be considered cheap bologna…
I Love Moneyis VH1’s newest reality TV/game show, and if it were featured in our meat metaphor, it would be scrapple. If you are not familiar with scrapple, it is the left-over meat products that aren’t even good enough to be packed into pet food. Hot dogs and bologna are made out of organs and bones and meat trimmings and are already a cut above scrapple. Chew on that.
America could not get enough simian-like imbeciles and attention-seeking whores from The Flavor of Love, I Love New York and Rock of Love with Brett Michaels, so VH1 took the most memorable oafs from these shows and decided to pit them all against each other. Why? The idiot who can actually sync up all 10 of his or her brain cells and surpass the others’ “skills” will win a whopping $250,000. Some of the “stars” of I Love Money include “Midget Mac,” a drunk, black midget with kung-fu skills, horrible speech and a whole lot of attitude. Then there’s “Rodeo,” a forty-something, bleach blonde country girl with a BBQ sauce company and a heart of gold. And let’s not forget about “The Entertainer” of I Love New York fame. An obvious native of Jersey, The Entertainer is an early-thirties nut job who lives in his parents’ basement and has a predilection for sucking on black ladies’ toes.
And they are the “smarter ones.” Well, I actually do think a genuinely intelligent guy with a really perverse sense of humor was able to get onto the show: “Mr. Boston.”
“Mr. Boston” appeared on I Love New York, and was this dweeby, pasty white guy who seemed to really piss off every other dude on the show who was vying for the love of the STD-ridden show’s namesake. I honestly think the reason he pissed every other nimrod off on the show was because their primitive instincts could pick up that he was smarter than them. It’s like when a primatologist goes and lives with the gorillas and is immediately made the subject of aggression by the stronger apes because they can tell something superior about the primatolgist poses a threat. On the pre-I Love Moneyshow, all the contestants were introduced and followed around as they did their day-do-day things. Mr. Boston’s antics were so over the top and ridiculous, but I could sense an air of intelligence to the man. I honestly think Mr. Boston is somehow putting up a complete façade. While some of the other contestants on I Love Money may be exaggerating their personas, they are ultimately still morons. I don’t think this is the case with Mr. Boston.
Either way, I Love Moneyis a guilty pleasure. I guess I like scrapple. Watching I Love Money is like being a spectator at the Special Olympics of Reality TV. As much as you want to find some sort of redeeming quality in these people, it’s almost impossible to overlook the fact that they are really just a bunch of barely-functioning retards doing tricks. Just like there is no hiding the word “crap” in scrapple, I Love Money is an apt title truly relaying what these imbeciles really love.
I cannot wait to see how this show pans out. The only thing I am worried about is these idiots reproducing. Sex is one of the most basic human drives, and I have a feeling these contestants may end up giving into their natural instincts to make more dumbasses while in between ridiculous challenges.
I have a love/hate relationship with reality TV. There are some shows that I think are fine examples of what reality TV should be. Pretty much any reality TV show that appears on The Food Network is worth my time. On the other hand, TV has managed to kill parts of my soul with abortions like The Hills, The Real Housewives, A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila and The Real World. Somewhere between rare quality reality TV and the cancerous drive-me-to-kill-from-a-bell-tower reality TV is something I like to call ”guilty pleasure reality TV”. This includes shows like Rock of Love with Brett Michaels, Gene Simmons’ Family Jewels and Celebrity Circus. Often I hate myself for watching these shows, but something about them is appealing enough for me to sacrifice some brain cells to.
My new favorite junk food reality TV may be A&E’s The Two Coreys.
Starring has-been 1980s teen idols Corey Haim and Corey Feldman, it’s reality TV’s answer to The Odd Couple. I remember really liking the first season, and when it ended, I didn’t think there would be a season two. After Feldman and Haim came to blows over jealousy, insecurities and lies, I figured it was all over. Then again, a show about washed-up Tiger Beat icons with a long history of drug abuse is a comedy goldmine.
Season Two started last night, re-introducing the two Corey’s to each other. After a six month hiatus from each other resulting from their little slap-fest in season one, there was a lot of tension. All kinds of B-list smack talking went down, and Feldman expressed his reluctance to work with Haim on Lost Boys 2. I know, bananas right? After having a sit down and re-opening up 20 years worth of wounds, the Corey’s decided that maybe a relationship counselor would be best. In fact, they elected to go to a marriage counselor. It was delicious. It was one of those defining TV moments that reflect just how insane and twisted our culture’s tastes are.
The interesting part about the counseling session is that they touched on Haim’s sexual molestation. During the conversation, Haim indicated that when he was 14 years old, he had been molested by one of Corey Feldman’s close friends and that only Haim and Feldman know all of the sticky details of the case. Guess who Corey Feldman was friends with when he was a teenager. Guess who one of his idols was.
BOOYA!
Feldman has publicly denounced Michael Jackson and testified against him. I wonder if Jacko is person who sodomized Haim. I’m going to keep watching The Two Coreys. You should too.
A fundamental element of my personality, love it or hate it, is that I have a tendency towards obsession. If I get into something, all my attention will be focused on it until I have gotten my fill or it dies. This applies to nearly every facet of my life. Ask anyone who knows me personally.
I rarely watch TV series when they air because I don’t like to wait for things. I want it all and I want it now. I normally wait for a season in its entirety to be released so that I can gobble it up in one sitting.
I got into HBO’s OZ earlier this year. I finished the first two seasons in one weekend. I loved it, and I wanted more. I ordered seasons 3 and 4 from Amazon, and when they arrived, my eyes devoured them as well. Seeing as there are six seasons in the series, I promptly ordered the last two seasons and anticipated their arrival immediately.
Unfortunately, season 6 arrived first which left me in limbo. I expected that with the arrival of 6, season 5 would be at my doorstep the next day (maybe the next hour). This did not happen.
For the past two-and-a-half weeks, I waited for season 5 to arrive. After the first week, I was fidgety and grumpy. I was withdrawing. I e-mailed the Amazon seller, asking where my DVDs were. No reply. A few days later, I sent another e-mail, politely inquiring into the status of my order. No reply. Fidgety and grumpy went away and were replaced by sheer mental instability. On Sunday, I sent an e-mail to the seller, demanding to know where my series was under the threat of reporting the seller to Amazon. Again, no reply.
Temperature rising. Vision blurring. Rage…taking…over…BECOMING FURIOUS!
I had Meggie chain me to the table that night, fearful of what I would do.
When I woke up, I had reserved myself to a boring, OZless life. I was done with humanity.
Sometimes I really do think there is a God. Either that or my frustrations are so intense that they actually spout from my cranium into the ethos and somehow manage to alter the day-to-day happenings of the world. Today when I arrived at work, a package containing OZ season 5 was perched on my chair. I was so exited. A coworker passed by my office and saw me licking the packaging. I told said coworker this was private, slammed the door to my office and cried tears of joy.
Tonight me and OZ season 5 have a date. All is right in the world. It’s time for some passionate prison rape, detention center race riots and shiving/shanking!
So, watching Oz is really paying off. I consider work to be very much like prison, and as such, I have been treating my coworkers like they are my fellow jailbirds. I’m really learning how to get respect.
I just went up to one of my coworkers who had ordered Chinese food and said, “Give me your egg roll.” He did. True story.
- David C. Garcia
