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Tuesday, November 29, 2011

The Most Horrific Thing I've Seen This Week

No! What is going on? Why is this happening?!?

Wait a minute. Only the Word of God can do what? Attack women and drag them into a terrifying book-world Gumby-style? Inspire disturbing photographs? Give me nightmares for a month?

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Monday, November 28, 2011

100 Songs I Hate: 17-19

17. "Boom Boom Pow" (The Black Eyed Peas)

When I started listing one-hundred of the songs I hated, I made a promise to you that The Black Eyed Peas would appear multiple times. Well, it's time to make good on that promise. Ladies and gentleman: "Boom Boom Pow."

I somehow missed this song when it originally dropped out of's auto-tuned asshole and plopped half-digested on pop radio. No foolin'. I had a vague awareness that there was a song called "Boom Boom Pow"--wasn't it in a trailer for Transformers: Rise of the Fallen Dark of the Moon or something?--but I never had the displeasure of actually hearing it. Until Sunday night. My family and I had just spent a delightful afternoon with some good friends and as a treat for the ride home, we turned on the radio. First we heard the end of the T.I. single "Live Your Life," a song that I like very much. Then, another song played, fading so quickly into the ether that I neither remember, nor care to remember, what it was. And, finally, "Boom Boom Pow." Oh, the humanity!

Not only is "Boom Boom Pow" another one of The Black Eyed Peas infamous "non-songs," but it offers listeners the added bonus of being covered in invisible hooks that sink into your brain, anchoring the song in your brain for hours after it is finished. I've been singing the words "boom," "boom," and "pow" for the last 15 hours and, needless to say, I'm pretty close to the edge, man. Damn you, The Black Eyed Peas, and your catchy, mediocre non-songs! I hate you so much...sob sob sob...

Actual lyrics from the song "Boom Boom Pow" by The Black Eyed Peas:

"I'm so three-thousand-and-eight/you so two-thousand-and-late" (Two-thousand-and-late??? THAT'S NOT A NUMBER!!!)

"I'm on the supersonic boom/Y'all hear the spaceship zoom?" (Do I hear the spaceship zoom? Um, NO!!!)

"Beats so big I'm stepping on leprechauns" (WHAT?!?!?!)

18. "You Can't Hurry Love" (Phil Collins)

The truth is, I love Phil Collins. I will defend this man until the bitter end. You can scoff, but I think Phil Collins has written some of the most memorable tunes of the last however many years I don't feel like researching blah blah blah...

That being said, this cover of a Supremes song is one of the worst pieces of garbage I've ever heard. Ugh. He doesn't even sound like he's interested in singing it, for Pete's sake. It's uninspired, boring, and, well, I hate it. Sorry.

"True Colors," on the other hand, I like.

19. "Fa La La" (Justin Bieber & Boyz II Men)

Hey, it's a Justin Bieber Christmas song.

Eff this song.

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Saturday, November 26, 2011

Saturday Morning News Bits: 666, spontaneous combustion, big butts, pigs, and bikinis


If anyone in the Christian collective still wonders why people make fun of them, this guy is the reason. Meet Billy Hyatt--not Bill, not William: Billy. Hyatt claims he was fired from his job at Berry Plastics Corp. for
not wearing a sticker labeled with the number 666, commonly known as the Mark of the Beast in the Christian religion. Hyatt's godforsaken boss required employees to "take" the number of the Devil in order to purchase food items from Berry Plastics' many fine vending machines and acquire yearly holiday bonuses. Those who refused were fired and/or decapitated out behind the warehouse on a homemade guillotine.

Hold on. That wasn't it. That's right. Berry Plastics Corp had gone 666 days without an accident and were commemorating the achievement with a limited edition sticker. Hyatt took issue with this:

"I cannot. I will never, ever, ever put that number on my body," Hyatt said.

Hyatt is a staunch believer in the Bible, including what Revelations chapters 13 and 14 say about the number 666.

"The people that accept the mark, they're going to burn in hell," he told Jones. "There's no way that I'm going to put that on my body," he said

I'm sorry. I wasn't aware that the higher ups over at Berry Plastics had the power to condemn people to Hell for all eternity now. To be fair, I haven't regularly attended church in 15 years, so I may be a little rusty on the rules. I also didn't know wearing a sticker with numbers on it was enough to take me out of God's favor. Let's read on:

Hyatt said Berry employees must wear stickers with the number of days the company has gone without an accident. When the number approached 666, Hyatt said he asked not to be forced to wear the sticker. Hyatt told Jones he even requested a day off, or a vacation day, so he wouldn't be at work when employees had to wear the number. When the 666th day came and he refused to wear it he says he was suspended and then fired.

Hyatt says his boss told him it's just a sticker.

"Well it's not just a sticker. 666 is the mark of the beast," he told Jones.

No. It's just a sticker.

Hyatt said he would have hated to get into a fatal accident on the job wearing the 666 sticker and, “(have) the last thing that I did on earth is to accept the mark of the beast just so I could actually work."

Is this what people actually believe? I know there are some level-headed Christians out there--some that read this blog even--please reassure me: this dude does not represent you guys, right?

This is what religion can do to a person, and that is just one more reason I think organized religion is the dumbest thing in existence. Religion and Dancing with the Stars.


A Swedish man spontaneously
burst into flames this week. Now that's what I call a sticky situation.

"He just stood there burning outside the shop," a witness told the paper. "After a while he started screaming. There were a few people about but they just watched him. I ran up to him, tore my coat off and managed to put the fire out together with another guy."

The Giant Electric News Team will continue following this story. Stay tuned.


Listen, if you desire some variety of plastic surgery performed upon you and you have the means to make it happen, more power to you. You get your eyes lifted and your creases ironed. Turn your breasts into festive Macy's Thanksgiving Parade balloons and your lips into sausage links. But if you don't have the money to have your body augmented, just learn to be happy with your hideous self, all right? Because if you don't, you might end up like this stupid asshole in South Florida who paid
an unlicensed transsexual to inject Fix-A-Flat into her ass:

South Florida cops busted a syringe-wielding freak for allegedly injecting a woman’s buttocks with cement, mineral oil and Fix-A-Flat tire sealant in a bizarre bid to give her big buns, officials said.

An unidentified woman believed she needed a bursting backside to work Sunshine State nightclubs and, through friends, met suspect, Oneal Ron Morris, who allegedly performed the freaky procedure.

“Short time later, she [the victim] develops very serious pains in her abdomen, throughout her body,” Miami Gardens Police Sgt. Bill Bamford told WPLG-TV in Miami. “She knows something’s wrong.”

Cement? I've got to believe that the "victim" in this story had no clue what was being injected into her body. I need to believe this or else I'll officially lose the last remaining respect for the human race I currently possess. Even if I'm visiting a cut-rate, non-doctor to perform a procedure on me, I expect to be told what might be crammed, jammed or injected into my body. The first time cement pops up in the conversation, I'm out.

When the victim told Morris about her intense pain, the suspect allegedly said everything was going to be OK.

“Oh, don’t worry, you’ll be fine. We just keep injecting you with the stuff and it all works itself out,” Morris said, according to Bamford.

Listen, Morris is obviously a real sickie, but can we stop calling this other woman a "victim?" That's an insult to true victims of crime. This dipshit knowingly let a non-doctor pump cement into her butt, and even if she didn't know Morris wasn't licensed, she had to know something was up. What, is Morris a criminal mastermind? Did she buy a doctor's office and have a wall full of fake diplomas she made on her computer? C'mon, unnamed victim! Get your head out of your enormous, cement-filled ass!


If you muck something up in Samoa, you better be ready to lose some pigs, buddy. That's what happened to the former manager of the Samoan rugby team, Tuala Matthew Vaea, this week. For bringing shame to his village, Vaea was dismissed from his post and
fined 100 pigs:

Tuala Matthew Vaea incurred the fine after players and team officials complained that he neglected his duties at the event in New Zealand, treating the tournament as a "massive holiday" and spending too much time drinking with friends. His village council determined he had disgraced the village and tarnished his chiefly rank.

So, there are people in Samoa that just have 100 pigs lying around? Man, the world is a strange, stupid place.


This is the kind of story we love here at GEP. The bond between a human and its beloved animal companion is one of the most special relationships in existence. It is inspiring and uplifting to witness the lengths to which a person might go to ensure the safety and well-being of his/her furry friend. When their pet goes missing, these selfless individuals do all they can to rescue said animal, no matter the cost. So Arlene Mossa Corona missed Thanksgiving with her family. This pure, kind soul has refused to eat until her missing chihuahua is once again safe and sound in her loving arms.

She's also refused to go without clothes.

A woman took to the streets Wednesday to find her lost Chihuahua, and she won’t clothe herself or eat until the dog comes home.

Arlene Mossa Corona wore a bikini and held up a sign with pictures of her dog Chispita in the intersection of La Jolla Village Drive and Genesee Avenue in San Diego, Calif., on Wednesday morning.

And Corona isn't just interested in finding her poor lost Chispita, she's also a proud American patriot:

Cars honked and men whistled and shouted cat-calls at the woman as she held up her sign, wearing red pumps, a white bikini top and blue bikini bottom — the nation’s colors, she said, to represent military personnel coming home. She hopes the same will be true of her dog.

God bless America.

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Friday, November 25, 2011

Matt VS Kid: Round 2

Things haven't been going so well.

Since last we spoke, I've turned green, toppled from multiple floating rock formations into the yawning abyss of death--yawning because it's totes bored by my repeated topplings--and stuck like a chump on Level 1-3. It's not like I haven't tried. I have. Hard even. It's just something about this game--this frustrating, frustrating game. If my daughter's first words aren't "shit balls" or "dammit to fuck," I'll be very surprised. Sorry, Mia and Pep-Pep.

The Eggplant Wizard? Maybe?

So, in the spirit of frustration, I scoured the internet for cheat codes. I'm not proud of it, but I have never been above using cheat codes and secret warp zones to beat a video game. If I can't beat a video game, I don't see the point of its existence. Video games are created to be conquered, to give the gamer a sense of accomplishment. True, finishing a game with nothing more than the street smarts you've accrued through a lifetime of sitting six inches from your television moving a blocky, Italian plumber through a world of anthropomorphic mushrooms is way more satisfying than cheating, but, as far as I'm concerned, in the world of gaming at least, cheating is an acceptable, "last resort" move.

So, I found several pages of passwords, reset my game of Kid Icarus, and started cheatin'. Only none of the pilfered passwords worked. Not one. I tried them all and NONE OF THEM WORKED! As a result of my scheming ways, I was forced to start over from Level 1-1. I got through it in record time. Since then, I've been stuck in 1-2. I hate you, Kid Icarus.

Irritated beyond belief, I made my way to the Wii Store and purchased two new titles. I needed a break from Pit and his toppling. First up, Double Dragon.

Did you know that Double Dragon opens with a woman getting socked in the stomach and carried away by a motley crew of degenerates? I didn't remember that. Kicking, punching, and baseball-batting my way through three levels of Double Dragon alleviated some of my Icarus Anger. Then I learned, that in Double Dragon, you only get three lives and when those are spent, you start over ON LEVEL 1! What? Why are old Ninetendo games so hard? WAAAHHHHH!

Irritated anew, I turned to a man who has always been there for me. When every other game in the world let me down, this beautiful, mustachioed man and his series of colorful good-times has never failed to amuse me and accommodate my limited video gaming abilities:

Of course, I'm talking about Mario. Who did you think I meant? Q*bert? Spyro? Ratchet and/or Clank?

Anyway, I bought Super Mario Bros 2, a game I loved as a kid. I love the music in this one too, in fact, if I'm in a good mood, I tend to whistle, and the song I'm usually (see also: always) whistling is the Super Mario Bros 2 theme. I love it!

I've pretty much been playing Super Mario Bros 2 ever since. It comes with its own set of frustrations, but, I don't know, at least it's not Kid Icarus.

Will I buck up and give Kid Icarus one last try? Or will I devote the rest of this month to Mario and his pals? Or will I leave my basement and gaze once more upon the sun, swear off video games and embrace adulthood? I guess you'll just have to stay tuned.

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Thursday, November 24, 2011

Perving Out: Thanksgiving After Dark

Thanksgiving is a time when cartoon dogs dressed as pilgrims and slutty, stripper-types dressed as sexy Native Americans can come together and participate in a weird, kinky First Thanksgiving-themed orgy of some kind. Happy Thanksgiving, perverts.

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Happy Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving is a time when cows and Alaskan huskies can come together, don pilgrim costumes, and stand together in thankfulness. Happy Thanksgiving, everybody.

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Sunday, November 20, 2011

Perving Out: Elizabeth Hurley

This week, Perving Out is celebrating the triumphant return of Elizabeth Hurley to these American shores. Chances are, 100% of you do not watch The CW's Gossip Girl. I'm not here to recruit you, but I will admit--proudly, I might add--that I have been onboard with this tawdry prime time soap about scheming Upper East Siders ruining each others lives in various colorful and amoral ways since the beginning, and I am still wholly onboard for any and everything Gossip Girl has to offer. Oh, yes, Elizabeth Hurley...

So, anyway, the 46-year-old model-turned-actress joined the cast of Gossip Girl this year and it has been nothing short of constant delight. First of all, she's brought back the scheming that has been so desperately missed, you know, since Chuck turned good and Blair's schemes became royal wedding focused and Dan sold his dumb novel and Charlie frowned a lot and Rufus got even more insufferable and Eric disappeared at sea (That's what happened, right?). Gossip Girl has always been best when chocked full of elaborate schemes and Hurley has been the scheming MVP this season for sure. I can barely wait for her comeuppance. You think Juliet and Vanessa got it bad when they were simply shunned, considering everything Hurley's character, Diana, has done this season, I'd be surprised if she gets out of Manhattan with her life. Second, did you see last week's episode, "The Big Sleep No More?" Did you see the purple dress Hurley wore to Chuck's weird Macbeth haunted house charity thing? Wow. I wanted to post a picture of that for this entry, but I couldn't find a good one. So, you get the above picture, which I think is pretty exquisite.

Happy Perving Out Sunday, everybody! XOXO

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Saturday, November 19, 2011

Saturday Morning News Bits: PETA hates Mario, baby knives, Kim Kardashian, and dead Munchkins


This week PETA called out fictional video game icon Mario Mario for sometimes wearing a magical tanooki-suit:

"Tanooki may be just a "suit" in Mario games, but by wearing the skin of an animal, Mario is sending the message that it's OK to wear fur," PETA says.

Is he? Mario's tanooki-suit also gives him the ability to fly. Isn't he kind of sending the more dangerous message that wearing a costume can grant you the gift of flight? It's not like kids everywhere are wrapping themselves up in Grandma's mink coat and jumping out of their bedroom windows shouting "For the Mushroom Kingdom!" It's a game. And kids are stupid. Most of them don't even know what a tanooki is. Most of them probably know wearing animal fur is wrong too. Just let 'em play their video games and get fat on Cool Ranch Doritos. Geez, PETA, do you gotta ruin everything we love.

Of course, why take on the Super Mario series when there is a game far more callous in it's treatment of animals: Joust. Have you seen this thing, PETA? Grown men in suits of armor riding on the fragile backs of ostriches?!? Now that is some sick stuff!

Also, everyone knows a real tanooki-suit would come with g
iant furry testicles.


Remember, new parents, don't let you infant children sleep with sharp knives. They'll probably kill you in your sleep, most likely in some kind of gory, Satanic ritual.


They haven't been --sorry if I got your hopes up--but one group of concerned citizens is trying to make this wonderful dream a wonderful reality:

"In a grass roots effort, we have collected [thousands of] signatures for a petition asking E! Entertainment to remove the Kardashian suite of shows from their programming," petition organizer Cyndy Snider said in a statement. "We feel that these shows are mostly staged and place an emphasis on vanity, greed, promiscuity, vulgarity and over-the-top conspicuous consumption."

"While some may have begun watching the spectacle as mindless entertainment or as a sort of 'reality satire,' it is a sad truth that many young people are looking up to this family and are modeling their appearance and behavior after them," Snider continued. "I'll remind you here that the Kardashian family fame largely started with a 'leaked' sex tape."

Finally, a dumb, vague, largely unfocused cause I can get behind. You can add your name to the No More Kardashian Petition

And before I forget: Hey, E! channel, how many on-camera hummers do I gotta give before you'll air my reality show? I've given sooooo many already. Trust me, Bald Dad is gonna be an instant hit!


America said good-bye to one its last remaining Munchkins this week,
Karl Slover. Slover was 93 and 4-foot-5 when he died of cardiopulmonary arrest. You might think Slover's life was nothing but yellow brick roads and prolonged stares of vague recognition, but his childhood in Czech Republic was a terrifying succession of horrifying ordeals:

"In those uninformed days, his father tried witch doctor treatments to make him grow," [John Fricke, author of 100 Years of Oz] said. "Knowing Karl and his triumph over his early life, you can't help but celebrate the man at a time like this."

He was buried in the backyard, immersed in heated oil until his skin blistered and then attached to a stretching machine at a hospital, all in the attempt to make him become taller. Eventually he was sold by his father at age 9 to a traveling show in Europe, Fricke said.

Slover played Munchkin Trumpeter No. 1 in the Judy Garland-helmed classic and earned $50 a week for his work. He leaves behind three Munchkins and, I presume, a closet full of tiny shirts and pants.
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Thursday, November 17, 2011

Movie Penguin Thursday: #14. Doom (2005)

If there is one thing first-person shooter fans, disturbed teenage outcasts, and sporadically-employed twenty-somethings can agree on, it’s that the video game Doom is, quite possibly, the best way to kill time between binging on McDonald’s cheeseburgers, looking up weird internet porn, and pretending to look for a job. It worked for me. There was a period in my maturation process that consisted of hours-long marathons of Doom, Grand Theft Auto: Vice City, and Simpsons reruns, with periodic breaks for urinating, defecating, smoking, and fast food consumption, and look how I turned out. I’m happily married, my wife and I have a beautiful 5-month old daughter, I own my own home, I am gainfully employed, and now I watch my reruns on a 52” flat screen TV with surround sound. So, you know, don’t let the media tell ya video games, horror movies, chain smoking, and Taco Bell aren’t good for you. Next time you see a local newscaster moaning about violent, sexist video games (They do that, right? I don’t watch local or any news ever at all.) and the dangers of Chinese take-out, you turn the channel. Or better yet, shoot your TV in the face. Oops. Maybe there is such a thing as too much Doom. You probably shouldn’t shoot your TV. Maybe a strongly worded e-mail is enough.

In the spirit of full disclosure, I spent the bulk of my youthful “video gaming” playing a copy of Doom 2 I borrowed, and subsequently stole, from my friend, Todd. Sorry, Todd. If you are reading this and want Doom 2 back, I’d be happy to give it to you. Please don’t want it back though. PLEEEEEEASE!!!

Anyway, Doom 2. I would get home from whatever unsatisfying temp job I was doing that week, share a cigarette with my roommate, and proceed to play Doom 2—in God Mode, of course—for a couple of hours before prime time television and bed. Doom 2 was my way of relaxing, dealing with stress. The anger I felt, mostly at myself, for being kind of a failure at life, would dissipate when I was hacking space demons to pieces with a chainsaw. And, seriously, why would you use anything other than the chainsaw when playing in God Mode? If you were more of a Super Shotgun guy (or girl!), more power to you, but when you’re invincible and have the power to literally walk through walls, why wouldn’t you want to get up close and personal, Leatherface-style on these hideous hellbeasts? I’m just saying.

For those of you unfamiliar with Doom—I’m talking to you, Grandma—Doom is a series of video games in the first-person shooter style in which a dude walks through a bunch of doors, shooting and killing various space weirdies that may or may not also be from the pits of Hell. I don’t know. Want a history of the Doom franchise, check Wikipedia. We’re here to discuss the Doom movie—the uncut, unrated Doom movie.

Watching Doom the movie is like watching a friend play Doom the video game, by which I mean, it’s boring. The film, like the game on which it based, is basically people, mostly bulked up, sweaty dudes, walking through doors into rooms, down hallways to other rooms, and through different doors and hallways into various different rooms. There are a lot of doors opening and closing and while that might sound intensely exciting to you, it rarely ever is.

And that’s what is ultimately disappointing about Doom. I didn’t have any great expectations going into this thing, but I thought it at least might be a little bit scary. The graphics may have been primitive, but Doom 2 could be downright frightening, especially when played in the dark. And it didn’t help that the apartment in which I played was located in a less-than-great part of town. The creatures were horrifying. The impaled twitching bodies in the torture chamber were disconcerting. The sound effects were chilling, especially those big ugly demons that seemed to be growling the ominous phrase “I’m your mom” over and over again, no matter how many rounds you pumped into their bloated stomachs. Doom 2 was, quite simply, scary as shit! Doom the movie, as I said earlier, is boringer than hell.

Generally, I believe video game-to-movie adaptations don’t work for one of two reasons. Either the video game in question 1) doesn’t have enough plot to sustain a feature-length film and little-to-no effort is made to rectify this (Mortal Kombat) or 2) has a whole bunch of plot or such a wacky, off-the-wall idea or concept, that a coherent, interesting film is nearly impossible to pull off (Super Mario Brothers). Doom, on the surface, doesn’t seem to have a lot to work with, however, the filmmakers give it one helluva try. There’s an underground warp zone in New Mexico that can instantly transfer a human being from Earth to the surface of Mars. There’s a creepy laboratory where earthlings are being injected with Martian chromosomes (Chromosome 24) that will either transform test subjects into a hulking alien monster or a gravity-defying superhero depending on whether or not said test subject possesses the, for lack of a better term, “evil gene.” There’s an attractive blonde women with perky nipples. There are cool guns. None of this changes the fact that we are, in essence, watching The Rock and his alien clean-up crew walk through an endless succession of doors and down an endless succession of hallways.

The film follows Sarge, played by The Rock before he was Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson, and the other colorfully nicknamed members of the Rapid Response Tactical Squad (The new guy’s nickname is “The Kid!”) as they travel to Mars via The Ark, a weird ball of teleportative goo, to find out what happened to Dr. Carmack and his scientist buddies after a particularly troubling transmission from the UAC research facility. Once there, Sarge and his team walk up and down hallways, open doors, enter rooms, and close the aforementioned doors behind them. Eventually there is shooting, but it takes an awfully long time to get there.

There isn’t much else to Doom, to be honest. It’s about what you’d expect, assuming you’d expect anything at all. The only truly interesting scene comes at the end of the film just before the fairly predictable Big Fist Fight Finale. For five or so uninterrupted minutes, the audience experiences the “walking through doors and down halls” thing first person shooter style. It’s like playing Doom only you’re not sitting in front of a computer with your pants off. It’s an exciting sequence that made me wonder if the movie might have been more successful if it did something unconventional and made the whole thing first person style, like, from the prospective of The Kid on his first mission or Sarge coming face to face with something he’d never encounter in his Marine Corps career.

I can’t imagine needing an uncut, unrated Doom, but here it is. I wonder what they cut out for the theatrical cut? I don’t wonder enough to seek a theatrical version out, mind you. I think I’d rather just find Todd’s copy of Doom 2 and play that for a couple hours.

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Sunday, November 13, 2011

What the WTF presents The Most Horrific Thing I've Read in a Good Long Time

I know most of you have been waiting for my take on the whole Joe Paterno/Penn State Sex Abuse Scandal story and I apologize for making you wait so long. Many of you get your news from GEP and when we fail to comment on a major story in a timely fashion, I usually feel pretty bad. There is a reason it's taken me awhile to comment on this particular tale of woe however, and that is because large portions of it make me sick to my stomach.

If you don't have any idea of what I'm talking about, first, you most assuredly live underneath a rock, by which I mean you aren't alive at all, but, rather, buried in a cemetery somewhere, unless, of course, your body was donated to science or cremated and tossed into the Grand Canyon. Second,
this timeline of events posted at should bring you up to speed. Allow me to nutshell it, if I may: Jerry Sandusky, an assistant football coach under legendary Penn State coach Joe Paterno, molested and raped several different young boys over roughly a fifteen year period. His disgusting conduct was witnessed and reported, but nothing was ever done until just recently, when Sandusky was arrested on 40 criminal counts.

There is a lot about this story that makes me sick. First, Sandusky is an inhuman monster. He creates a charity for boys from dysfunctional homes and then uses said charity to find easy marks--broken, lonely boys aching for a father figure in their lives. Sandusky becomes that father figure and proceeds to betray their trust.

Second, you got the members of the Penn State faculty and staff who knew what Sandusky was up to, but ignored it or, in the case of Joe Paterno, did the bare minimum of what was required and got back to promoting the Penn State brand. Nobody picked up a phone and dialed 9-1-1, like, ever. They passed the buck, swept it under the rug--you pick the cliche! The simple fact is that boys were being sexually abused, but Penn State's reputation was much more important.

Third, these students that rioted and flipped over a news van. Really, guys? Now that you know the whole horrible story, I bet you feel pretty dumb. Let me rephrase that: you better feel really dumb. Listen, I hadn't heard the name Joe Paterno until last week (believe it or not, not everybody cares about college football), so maybe I don't get how much of a legend he is 'round your parts. I do know that a graduate assistant witnessed Jerry Sandusky anally raping--
ANALLY RAPING!!!--a 10-year-old in the locker room showers and called his dad, not the police. HE CALLED HIS DAD! Then, THE NEXT DAY, he told Joe Paterno who also DID NOT CALL THE COPS, but rather Penn State's athletic director and the whole story dies there. Paterno was part of the cover-up, like it or not, and for that he deserved to be terminated. Let's step outside of our school pride for a moment and look at the facts. Paterno fucked up. He's not the only one who did, but he did nonetheless. So, why not help right that news van and get back to studying or binge drinking or whatever.

Who are the victims in this story? Joe Paterno? Not bloody likely. Penn State's reputation? If they're so great, why have I never heard of them?* I'll tell you who the victims are...


That's right: what young boy in his right mind is going to take a public shower after all this? Scores of middle school boys will leave second period gym sweaty and stinky, offending the sensibilities of their Social Studies classmates, all because the locker room shower has become a terrifying, tiled house of horrors. Rumors will fly: "I heard if you stand in front of the boy's room mirror and repeat "Jerry Sandusky" three times, Coach Sandusky appears naked and cuddles your from behind." Showers will go ignored and unused. Horrifying!

Of course the showers aren't the victims! Sandusky's victims are the victims, but it seems like everybody forgot that for awhile, although I think people are
finally coming around.

There is a special place at Hell's Thanksgiving table for child molesters. Jeffery Dahmer cooks the turkey, Osama Bin Laden makes the seating chart, and Hitler does the carving. It makes the Thanksgiving dinner for blasphemers and liars look like a Labor Day barbecue in The Hamptons, you know, fun, but kind of intimidating. Sandusky ruined a lot of lives, but what's become of JoePa's legacy is nobody's fault but his own. Remember that next time you see a news van that looks just right for tipping. Believe it or not, there are things more important than your alma mater. Grow up.

*I'm kidding. I've heard of Penn State. I've visited the campus. I had my picture taken with that lion.
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Saturday, November 12, 2011

Who Asked For This: Get Your Mediocre On!

There are video games that give players the experience of being at war. Others give gamers the experience of being a highly-skilled professional athlete. And some can show you what it'd be like to live as an overweight Italian plumber lost in a world where mushrooms make you bigger and turtles are trying to kill you. But has there ever been a video game in existence that has given players the full experience of being a mediocre pop/rap music group? There is now. Behold: The Black Eyed Peas Experience for Xbox and Wii.

Are you serious? Can I really play as, Fergie, the guy who isn't, and the other guy who isn't and might be named Tablet? I don't know who to pick! I love them all so much! And, wow, just look at all the dance moves I get to learn! The Hop Scotch! The Give It Up! The Pantomime! All my favorite moves I've never heard of!

The Black Eyed Peas have to be in video games now? Why won't they just go away? Wahhhhhh!

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Friday, November 11, 2011

100 Songs I Hate: 14-16

"People Are Crazy" (Billy Currington)

Make no mistake, I hate every song on the 100 Songs I Hate list, but there is a special place in Songs I Hate Hell for ditties like "People Are Crazy." Contemporary country might get crapped on more than it deserves, but for me, there is nothing more loathsome than the "Contempo-Country Story Song." And when it's got a blatantly predictable and predictably stupid twist ending like "People Are Crazy," well sir, I despise it all the more.

For those of you who've skipped over listening to Mr. Currington's 2009 hit and gone straight to my bashing of it, here's a quick re-cap: The song's narrator finds himself in the state of Ohio without any knowledge of how he got there or why. Instead of seeking medical attention for obvious brain damage, he stops in at a local bar, sits down next to an old man, and proceeds to get thoroughly wasted. The singer and old man spend the evening drinking and talking about politics, dames, and God's grace--you know, guy shit. Eventually the old man shares with the singer the culmination of his life experience, the golden nugget of wisdom he's come across in his sixty-plus years on the planet, and it is this: "God is great. Beer is good. And people are crazy." The singer and the elderly gentleman part ways. Some time later, "one sunny day," our narrator sees the old man's picture on the front page of the obituary section of his local paper (Wait, does he live in Ohio? Is that why he was in Ohio? Has he been in Ohio all along?) and learns that the old man was, in fact, a millionaire who left all of his riches to THE SONG'S NARRATOR! In turn, the narrator places a six pack of beer on the old man's grave.

No, really. That's the song. Can you imagine spending an entire evening drinking with some old man and it comes time for him to drop some old manny-type wisdom on your head and he says, "God is great, beer is good, and people are crazy?" Really, old man? That's the best you've got for me? I've spent the whole evening keeping you company, distracting you from your own mortality and that's the big secret to life, that beer is delicious? And people are crazy? How are people crazy? What percentage of people are crazy? What are they doing that makes them crazy? Getting drunk with strange old millionaires in bars? That's pretty crazy.

Anyway, this song sucks hard.

15. "Grenade" (Bruno Mars)

"Grenade" was a hit song. You've heard it, right? This is apparently the kind of song people in America want to download to their iPod and listen to. Sick.

First of all, if your kid heard this on the radio and asked you to buy them the CD or download the song on iTunes and you did, you are a terrible person. Yep. I just said that. Go back and read it again. I called you a shitty parent. How is any of the lyrical content appropriate for anyone not old enough to know that Burno Mars is completely full of shit? Bruno Mars isn't going to belly-flop on top of an active grenade or happily submit himself to a beheading to, I guess, save the life of his ex-girlfriend. Wait, is that what he's doing? How does having his head chopped off save somebody else's life? We'll get to the inherent problems the song's lyrics raise in a moment. Let's get back to you being a horrible parent. Yeah, so, what, your kid gets into a stupid pre-teen relationship and it ends, as they ALWAYS do, and you find it perfectly acceptable for them to submerge themselves in the dulcet tones of Bruno Mars and his ode to suicide? This is a horrible song with a stupid, immature message, and if you and your dumb kids rock out to it in the car on the way home from soccer practice, screw you.

Now, the adult reaction. If you heard this song on the radio and stopped at Best Buy to purchase the CD or downloaded the song on iTunes, you are an idiot who lives in a magical world where jumping in front of trains and taking bullets to the head constitutes being what is commonly referred to as a "romantic." Is it romantic to be an idiot? Listen to the song, dummy. The girl in this song hates Bruno Mars. It's not bad enough that she keeps her eyes open when they kiss--which is super creepy, you gotta admit--but she also TAMPERS WITH HIS CAR'S BRAKES! This woman is, for lack of a better term, a mega bitch. Even so, Bruno would die for her, and not just die, but be killed in various horrific and gory ways. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

I'm serious now: if you are an adult human with a normal functioning brain who genuinely enjoys "Grenade," tell me why in our comments section. You can be anonymous about it. I won't personally attack you. I just don't understand the appeal. It isn't even a terribly catchy song. But it was a #1 hit, so what the eff do I know. Maybe I should just shut my mouth.


16. "Last Friday Night (T.G.I.F.)" (Katy Perry)

OK. This song has a few things going for it. 1.) It's catchy. 2.) The appearances of Rebecca Black and some of the Glee gang in the video is cute. 3.) Katy Perry is nice to look at, you know, after the transformation and everything. It's the lyrics I have a problem with and that's only because, believe it or not, America's children are the reason Katy Perry has a career.

I mentioned in a past post that segments of the media seem to view Perry as a children's entertainer of sorts. Sure, "Firework" is a triumphant teenage ode to being yourself, but songs like "Last Friday Night" celebrate debauchery in all of it's splendid forms. And, sure, Perry may mention having a boss in the lyrics, indicating that the listed revelries were experienced by young people of college age at least, but the video is set at the kind of giant high school house party made famous by, I think, every single teenage comedy film from the 80's. Isn't Rebecca Black, like, 14-years old? Who's her boss?

"C'mon, old man," you might be yelling at your computer, "Katy Perry is fun. My kids love the beat. Why don't you get off your high horse and have fun for once." To you I say, you're an adult. Have yourself a Katy Perry-style good time. But do your kids really need this song to dance to? There isn't something equally poppy and/or grating to which to get funky?

Here's a quick, fun list of just some of the shenanigans Perry and her buddies got into last Friday night: anonymous sex; underage drinking; glitter littering; heavy petting; bar fighting; heavier petting; public indecency both in and out of water; contributing to the delinquency of a minor (Get out of the house, Rebecca! Run back to that wholesome party from your video!); heaviest petting; French-style sexual intercourse; property damage; chandelier molestation; murder probably.

You're right. That is kid's stuff. Jerk.

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Monday, November 7, 2011

A few quick thoughts about Jack and Jill

Look, I don't care what you do with your life. If you want to drive to your local movie theater and watch Jack and Jill this weekend, more power to ya. Go. Eat some popcorn. Yuk it up with your significant other or a group of like-minded buddies. If Adam Sandler movies are what you like to spend your money on, by all means, purchase a ticket to Jack and Jill this weekend and have the time of your life. I hope you do. I mean it. I want your life to be full of laughs. You deserve it. Just do me a quick favor. Tell me what's funny about this:

This is one of the many Jack and Jill spots cluttering up TV right now. Now I could pick this thing apart like the movie snob dickhead I'm sure many of you believe me to be, but I'm not going to do that. It's too easy. It's what you were probably expecting. Like I said, if this is your thing, go for it. I just want to know what's funny about the last 10 seconds of this commercial. Just in case you're too lazy to go back and look or have downright refused to press play even once, I'll set the scene. Katie Holmes, as Adam Sandler's child bride, introduces the idea that one twin can feel another twin's pain, like those dudes on G.I. Joe or whatever. Curious to see if this is true, Sandler's son punches his Aunt Jill so hard in the face that she falls out of her chair. "Feel that?" he impishly asks his father. "I actually did feel something: pride in my son," Sandler retorts. Really? You feel pride in your son for punching his aunt in the face? You are proud that your son has physically assaulted a woman? Your son has punched his aunt so hard in the face that she has toppled from her seat at the Thanksgiving dinner table and you are proud of him? Explain to me why this is funny. It is the capper for the TV spot, so clearly we're supposed to get a hoot out of watching a child punch a woman in the face. Is it funny because the kid has a pepper mill taped to his head? Is that why I'm supposed to laugh?

"C'mon, man, it's just slapstick," you're probably saying. "Lighten up." Hey, I like a good pratfall as much as the next guy, but there is something unsavory about this shocking moment of domestic abuse that doesn't sit right with me. It isn't funny. Not to me. But Jack and Jill wasn't made for me, so maybe I should just shut up.

I'm not going to lie though: I am kinda curious about the whole pepper mill being taped to the head thing. If you see Jack and Jill this weekend, explain why that's happening in the comments section. Thanks.
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Saturday, November 5, 2011

Matt VS Kid: Round 1

When I was a kid, my favorite video game was Kid Icarus for the NES. I don't know why exactly: it was irritating, repetitive, and impossibly hard. Kid Icarus did more to foster and further develop my burgeoning short temper than anything else growing up. "You mean when I die, I gotta start over?! FROM THE BEGINNING!?!" My first curse words were uttered during an afternoon round of Kid Icarus. The first controller I threw in anger was probably a result of sliding off of an ice platform for the twentieth time in ten minutes. I couldn't get past Level 1-2, yet I considered Kid Icarus the finest game Nintendo had ever created. It made Super Mario Bros look like a pile of trash in my opinion. I have some theories as to why.

First, I loved Greek mythology as a kid. I still do in fact. The idea of a video game (sort of) based on my favorite Greek myths was mind-blowing to me. True, very little of the game--that I ever saw, mind you--contained anything remotely similar to the heroic stories I knew and loved. I mean, Icarus had nothing to do with Kid Icarus. The game's protagonist was an angel named Pit who carried a bow and an unlimited quiver of arrows and fought anthropomorphized eggplants and flying baby grim reapers. The game has a lot of columns. That's Greeky.

Second, I loved the music. Still do in fact. It is so triumphant. Listen to this:

That's my jam, son!

Anyway, as I've already mentioned, I never beat Kid Icarus. I never even got close. The constant tumbling off of things into an inky black abyss, the never-ending hoard of winged snakes falling from the heavens, the grim dancing specter of death and his floating "death babies" finally got to me and I gave up. I think I moved on to Ducktales or something.

Last year, I purchased Kid Icarus via the Nintendo Shop on Wii. It was a nostalgia purchase, but I think part of me believed that at 31 I was finally prepared to conquer Kid Icarus once and for all. Yeah, that didn't go well. But now, a year later, I think I'm ready. I'm 32, I've bulked up a little (thanks, Crystal Palace!), and I've got what one might call the "skills to pay the bills." That's a thing one might say, right? Maybe it's "skills" with a "z," like "skillz." Doesn't matter. What matters is that this month I will beat Kid Icarus and I'm taking you all with me on this journey to victory.

I started this morning with a rare moment of beginner's luck, conquering Level 1-1 with the ease of a ballet dancer who is also a talented video game player. The next stage, 1-2, found me twice murdered by flying grim reaper fetuses and once toppling into nothingness. Three restarts is my limit. I was able to contain most of the fury these failures riled within me--my daughter was a mere three feet away playing happily and I didn't think she needed to witness her daddy losing his shit over a video game from the 80's--but I was unwilling to push my luck. So, right now, I'm taking a little break from Kid. The Wii is on, ready to go if and when I'm prepared for the next round. Stay tuned to GEP all month long and find out what happens. And, please, if you can find it in your heart to encourage me, either in the comments section or on our Facebook page, do so. I can do this if I know you are all behind me. Thanks. And God bless.

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Thursday, November 3, 2011

November already???

This month, GEP is gonna eat, breathe and sleep


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