This is the 123rd and final post for Wriphe.com/blog in 2009. While it seems like spring was just a few short weeks ago, mere days now remain until 2010 (the year we make contact). The older I get, the faster time seems to move. According to the theory of relativistic time dilation, that means that either I'm slowing down in relation to my surroundings, or more likely the world is spinning faster than before. Since I refuse to believe that I'm not a constant, the world must be increasing in velocity. But I guess that's impossible, isn't it?
Damn you, Superman. In addition to making time seem to move faster, now you've also electro-magnetically erased my hard drives (and given Captain Marvel an erection). Thanks a lot, Man of Asshole.
Apple proudly announced on Christmas Eve that North American children could follow Santa's sleigh via NORAD-approved applications on their iPhones and iPods (this in addition to Google Earth, OnStar, Facebook and Twitter updates, and old fashioned text messaging). Of course, this is an extension of www.noradsanta.org, a website created by the multi-national military North American Aerospace Defense Command, which is in a lot of ways just like G.I. Joe. Founded in response to the Cold War, NORAD is mandated to oversee North American airspace. Unlike millions of greedy amateurs, it is really NORAD's chartered mandate to keep an eye out for flying men in red coats who intend to rain down "gifts" on otherwise defenseless America and Canadian children.
We've come a long way since the 19th century when children actively sought to earn the approval of Father Christmas by sacrificing a goat. No wonder kids are so fat these days.
Tis the season for poodles.
My aunt gifted me two rescued standard poodles this week. The black bitch is named July and is quite a playful handful. The light apricot bitch is named Victoria and is skittish and reserved. They came as a pair, previously owned by a woman who became unable to care for them following an injury. Despite the fact that they are both adults (2+ years old), they've kept me very, very busy.
Meanwhile, my father bought a new standard poodle puppy descended from a line including show champions. Though at this point the puppy remains unnamed, I'm sure that it can't help but do well considering that it's dam was named for Joanna Cameron's title character in television's The Secrets of Isis.
[UPDATE: For the record, Victoria isn't an apricot. She's just a really, really dirty white. Silly girl.]
I've had this commercial stuck in my head all day.
Call me crazy, but I've decided that Barney is really rapping about raping Fred's daughter, Pebbles. Fred must think so, too, for he sure freaks out over the minor theft of some delicious "cereal."
One would think that an archaic cartoon character rapping about child molestation is probably not the best way to sell sugar to children, but Post Cereals doesn't care. Post blatantly uses drug themes to market Golden Crisp, a cereal with so much sugar it gives Sugar Bear hallucinations, and Honeycomb, a cereal that acts as a nutritious sedative for dangerous feral creatures. It's no wonder that after a childhood of ingesting roofies, reds, and tabs, Post wants me to buy boxes of 100% Bran to cleanse my system.
One of the nine dogs I was dogsitting this past weekend was mauled to death by another one of the nine. The dead dog was a typically enthusiastic beagle named Petey. The survivor was a much larger mixed breen mutt named Buster. The cause of their final encounter remains unknown: the two had long been affable kennelmates, and I didn't come upon the scene until minutes after the fatal event. I was able to get Petey to the animal hospital alive, but surgery was unable to save him from his extensive internal injuries. Petey died several hours later, alone in a cage. Buster was and remains confined to a lonely 5-ft by 10-ft kennel pending evaluation.
I mention this because it sucks to have a limp and wheezing puppy in your arms for Christmas. It does, however, adequately illustrate my general indisposition about the never-ending Christmas season: you know the dog is going to die, and there is nothing that you can do about it but wait it out. This situation is not significantly improved by the possibility that If you're judged "nice," you'll get a new shirt to replace the one ruined by all the blood.
If you didn't know that assists, rebounds, and free throws were basketball statistics, this article from the sports section of my local Newnan Times-Herald (page 7, Dec. 9, 2009) newspaper would be really confusing.
Scratch that. It's really confusing anyway.
I just saw a commercial for Macy's 2009 Cashmere Sale. While I don't care for wearing either goat's hair or sweaters, if Macy's puts their models on sale (even the one playing the "old" lady), I'm buying. Why can't more stores advertise their seasonal specials with unnaturally good-looking women? It seems that there is a shortage of subtle hotness in Christmas advertising these days. Between the uncomfortably overt sexuality of GoDaddy promos and Zales adverts intentionally confusing jewelry with love, it's nice to see that someone remembers that dressing the set with beautiful women is still enough to get consumers to notice the real star: the product. And no, GAP commercials staring prepubescent girls doing their best Punky Brewster impressions don't count.
The Atlanta Falcons played like dogs this Sunday, so it was fitting that Michael Vick returned to town to put them out of their misery.
Michael Vick had predicted that he would receive a standing ovation on his first return home to the Georgia Dome following his eviction due to federal conviction as a canine killer. He pretty much got what he expected. Never have I attended a sporting event that was quite so much a love letter to a single person, an event where a player was indeed bigger than the game, but that was what happened. Very few, it seemed, came for the game. (This was a good thing, as there wasn't one played, at least not by the Falcons.) Everyone was there for number 7. And to his credit as an athlete and entertainer, he gave us what we came to see. Most Falcons fans had justifiably fled by late in the third quarter, leaving only Eagles and Vick fans, whose chants of "Put in Vick" were answered as Vick drove the Eagles down the field for another touchdown. Then everyone went home.
I'd be lying if I said that I didn't take some vengeful enjoyment in watching the prodigal Vick return to Atlanta with the Eagles and pull the wings off the injured Falcons, 34-7. (Atlanta's lone touchdown couldn't have been less relevant, scored as time expired in the game against a third-string Eagles defense.) I figure the Falcons deserved the punishment it after the ingracious way that they treated the Dolphins in the season opener. So I ask, Falcons, how did you like them apples, because I thought they tasted pretty sweet.
The single greatest comic book page ever published:
Seems that Stallone's Rocky was in talks to join Sgt. Slaughter and William "Refrigerator" Perry as a Joe in 1987, but negotiations fell through, leading to the publication of the above totally-awesome page in 1986's G.I. Joe: Order of Battle comic book. Details can be found here and here.
The 2009 W.A.T.C.H. list of dangerous toys is out. This year amid such life-threatening fare as Lots to Love Babies and Curious Baby Curious George Counting - My First Book of Numbers lurks none other than the Wolverine! World Against Toys Causing Harm warns that X-Men Origins Slashin' Action Wolverine presents the "POTENTIAL FOR EYE AND AND OTHER IMPACT INJURIES!" (Their capitalization, not mine. My Caps Lock key works just fine, thank you.) Well, duh. After all, Wolverine is the best there is at what he does, and what he does is not cuddling. He is genetically designed always to be running with scissors, for Pete's Sake, hardly a proper role model for little Jack and Jill. The figure's packaging brags that Wolverine is an “indestructible combat machine," which sounds about right (and, despite W.A.T.C.H.'s criticism that the toy packaging contains no caution label, qualifies as all the warning any eye impact injury-free parent should need). Giving Wolverine to a toddler is equivalent to giving him a plugged in toaster filled with forks. I don't see that on your list, W.A.T.C.H.
Now if you'll excuse me, I think I'd like to buy that Spy-Gear Viper-Blaster that W.A.T.C.H. discourages. Because a gun that shoots snakes sounds like something Santa will be giving Toys For Tots this year.