If you believe in conspiracy theories, think about why you believe in conspiracy theories. (That ought to keep you busy for awhile.)

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All this week, the national media has been abuzz about the spat between South Park and Scientology. Apparently, Scientologists are crazy. (Thetans. There, I've said it.) But is that really news?

I'm no expert in the matter, but it is my understanding that Mormons wear special underwear. (Underwear is next to godliness.) I've read that Catholics consume the actual body and blood of the son of their god. (And we give them a hard time about their preference for young boys!) I've seen Southern Baptists prohibit the use of playing cards while allowing dominos. (A rose is a rose, unless you're a Southern Baptist.) I've witnessed Jews celebrate oil that burned much longer than it was advertised to burn. ("Tightwad" was originally a Yiddish word.) And I've even heard that Muslims receive 100 virgins in heaven. (I hope those virgins aren't going to stay virginal for eternity? As my friend Chris said: "Dude, virgin pussy sucks.")

So every religion has it's share of wacky ideas. And now we're going to fight over whose ideas are the stupidest? That's like entering siamese twins in a beauty contest and then arguing over who looks better in the swimsuit competition. Grow some thicker skin, people. Or better yet, a sense of humor about yourselves. Now quit throwing stones at each other so I can go back to watching news that really matters: is Britney is pregnant again?

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All right, I admit it, I didn't watch the Oscars. I didn't watch any of the 80 straight hours of hype on E! before the show. I didn't watch Jon Stewart's scything remarks against Scientology. I didn't watch anyone thank God or The Academy in their acceptance speach. More importantly, I didn't watch any of the films that were nominated for, well, anything this year.

Hollywood, you've stopped trying to talk to me. I don't know when, exactly, that I fell from the demographic that Hollywood was trying to reach. I'm still young (enough) to buy shoes, cars, and cigarettes. However, I don't live in L.A., I don't LOVE history or morality tales, and I'm not a gay cowboy in Wyoming. (In fact, I can't stand Wyoming, but that's a different story.)

The only 3 films that I saw that were released in theaters in 2005 were Sin City, Batman Begins, and Fantastic Four. (Anyone see the theme there?) I'm not demanding that Hollywood make nothing but comic book inspired movies (oh, that would be awful, wouldn't it?). However, I would like for Hollywood to give me something to justify the $12.00 expense of a movie ticket in 2006 that didn't have men in tights -- or the silver screen equivalent: molded black vinyl -- in it.

Hollywood, you're now specializing only in biopics (Ray, Capote, Walk The Line), interpretive history (Munich, Good Night And Good Luck, Alexander) or or the always unimpressive sequel (Big Momma's House 2, Cheaper By The Dozen 2, Miss Congeniality 2, Son of Mask, Star Wars Episode 3). And if I don't care for those, I can always pay full price to go watch a film that I've seen before (War Of The Worlds, The Pink Panther, Charlie And The Chocolate Factory, King Kong, Amityville Horror, The Longest Yard).

If that's the best that you have to offer me, Tinseltown, stop bitching that you just had the worst year ever and try to make something worth watching for a change.

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McDonald's is out to brainwash America (and then the world -- Bwah-Ha-Ha-HA!) to eat their crappy hamburgers. I know that this is not exactly breaking news, but have you noticed the recent trends in McDonald's commercials? In order to dig the company out of the horrible publicity pit they have found themselves in recently, they have decided to simply try to pressure us back up to the counter.

First they tried to convince us that our grown friends would really love McDonald's gift cards for Christmas. Ask yourself, have you ever, even once in your life, wished that your wife or parents (or Santa, whoever) had given you a gift certificate to McDonald's instead of cash? "Gee, I sure wish that I could have nothing but tasteless, fattening meals everyday instead of paying my rent." Even as a child, I would rather have had the cash than a Happy Meal toy. (And yes, I do remember the first time I chose a Big Mac over a Happy Meal, and it was indeed because of peer pressure. >Shakes fist!<)

Then they tell you that their food is good for whatever meal you would next be having. In a commercial, one man serves double cheeseburgers as hor d'oeuvres despite his friend's objections. When the rest of "the gang" find the burgers served as finger food and approve, the lone dissenter, also known as "the voice of reason," is forced into compliance with his friends lest he risk defenestration or some such other fate as commonly befalls the malcontents of society. Certainly, McDonald's has no patience for traditions, mores, or manners so long as you can still stuff your face at their trough.

Just like the communists, they next attack the arts and the intelligentsia. In a commercial where "the gang" are going to a football game in face paint, the one fellow who actually makes an attempt at creativity and team spirit is ridiculed, emasculated by his friends. And this occurs after the artist has been demonstrated to perform due diligence: attempting communication with his friends about the planned demonstration. Apparently, to be an individual in Ronald McDonaldland is to risk constant belittlement and ostracism. (As I recall, "the gang" is represented by minority racial groups and women, and the "outcast" is a white male. This means that the peer pressure to conform is being issued by traditionally oppressed American ethnic groups, an insidious paradigm shift designed to subconsciously cow the skeptical viewer into compliance with the message to prevent the outward appearance of political incorrectness and the accompanying social consequences.) I don't suppose it's a coincidence that Ronald McDonald wears the same colors as the soviet flag!

In another ad, a married man conscientiously contacts his distant wife to ask if she would like a meal from McDonald's. She fails to define her desires to him, and he is left in the uncomfortable situation of having to buy her dinner without offending her. Clearly, McDonald's would have us believe that the failure to memorize both their menu board and the fast-food eating habits of our friends and lovers will result in relationship difficulties. According to the company of the clown, we must eat at McDonald's or we risk dying both alone and hungry.

Finally, in the most shocking of all, a red-headed young man sits on a park bench beside a statue of cross-legged, smiling Ronald. As the seconds pass, the young man finds himself compelled to assume the same pose as the statue. McDonald's peer pressure tactics are so great that they'd have you believe that you must conform even with their statues!

It's not 1984 anymore, McDonald's! Wake up and smell one of the 1.3 million cups of scalding hot coffee that you sell every day! Make good food and we'll come eat it. If your best idea for convincing me to come into your store is to hypnotize me with a constant stream of blipverts, you've got even more problems than Morgan Spurlock suggests that you have.

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Twenty-years ago in 1986, the Post-Walt Disney Co. used its regular Sunday night "The Wonderful World of Disney" on ABC to showcase a number of failed pilots of dubious creative distinction. Several of them stand out in my memory, including "Mr. Boogedy" and one called "Northstar" about an astronaut (played by Greg Evigan of "B.J. and The Bear" and "My Two Dads" fame) who gained super powers from sunlight through a freak cosmic accident. Of most importance to me, however, is the move called "I-Man," starring Scott Bakula in the title role. To the best of my knowledge, "I-Man" aired only once before disappearing into the black-hole of un-produced pilots.

"I-Man" was about a regular guy who was granted super-human powers of self-healing through a freak accident not-too far removed from the origin story of Daredevil or those Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. The only hitch in his alien-induced Wolverine healing trick is that perfect darkness is now fatal for him. Figuring that complete darkness is so rare that he has little to worry about for the rest of his unnatural life span, I-Man, short for Indestructible Man, naturally, decides to turn his powers to the unselfish causes of truth, justice, and American television.

Soon, I-Man has been discovered spying for the U.S. government, as was his wont to do, and is captured by the stereotypical dastardly rich villain. He finds himself (in true super-spy tradition) invited to breakfast with the villain and his co-conspirator, the treacherous she-spy turned traitor who was responsible for the revelation to the enemy of I-Man's amazing powers (by stabbing him in the arm with a knife!). When asked how he likes his eggs prepared, I-Man responds with a snarl towards his former comrade, "Benedict, as in Benedict Arnold!"

At this point in the dialogue, I, a 10 year-old boy, laughed and said something to the effect of, "he's angry that she stabbed him in the arm." My father wasted little time in correcting me with the observation that I-Man was not disappointed in being stabbed but rather upset that the enemy was now aware of his super-secret healing factor. Of course, my father was right, which I realized as the words were leaving his mouth.

Eventually, I-Man escapes the enemy's pitch-black death-trap, discovers that the she-spy turned traitor is only pretending to be a traitor and has been revealing information to the enemy so that she can pretend to be a double agent and learn the enemy's secrets (I'm sure that this tactic makes a lot of sense to women), and discovers that his son has the same healing powers that he does just in time for a happy ending.

But none of that last bit is really important, and I couldn't tell you what happened during the final portion of that film if my life depended on it.

Man, do I HATE to be wrong.

(On a related side-note, eggs Benedict were not named for Benedict Arnold, as this show would have impressionable young viewers believe. Instead, they appear to be named for nineteenth-century New York City native Lemuel C. Benedict.)

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I just finished Gotham Central #39, and I was appalled to discover that issue 40 will be the last of the series. Apparently the G.C.P.D. won't survive the "skipped" year coming in Infinite Crisis. The cancellation of this book has me really depressed.

You see, last month my comic shop of the past decade plus closed its doors. While debating if I my desire was strong enough to keep feeding my very expensive habit, the only DC book that had any emotional impact upon me was Gotham Central. The ending of issue #38 was shocking and saddening to me. One month later, to find that the only book that I was really enjoying within DC's "continuity" is to be discontinued is very discouraging.

I'll be the first to recognize that the comic industry has to change in order to reach a new generation of customers. I had hoped that they would be able to do so without alienating their longstanding readers. But as DC changes Superman into Hamlet and Batman into Dr. Frankenstein, I find my interest waning.

In the early 90's, in reaction to the trends of the day and gimmicks of their competitors, DC replaced Batman with a much darker version. Denny O'Neil has said that the Azrael Batman was an interpretation of the darker, more violent characters that were so prevalent at the time, an interpretation that was predestined for destruction in favor of the more life-affirming Batman that DC presented. Now, DC gives us All-Star Batman, a despicable, murderous, egomaniacal creature that throws their work and characterization of just 10 years ago out the window. And their excuse? Allowing Frank Miller to redefine Batman worked so well 20 years ago, let's get him to do it again! With curse words! I'm beginning to think that Frank Miller sincerely hates Batman.

I think I'll blame my comic book malaise on the "new look" DC bullet. I loved the previous, longstanding bullet. It has been modified over the years, but it was always the same basic thing: the letters "D" & "C" inside of a circle with text or stars. The same elements are all there, but it's not the same feeling anymore. And now that that bullet is associated with DC's new Batman (shitty) and Superman (going to be shitty) movies, the whole thing is a disenfranchising nightmare to me.

Sure, I'll probably keep buying Detective and Batman out of habit (the inertia of 30 consecutive years collecting a title is hard to overcome), but I'm just not sure I really care anymore for the new DC Universe. I guess that's the thing about bullets: you never see them coming.

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I have to admit that I just don't understand America's fascination with midgets and monkeys.

Both are staples of comedy bits on TV from commercials to the Man Show. On the big screen Austin Power's Mini-Me became a cultural phenomenon not too far removed from Clyde in Any Which Way But Loose. (And yes, I know that Clyde, an orangutan which is a member of the ape family, is not actually a monkey. This is really a rant against dressing up primates in human clothing, so maybe I should have said "pygmies and primates" instead of "midgets and monkeys," but you get the general idea here.)

I believe that the reason that these two things are commonly considered humorous is because they are both (to different extents) miniature versions of the human form. Midgets are humans, small humans. Monkeys are hairy, small humanoids with tails. Notice that in both descriptions, the only common word is "small." That's right, to America, small equals fascinating. (Perhaps because we as a culture are now all so ridiculously large ourselves.)

Look at our obsession with iPods, Chihuahuas, cell phones, babies, and Tom Cruise. If a monkey reminds you of a small version of your office companions (which is exactly the point of a recent commercial for a internet job site), then you are likely to find the antics of the monkey funny as you project your office companions' activities and motivations onto the monkey's diminutive form. When Curious George falls into hijinks, we laugh. When Billy Bob Thornton gets into a shootout with Tony Cox in Bad Santa, we laugh. When Homer Simpson skips out on a robbery to watch the drive-in movie Hail to the Chimp, we laugh. (Though when Dunston Checks In comes on cable, we change the channel. We Americans are a fickle bunch.)

Perhaps it is because I don't much like people in the first place that I also don't much care for miniature versions of people. (Note to the Little People lobby: it's not that I'm a midget hater, I just don't find you particularly funny simply because you've got really stubby fingers.) I'm sure that I'm in the minority here, but I'm just damn tired of monkey jokes.

Oh, and happy thanksgiving. Can you guess what we talked about over our ham and potatoes this year? (That's right: a midget football league.)

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As you no doubt know by now, Georgia lost to Florida. Again. I've gotten so used to it that I'm over this year's loss in just 3 days. (Hell, I even started mourning a day early just to go ahead and get it out of the way.)

It's not bad enough that our football team is so convinced that they can't beat Florida that they are defeated before they ever enter the stadium. ("Neutral site" my ass). The Gators have now grown so cocky that they took the field in the ugliest uniforms in the history of football.

I've complained in the past about the uniforms of the Denver Broncos (those fat orange stripes are definitely not slimming), the Miami Hurricanes (lines gone wild!), the Buffalo Bills (for no apparent reason, no two sections of their uniform are the same color), the Oregon Ducks (Green! Yellow!), and the Seattle Seahawks (even kids with an 64-pack of crayons excessive better color theory), but the uniforms worn by the University of Florida were the worst that I've ever seen. It looked like the designers couldn't even make up their own mind what the uniforms should look like. A relatively normal uniform with one orange arm made them look lopsided. Were they dressing up as Frankenstein for Halloween? Does the team need color coding to figure out how to line up in the same direction at the line of scrimmage?

So, in the end, not only were we beaten, we were beaten by an inferior football team wearing uniforms that costumed super-villains would have found insulting. What a blow to our confidence. I hope we can recover before we face Auburn in their new-look tiger-stripe/eagle-feather costume.

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I just posted a new Flash toy over on the media page. It's a "generic television script generator." I got the idea while channel surfing the other day when I realized that I could go through the better part of 100 channels without stopping and still have a damn good idea what was happening on most of the shows.

There is another Flash toy in the works, it just needs a little fine tuning. Really, I made it years ago but never got the polish on it to post online. I'm determined to get it up now. I don't know why I'm making them right now, I just sort of feel possessed to do it. (Probably because my mother is coming to town this weekend and Flash scripting is preferable to house cleaning.)

On a related note, I saw Desperate Housewives for the first time this past week, and I was appalled. This is what America has been going nuts over? It's just a tawdry Sex and the City clone with bad manners. Whatever happened to the good old shows? I know, I know, there were no good old shows. I mean when Ben Jones is trying to pass off the original Dukes of Hazzard as wholesome family entertainment after the phrase "Daisy Dukes" has entrenched itself in the American lexicon, it really opens your eyes to the fact that the more things change, the more they stay the same. However, there was a time when Barbara Eden couldn't show her belly button on Jeannie so they had to actually have the characters (*gasp*) do things to get an audience. Now Debra Messing's bra-less erect nipples are the punchline of half of the gags on Will & Grace (in the syndicated early-evening, after-school hours, no less). Don't get me wrong, I'm a huge fan of erect nipples, but when cheap schoolboy thrills are what pass for Emmy award winning writing, you can't expect me to cheer about it. I certainly understand why they call it the idiot box these days.

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The Dawgs kick off tomorrow at 5:30 PM. (I thought that was important enough to make the blog.)

On another note: why the hell is everyone in America endorsing donating money to the Red Cross? Has everyone forgotten the lessons of 911 already? The Red Cross received millions because of that, and then they kept what they wanted and diverted a large portion of donations gifted for 911 victims and New York natives to other causes. Do you think that they money that you are giving the Red Cross to help the New Orleans natives is really ending up there?

I heard on CNN that Diddy, Nick Cage, Celene Dione, Hillary Duff and more are giving millions (that's right, millions: who says that the Gilded Age ended over a century ago?) to the Red Cross. Let those rich bastard throw their money away if they want to, they have enough, but why am I hearing about it? Did their press agents release the news so that I would be motivated to give what I could? (Social pressure from celebrities? Wow!) Or did they just want me to know what great people they were for giving so much to those who have so little?

Maybe I'm really damn cynical, but that doesn't mean that I'm wrong.

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