The first 10 minutes of Picture This!

IMDB summarizes Picture This!, starring Ashley Tisdale, with: A high school girl is invited to a party by the most popular boy in school — only trouble is, she’s grounded.

I’m not sure how accurate IMDB’s summary is, but I agree with their database completely — “If you enjoyed this title, our database also recommends: you kill yourself.”

I’m really not quite sure how this ABC Family original movie maintained my attention for a full 10 minutes, or for that matter, how I came to be watching ABC Family in the first place, but my guess is some sort of subliminal mind control ray. Or possibly the Hypnotoad.

Ashley Tisdale’s character, Mandy, goes to a rich school full of attractive people, but she doesn’t fit in because she wears glasses and doesn’t brush her hair. I can only assume that at some point in the movie Mandy decides to purchase a different brand of conditioner and realizes her glasses don’t have lenses and are thus completely unnecessary. However, this revelation does not occur in the first 10 minutes of the film. Instead, Mandy spends her time chatting with her chubby friends about how much she loves the swim team captain (some 27-year-old dude who is still in high school) and, more importantly, how much she wants the new LG smart phone. She does all this on her current cell phone while her friends sit beside her listening to her bitch on their Bluetooth headsets.

Isn’t that funny! They are all on cell phones even though they could be talking in person.

Well, if you liked that joke (who wouldn’t!), you will love the 3 or 4 times it is repeated in the first 10 minutes.

Seriously, this movie made me throw up in my mouth a little bit. Ashley hardly takes LG’s cock out of her mouth long enough to complete a sentence without pitching their new smart phone, and the plot reads like a family circus comic. I award the first 10 minutes of Picture This! no beers, and may God have mercy on its soul.

I was attacked by trash people this weekend. I was in Merrit Island, FL helping Claire clean out her mother’s house when the attack happened. As I carted old furniture, boards with rusty nails sticking every-which-way, and rusty birdcages to the curb for Merrit Island garbage men to curse under their breath the next morning, a peculiar thing began to happen. Passers by noticed the growing pile next to the mailbox and stopped to take a look.

At first the trash people were shy, grabbing bits and pieces from the pile then scurrying away before I returned with another cart full, but as the day progressed their fear subsided. Soon there were several trucks parked outside the house eagerly awaiting each delivery. I could sense their fever. “You gots any old books or collectibles in there?”
“Uh… we are just throwing out the garbage.”
“What about old pictures? Got any of them?”
“I think we’ll want to keep those.”
“Mind if I come inside with you and take a look around?”
“Yes.”

The trash people were convinced they had stumbled upon some sort of broken-folding-chair and old-bike-tire gold mine. As more trucks arrived their intensity grew. Soon the trash people were meeting me on the driveway and grabbing boxes filled with empty beer bottles and broken Christmas ornaments from my arms. “Try not to make a mess.” I told them as they dumped the contents on the ground. Unfortunately, these trash people had no concept of ‘mess’ or “‘garbage’ and looked at me like I had just asked them to put out their cigarettes and take a bath.

After a quick beer break around 5 pm I walked back outside to find a trash person waiting in the garage. “You gonna throw away that refrigerator?” he asked excitedly.
“We’re giving it to charity.”
“But I need a fridge!” he whined.
“Get out.”
“What about that lawn mower?”
“Get … out.” I repeated.
With a wave of his hand he returned to the street. “We’re all done here folks.” I heard him say to the other trash people, followed by a chorus of groans.
Slowly the trash people dissipated with their heads hung low. The garbage give away was over. It was time for them to return to the trash heap to protect their radish crops and focus on capturing those infernal Fraggles.

Dear everyone,

Please stop talking to me about politics. Do you hate Palin, think Obama is inexperienced, appreciate McCain’s economic policies but disagree with his social politics? — I don’t care. You’re political opinions are about as interesting to me as the size of your most recent dookie, and I don’t want to hear about it either one.

I have to watch 8 hours of political coverage everyday at work, and unlike the rest of you, I am not able to drink every time Sarah Palin says “Maverick,” Obama mentions Bush, or McCain soils his depends.

While it is difficult to imagine someone caring less than I do about this election (try picturing some sort of sponge creature without the capacity for conscious thought), I am forced to read countless hate mail calling me a Nazi fascist or a commie pig because the Obama/McCain signal went to color bars. Seriously, I am not part of some secret media conspiracy to influence the election.

Do you understand that nearly half the population does not share your pick for president? Quit posting divisive Facebook status messages claiming you “is Hates Obama’s stupid face!” or “is OMG Palin is such a moran!1″

All you are doing is pissing people off. Nobody is reading your message and going, “You know what… Obama’s face is kinda stupid. I think I will vote for McCain.”

And don’t think your political rants will affect undecided voters. Undecided voters a like hot lesbians — despite porn/polls, they don’t really exist. The 7% of America who claim they are undecided really just want to be interviewed by CNN.

In conclusion, remember to get out and vote on November 4th. Or don’t. I don’t really care.

Aging brings on a host of changes: wrinkles, loss of hair, frail brittle bones more likely to break than Brisol Palin’s condom. But perhaps most frightening of all, old people abstain from most flavors of sweet sweet alcohol.

We all learned as children that nothing good could come from abstinence, but as humans progress through their 20s a phenomenon occurs, we become too good for certain alcoholic beverages. First to go is most likely tequila, followed closely by any liquor sold in a plastic (or “break-proof”) bottle. Sure, we all have our excuses, “This one time I drank so much Jose Cuervo I beat up a mounted police officer… and his horse.” But really we are just denying the fact we are getting older and refusing to admit that becoming a pussy who can’t drink worth shit is simply a part of life.

Sadly, like the lonely guy on prom night with a receding hairline, Alcohol Abstinence affects some of us earlier than others. These poor souls are cursed to watch from the sidelines, scornfully clutching a bottle of Bartles & James, as their college friends engage in beer pong and flip cup. Like the shy academic bookworm, social ostracism forces these beer snobs further into seclusion and feeds their delusions of alcoholic granduier until they become empty shells of their former selves — drinking $30 glasses of cabernet sauvignon while wearing monocles and saying “Egads!”, “I do declare” and such…

In attempt to reconcile with the alcoholic aristocrats I have wronged over the years I want to share some of the beverages that I have grown too old to enjoy. Let the healing begin.

Bud Lite + clam broth + tomato juice

Unlike most things hobos ingest I was not impressed with MD 20/20

Tastes as bad as the name suggests

Supposedly Napoleon's favorite drink. No wonder he died from an ulcer-causing gastrointestinal infection.

The only beer to remain in my college fridge for weeks.

"I can see the presidency from my house."

Questions I wish they asked in the debate:

1. Who would win in an underwater fight, Aquaman or Spiderman? Why?
2. Why do fat people get handicapped parking? Shouldn’t they be encouraged to walk? Would you support fat peopole parking at the rear of every lot?
3. To Sen. Obama: Would you rather do Bristol Palin or Meghan McCain? Why?
4. What is your favorite ingredient in trail mix?
5. If A implies B does that mean Not B implies Not A?
6. If elected, will you use a presidential pardon to free O.J. Simpson from unjust persecution at the hands of racist police officers who are just out to get him because he is a successful black man?
7. Do you believe Seal can fly? What does Heidi Klum see in him besides his horrible music/acne scars?
8. If necessary, would you rather club a pengiun or baby seal?
9. Can you shotgun a beer? Feel free to demonstrate.
10. This term for long-handed gardening tool can also mean immoral pleasure seeker. Please remember to answer in the form of a question.

Why is this sign placed in bathrooms across the country? Last night at Raging Burrito I stared at the familiar notice as I scrubbed my manos and wondered, "Is this sign here to reassure me that my food was prepared with clean hands, or to remind the cooks that they should take the time to wash after using the toilet?" Either way, it doesn't really inspire confidence.

Maybe I am being pretentious, but I prefer to eat at restaurants where the servers wash their hands without being told. Also, if I am questioning my server's hygiene, it is doubtful that a bathroom sign is going to assuage my fears, "Not to worry everyone. Even though the waitress resembles Amy Winehouse after sleeping in a dumpster, her hands are most certainly clean. The sign told me so."

I hate fruit flies like a fat kid loves cake — but in reverse.

These annoying little shits have been performing unapproved fly-bys throughout my house for the past couple weeks and my patience is running out. My house’s fruit fly population has cleverly maintained a level of passive annoyance — that is, they are annoying enough to piss me off, but not enough for me to do anything about it.

I don’t even own any fresh food. What the hell are these things eating? Could they be microwaving my Stouffers while I sleep, cooking my Ramen noodles or secretly stealing cans of Spaghettios w/ meatballs?

While researching methods to defeat the fruit fly menace I came across this little gem on wikihow.

Make an oven trap:

•Remove all available food from kitchen. Clean the dishes, place open items in ziplock bags or the fridge.
•Open the door of your oven and place a piece of fruit (banana or kiwi peels) in there overnight.
•Wake up early the next morning and quietly close the oven door.
•Turn on the oven to 400ºF/200ºC for about 10-15 minutes and majority of your fruit flies will be gone.
•Clean the oven thoroughly.

I love the third instruction here. It implies so much. Fruit flies, apparently, are as lazy as they are annoying, so it is imperative you wake early to catch them while they are still sleeping off last night’s fermented banana bender. Also, they have sensitive ears, much like camp counselors that sleep by the door to catch horny campers sneaking out to the other side of lake. QUIETLY shut that oven door. Shhhhh… Now cook the flies like the Nazi sympathizer you are. You sick fuck.

My latte Chumby shipped today! This incredibly awesome impulse buy will replace my current clock radio, which is entirely too big, too bright, and too stupid to pick up any FM stations other than KIX 105.7... Although, waking up to the 'Bruce in the Morning' country countdown does encourage me to get out of bed.

My new Chumby will scour the internet while I sleep to provide me the most important news, weather, and LOLcats upon my revival. No longer will I be forced to wait until I arrive at work to log in to Facebook and check my friends' status updates each morning.

Better yet, I can sleep while Chumby feeds my subconscious with all the knowledge of the internets -- every Chuck Norris fact, YouTube nut shot, fraudulent Wikipedia entry, and disturbingly graphic pornography will be downloaded directly into my brain. It's peanut butter jelly time bitches!

Sorry, I got a little carried away there. In reality, my Chumby will have difficulty connecting to the internet due to an obscure TCP/IP conflict realted to my modem's dynamic DCHP routing and I will experience a brief period of depression inducing buyers remorse before returning to 'Bruce in the Morning.'

My two roommates recently opened my eyes to silent war going on all over the world -- the fight against sodium. I'm not sure who struck first, but females and salt have been at each others throat for generations.



"Salt causes water retention."



"Salt killed my grandfather... by contributing to his hypertension."



"Salt hates our freedom."



The animosity runs so deep that women even avoid Salt Lake City, Utah.



Men, however, have remained largely neutral in this conflict. "I love beef jerky, but also enjoy having sex with women," claims one unidentified male.
Male scientists lead by Dr. Hillel Cohen and colleagues from the Albert Einstein College of Medicine in New York, including Dr. Michael Alderman, president of the International Society of Hypertension, continue attempts to negotiate a cease fire by publishing countless studies claiming that salt isn't actually that bad for you. But reasoning with a fat woman who claims she is "only retaining water" is about as easy as watching 2 girls 1 cup while eating a chocolate sundae.



For now, most men remain conscientious objectors, sprinkling extra salt on the wife's baked chicken while her back is turned or stealthy replacing the powdery potassium-based salt with smuggled crystals of flavorful sodium -- And hoping, quietly, to see the day this senseless war ends. For now we wait.

Dear woman crying into her cell phone,


I don't mean to be rude but your tears are really making me uncomfortable. I chose to eat my tasty Chic-fil-a sandwich at this location because I thought it was in a sunny, peaceful, lunchworthy spot. But now, instead of concentrating on my sandwich's buttery fried goodness, I am distracted by your heartfelt sobs.


I would really like to move to another table, but I am afraid to draw attention to myself -- so I sit quiet and endure. I feel like I should comfort you in some way, but my consolation experience is limited, and my attempt would basically consist of saying "I'm sorry" and telling you to "walk it off."


Are you even talking to anyone? I haven't heard any intelligible conversation since you began wailing like a European soccer player.


Now that my initial discomfort has dissipated into an empathetic numbness I am actually quite interested in what set your tear ducts off like a high school fire alarm. Who is on the other end of your call? Boyfriend, husband, doctor, HR rep, repo man, the police? Unfortunately, my sandwich now finished, I am afraid I may never get my answer.


Goodbye crying lady. And remember: He isn't worth it; God works in mysterious ways; it wasn't meant to be; you'll find a new job, and I'm sorry -- Now walk it off.