"A Christmas Story": Ralphie vs. The Nanny State

What you see above is a representation of America: a white, blonde-haired, blue-eyed mid-Western boy dressed as a cowboy holding a shotgun.

You might recognize him from America's 2nd favorite ignored-and-forgotten-then-resurrected-as-necessary-yearly-viewing Christmas classic, A Christmas Story.

But underneath its simple, heart-felt, charming mid-Western veneer lies a scathing social commentary on America's obsession with guns.

Here's looking at you, America.

Thanks to TBS' crippling holiday season addiction to the movie, everybody knows the plot: it's Christmas time and young Ralphie is devising a way to get his dream gift, an Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle.

Ahh the good ole days of ultra-realistic toy guns in the hands of 8 uear olds.

It only became obvious to me this year, however, that the movie is in fact a biting critique of America's gun culture.

Let's start from the beginning. The opening scene involves the innocent boy longingly staring through a department store window at the toy gun. Within the first five minutes, the rifle is referred to as the "Holy Grail of gifts." Gifts have taken the place of religion on this supposedly holiest of all holidays, a common underlying critique contained in holiday movies. Here, a gun is the main object of desire, and the connection between guns and God is established early on.

Soon after, when his mom first asks what he wants for Christmas, Ralphie mistakenly blurts out that he wants the gun. He knows what she will say before she says it, the refrain which has become synonymous with the movie: "You'll shoot your eye out." Ralphie takes the rejection, telling her it's ok, "even though Flick is getting one." His first argument for having a gun is that someone else has one, so he needs one, too; a statement often heard in defense of gun ownership. This is also the first time we see the representation of the anti-gun lobby and the so-called "Nanny State": Ralphie's mom. 

Other people also represent the Nanny State (specifically, everybody who tells Ralphie he will shoot his eye out: his mother, his teacher, Santa) but the mother is the most obvious and foreboding. She is also the most competent family member. The father is in a never-ending, losing battle to the furnace and the neighbor's dogs. She knows the answers to the crossword when he struggles (in fact, her knowledge is the reason that he receives the controversial leg-lamp). She is simply more aware and competent as a parent all around, instilling the proper punishment when Ralphie swears, getting the boys ready for school, preparing all the meals, and everything else a mother (or nanny) is "expected" to do in the "golden era" of America. In the end, she is the most understanding and forgiving: after the fight with Farkus, she takes Ralphie home and tends to his wounds. She doesn't tell his father much about the fight because she doesn't want him to overreact ("Daddy's gonna kill Ralphie!"). Ralphie seems to finally appreciate the mother's wisdom and her concern for his well-being. And the audience realizes she was right all along: the gun is dangerous and Ralphie hurts himself.

On the other side, representing pro-gun people, such as the NRA, is the bumbling, lamp-ogling, almost-absentee father. He even looks and sounds a little bit like Charlton Heston. Despite the mother's protests (and the protests of the majority of characters in the movie) the father still gets his son the gun. He argues that it's tradition, claiming "I had one when I was 8 yrs old." Again, upon closer viewing (aka 24 hours in a row for the past eight Christmases) it is obvious that this movie is a thinly-veiled allegory for America's failure to regulate guns despite the overwhelming majority of Americans who want reasonable, logical gun regulations. 

Self-defense is often used in defense (ha!) of gun ownership, and the movie memorably presents a constant danger that terrorizes Ralphie and his friends. 

This asshole.

Scott fuckin Farkus. This hideous creature is the bully of the block and a sincere threat to the boys' safety. 

And Ralphie takes him out with his bare hands. When he finally stands up to the bigger, seemingly stronger kid, he is able to defeat the bully on his own. And everybody lives another day.

Ralphie conquers the real villain, and his fear, without a gun; of course, as a "red-blooded American," he still wants a gun to defeat his imaginary enemy: Black Bart. 

Black Bart. The imaginary dark criminal of white America's nightmares. 

The dream sequence where Ralphie takes out Bart's crew even has the movie's two lone black characters, thugs that Ralphie shoots dead with no remorse to the sound of his family cheering. This is the fantasy of the average American.

Merry Christmas, America!

When Ralphie finally gets his gun, in reality, the first thing he does is shoot himself in the face. The second thing he does is lie to his mom about it. His mom believes him, as most Americans believe gun myths, and she takes him in.

Not surprisingly, Ralphie still loves his gun, despite not really needing it for self defense and almost blinding himself. So in the end, maybe his mother wasn't exactly right. He didn't shoot his eye out (she may have exaggerated a little to get her point across out of concern for her child) but her foresight was pretty damn accurate. That doesn't matter to Ralphie, though. Even shooting himself in the face and breaking his glasses won't dampen his love for his gun. 

Indeed, no matter how many times you tell Americans they are more likely to get hurt by a gun when they own a gun, they just don't listen. The last scene of the movie shows Ralphie sleeping soundly in his bed, with a smile on his face and his gun in his arms, completely oblivious to the fact that he's more likely to blow his own head off then ever save his family.

In fact, they made A Christmas Story 2, and the plot follows Ralphie to middle school where he shoots himself in the balls and asks Santa for a new testicle.

As always with sequels, the guns are bigger and more people get shot in the scrotum.

Maybe. I never saw it, and I'm sure you never did, either, so let's just say that's what happens. 

I Love You All...Class Dismissed.

Stand Yuletide Ground aka The War on Santa

The boy lay on his bed watching the snow falling outside his window.

It was perfect. Christmas Eve. Snow. A belly full of turkey, mashed potatoes, and pie. He could stay like this, wide awake, all night. But he knew sleep would bring Christmas morning and all those glorious presents to him sooner. He closed his eyes and drifted off, dreaming about the video games he would be playing tomorrow.

He woke up from a deep sleep a few hours later. As his eyes fluttered open, he heard a thud from downstairs. Could it be?

He tossed the covers aside and sprinted to his door as quietly as possible. He cracked the door open enough to stick his head out and look down the hallway towards his parents bedrom. Their door was closed. He opened his door and crept to the stairs. There was definitely noise coming from the first floor, and it sounded like it was in the living room, where the tree was set up.

Out of excitement, he almost screeched the Old Man's name, but somehow held back. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity, and he didn't want to blow it.

He crawled downstairs on his belly, suppressing the gas bubble that was attempting to force its way out.

The noise was getting louder. He crawled through the main hallway and towards the living room.

He slowly stuck his head around the corner and saw...

"Santa," he whispered. This was the moment he had been waiting for his whole life, and now he didn't know what to do.

But there he was: Old Saint Nick. Red hat, red coat with white trim. Big black boots. And there was his bag! Santa was taking items out and placing them under the tree.

Kyle had to talk to him. He didn't think it was right to sneak up on Santa, so he got to his feet and entered the room, gathering up the courage to say:

"Hi Santa!"

Santa jumped, then laughed his trademark ho ho ho.

"Oh you scared me there Kyle! Merry Christmas!" he said, turning to face the boy.

"Merry Christmas...Santa?" Kyle said. As the words came out, so too did the gas that had been building up inside him.

"Good one! Ho ho ho! " Santa chuckled.

Something was off. The outfit was all there: hat, jacket, boots. The white hair and beard were there. The red bag of gifts was there. His height seemed right. His weight seemed right. His jolly personality was certainly evident. But something was off.

Santa was...black?

"Merry Christmas Kyle! I'm sorry to wake you. There were just so many gifts here for you and your family that it's taking me a little longer than usual."

"That...that's ok...Ssa...Santa."

"What's the matter, Kyle?" Santa asked. "You look concerned. Are you worried that I forgot one of your gifts?"

"No, it's not that. It's just..."

"Are you worried I forgot a gift for one of your siblings?" Santa asked.

"No. No, we always get what we want. It's just..."

"Are you worried that you didn't leave enough cookies and milk for me?" Santa asked with a wink. "Ho ho ho! I assure you I get plenty of cookies throughout the night, and Misses Claus says I need to cut back!"

"No..."

"Do you want to know about the reindeer?" Santa asked. "Everybody asks about the reindeer."

"No, it's just..."

"How do I get across the whole planet in one night?"

"No, Santa. It's just...well...you're black."

Santa looked at the boy for a few seconds, then burst out laughing.

"Ho ho ho! Ohhhhh ho ho ho!"

He continued until he saw the boy's face grow sullen.

"Oh, child, you are adorable." Santa asked.

"I just thought..."

"It's ok. I get this all the time." Santa walked to the chair in the corner of the room and sat down. He took one of the three cookies from the small table next to the armrest.

"Talk to me, Kyle," Santa asked in between bites. "What's going through that head of yours?"

"Well, no offense..."

"None taken," Santa said, sipping on the warm milk.

"...but I pictured Santa as white."

"There's nothing wrong with that," Santa replied, wiping the milk residue from his thick white mustache. "People can envision me anyway they like."

"But now you're here, in front of me..."

"Yes," Santa said, reaching for another cookie.

"And you're black. It's just...it's weird."

"That's ok," Santa said. "Some people need a little time to get used to..."

Kyle cut him off: "I mean, there was turkey and mashed potatoes and key lime pie and apple pie, and it was snowing, and then Santa is in my house, and everything was just so perfect. And now," he wiped a tear from his eye, "now Christmas is ruined."

"Ok, I'm gonna stop you there kid," Santa said, standing up from the chair and putting the remaining piece of cookie on the table.

"Listen," Santa said, then took a swig of milk. "I understand you're a little surprised, maybe even disappointed, but does it really ruin your Christmas to know that I have darker skin than you imagined?"

"Well..."

"Take a second to think before you answer, Kyle," Santa said.

Kyle looked closely at Santa, inspecting the man from head to toe. Finally, Kyle's eyes came to rest on the dark skin underneath the white beard.

He thought for another moment, then spoke.

"I just had a different image in my head, and I feel like I've been lied to my whole life."

Santa looked at the boy and truly felt bad for him.

"Poor boy," Santa said. "I understand how you're feeling. And you're right, you have been lied to, and I'm sorry for that. It's shameful how adults lie to children out of the misguided notion that it's for the children's own good."

Santa walked to Kyle and knelt down in front of him, facing him eye to eye.

"It's not your fault that you are feeling this way, Kyle, and I forgive you."

"Oh...." Kyle stammered.

"Society is to blame here," Santa continued, "and you are just a victim."

"K...." Kyle muttered.

"Now, are we good?" Santa asked.

"Well..."

"What is it?" Santa asked.

"Do you think...would it be possible..."

"What?" Santa asked, losing patience.

"Could you be white, just for tonight? Just for me?"

Santa put a white-gloved hand to his temple and shook his head slowly.

"It's just that I've pictured you as white my whole life," Kyle said.

"Listen, son," Santa said, placing a hand upon the boy's shoulder. "I can't change my skin at will."

"But you said people can see you however they want."

"Yeah, I meant in your head. If people want to think of me as white, if that makes them feel better for some reason, that's fine by me. But in reality, in real life, in flesh and blood, I'm black. And that's just the way it is."

Kyle looked down at his shoes, a look of deep sadness washing over his face. Another tear rolled down his cheek.

Santa sighed.

"Listen, Kyle. I'm sorry to disappoint you, but try putting yourself in someone else's shoes. Think of all the little dark skin boys and girls out there who celebrate Christmas. Every year they write letters and worship some old white man. And all of the other heroes, from movies to the stories they teach in school, all of the people we look up to, they are all white. Think about it, can you name any black heroes?"

Kyle thought for a moment, then said, "Mart..."

"Besides Martin Luther King?" Santa said, before the boy could finish.

Kyle looked around the room, as if an answer would appear on the walls. He tried thinking of any black people he looked up to. He thought about the President, but then he remembered how his dad called the President a "friggen Moo-slum" and decided that was probably not a good thing.

"Can't do it, can you?" Santa asked. "That's okay. Again, it's not your fault. But think about how that makes all the little black boys and girls feel."

"What do you mean?"

"There are no well-known black heroes for all the little black boys and girls to look up to," Santa said.

Kyle looked down at his slippers for a minute, then said, "I never really thought of it that way."

"Most people don't" Santa replied.

"That's kind of messed up," Kyle said.

"Exactly," Santa said, patting the boy on the shoulder.

There was a sound in the hallway, then a voice called out:

"Kyle, Kyle is that you?"

Kyle's father stepped into the room.

"Kyle, are you okay? Who is that?"

Kyle looked at his father, then looked back at Black Santa.

With a giant smile on his face, he said, "Daddy, it's Sa..."

A sound like thunder tore through the room, knocking the boy to his feet. The sound reverberated off the walls, then there was complete silence. Kyle's ears began to ring loudly in his head. He tried to get to his feet, and noticed something large and soft next to his left slipper. He looked down and saw a red, lumpy mass. Underneath the lump, a pool of dark red liquid was forming and getting bigger by the second.

It took a moment for Kyle to realize the red lump was Santa, and the red liquid was blood, oozing out of the hole in the once-jolly old man's back.

Kyle's father walked over to his bewildered son and picked him up.

"You're all right, son. He won't hurt you anymore." He held the boy tight to his chest. The cold metal of his shotgun barrel pressed against Kyle's neck, giving the boy chills.

As he was carried out of the room, Kyle looked over his father's shoulder at Santa, bleeding profusely on the living room floor, red blood spilling onto the green felt skirt under the Christmas tree.

Kyle tried to speak, but could only stare.

Santa watched the father and son leave the room. He took off his hat and placed it over the wound on his chest. He closed his eyes and with his last breath, mumbled...

"I knew I should have skipped Florida this year."

...then passed away.

-

Merry Christmas!

I Love You All...Class Dismissed.

Please Stop Saying That!

Stop it 5 - Cam'ron & Vado

Let's face it, we basically live in a virtual reality. It's cool. I don't mind being watched (hi NSA!) and I don't mind being connected to everyone online, even people I don't know in real life. I like online communication.

What bothers me is a lack of originality. Reading comments on social media sites or comment sections of news stories can be maddening in their repetitiveness, much more so than real life small talk (although that can also melt my brain).

Here are 5 of the comments that make me cringe and need to be stopped before the entire internet gets sucked into a void of unoriginality:


5. "Why is it always about race?" 

(The cousin of "I'm not a racist but..." and best friend of "But my best friend is...")

We all know these, so I won't spend too much time on them. Whenever I see someone actually use one of these lines, I just laugh and hope the person is being ironic. Unfortunately, most of the time they are not, and when you try to explain why the phrases themselves heavily imply racism, the person using them doesn't want to hear it.

These phrases will never go extinct, but I'll still hope for it. Having a black president has only solidified the world view of the people who use these terms. Apparently, one black president in our nation's history is "proof" that "racism is over", so now when any minority claims that he/she is a victim of racism, or when you argue that race still plays a part in every day life for a majority of people, the reply is, "Why is it always about race? You're racist for even bringing up racism!" That's the delusion of all delusions, that somehow people that have benefited from institutionalized racism for centuries, and continue to benefit, are now the victim of racism.

However, there is a point to be made with the comment, "Why does it always have to be about race?" Unfortunately, it's not usually the point people are trying to make when they say it. There are in fact some people who yell "racism!" any time something doesn't go their way, which distracts from real instances of racism. Most of the time, though, when a person claims to be the victim of racism, they are not the ones making it about race, the perpetrator is; the victims are just pointing it out. Victims get accused of "pulling the race card", but they wouldn't have to pull it if it didn't exist in the first place. But it does, so they do, and they shouldn't be blamed for it.


4. "Wake up!" Usually followed by, "sheeple!"

Ok. First off, the whole "sheep" thing is really played out. Pink Floyd had a whole album of animal allegories (basically Animal Farm to rock music) with sheep symbolizing the majority of the population who blindly follow the authoritarian government, and even then some critics were calling it an elementary, derivative metaphor. Turning it into "sheeple" is even worse because now you've taken away the metaphor and merged it with what it actually represents. It's not clever; people just use it because, hey, listen to how cool it sounds when you put one word together with another word! (Admittedly, spork is still one of my favorite words.)

"Wake up!" is thrown out during all sorts of disagreements. It can be used for something as simple as sports (Wake up! The Mets will never be a good team!) or something more serious like gun control (Wake up! If you don't think the government is going to come into your house and take everything from you, you're not paying attention!). When it's something innocuous like sports, it's simply an annoying saying. When it's a more serious matter, it's insulting. The person using it assumes he or she knows more about this particular subject than you. The implication is that if you just knew a little more about the issue and had a better understanding, you would have a different opinion, or more specifically, you would share their exact opinion. It couldn't possibly be that you simply have a different opinion, it must be that you're a moron, asleep to the important issues of the world. Wake up man! Think more like me!

Stop it.


3. "Just sayin..."

Uuuuuuuugh. What are you saying exactly? If you're "just sayin" something, just fuckin say it!

Now granted, I'm guilty of this one, too. It works perfectly, and that's why it's so annoying. You deflect any blame if people catch offense to what you've said, because, hey, you're "just sayin." You don't mean anything by it. You're "just sayin". A lot of people do it for humorous effect or ironically or whatever, but it's getting really old and really not funny. Just tell your joke, there's no need to add a word meme.

Image memes on the other hand...

2. "The greatest ever!"

Ok, this mostly applies to one person on my Facebook feed, who claims a new athlete is the "greatest ever" at a particular sport every day, or that a tv show is "the most amazing show ever", or a fucking brand of cheese dip is "the best dip ever". But a lot of people do it. Now I should clarify, I'm fine with people calling Michael Jordan the greatest ever, or Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure the greatest ever, because that implies a degree of thoughtfulness behind the claim, and there is plenty of evidence to support those claims (I have Bill & Ted's on dvd if you need further proof). My problem is when people say it spontaneously. They see a play on Sportscenter: "Ohhh that was the greatest alley-oop ever!" They see a decent movie and it becomes, "the funniest movie ever!" Just stop it. Take one second to think of another way to describe things. That phrase really doesn't tell me much about the thing you're talking about. Besides, is it really the greatest ever? When you use that term two or three times a week, how can I possibly take you serious?

Greatest movie poster ever? Now we can talk.

And if you're taking about yourself, like when rappers or Randy Moss do it, it's just not really your place to say. Unless you're Danny Brown.

A variation of this phrase is "Best. Thing. Ever." This phrase was originally an ode to a genius piece of comedy, but now it has just been played to death. Stop with the periods between the words. Your implied emphasis isn't that clever. Seriously. Stop. It.


Honorable Mention: "Who the hell is..." 

You see this on every single news story. When there's a story about a celebrity getting arrested, 100% of the time someone will be in the comment section saying, "Who the hell is Gucci Mane?" First off, if you're on the internet asking what or who something is, your absolute idiocy is on display. Stop writing the comment in the comment section, and type it into Google. There's your fucking answer. Now I get that most people do it for humor, but again, the shit isn't funny after 1 billion times. Lindsay Lohan gets arrested again? "Who the hell is Lindsay Lohan?" Well, if you don't know, god bless you. But the fact is, you do know, you're just trying to be a part of the conversation without really thinking or adding anything.


1. "It's just a show/game/movie/celebrity. There are more important things to worry about."

No shit. But did you know that the human brain is actually capable of thinking and caring about more than one thing at a time? It's true!  So if I want to take a break from worrying about Iran's nukes to talk about Brian from Family Guy dying, it's ok! I still care about the nukes, but sometimes you need to think about some less serious matters. That's why we have tv in the first place!

"Why is this even news?" is another variation, and it might be the most aggravating comment on news sites. The thing is, commenters like this may have a point, but they're proving to be assholes if they think the story isn't newsworthy yet click on it and take the time to comment on it. If it's not newsworthy, don't read it. Websites earn money through page views, and you justified their reasoning for writing this particular story by clicking on it. If it's not "newsworthy" don't click on it. Keep it moving. Idiot.

As far as our obsession with celebrities and entertainment, that is nothing new, and it's not an American novelty. Every civilization was obsessed with celebrities; why does anyone think something that is so ingrained into our psyche will change all of a sudden?

This is another comment that actually has a point buried in its pretentiousness somewhere. Yes we need to strike a balance with our interests; as fans, we don't want to turn into Kathy Bates in Misery. There's a line, but it's ok to care about fictional stories and characters. That's all part of the human experience.

This comment can take on various forms and becomes more sinister when it is made in regards to certain news stories. For example, "You're so concerned with Trayvon, what about all the kids dying in Chicago?" Well, I do care about them and when we talk about gun violence and kids dying as a whole, we can talk about that, but for right now I'm talking about this particular case. This type of comment is a way to take the importance out of anything. "Oh you're so upset about that, what about this?" It minimizes everything and it implies quite pompously that we should only be concerned with the absolute worst things in the world, or that you have to somehow deal with every single issue in the world all at once. I can care about more than one thing at a time, it's just very hard to discuss every problem in the world simultaneously; words can only cover so much at a time. Besides, those people never cared about the kids dying in Chicago, they just wanted to divert the conversation away from the complexities of the Trayvon case, and the same thing happens with any difficult issue.

"There are more important things to worry about" is a way to avoid talking about uncomfortable situations, or it's used to discredit and devalue other people's interests. If somebody wants to vent about how horrible The Internship is (holyshitfuckingterriblyhorrible) or if they want to write a note about how sad they are that Lou Reed or Paul Walker died, why do you care? It doesn't take long to write a little post about somebody dying, and if people want to take a minute to pay respect to a person that somehow gave them joy, it shouldn't bother you that much. I understand how annoying it can be to see 35 posts about the death of some mediocre rock star that made music you hated, but if it just happened, and if you're on social media, what do you expect? Social media, especially Twitter, is a snapshot of what people are talking about in the world right now, so of course you will see a lot of posts all at once about something that just happened. Nelson Mandela just died? Expect to see a hundred posts about it for 2-3 days. That's how it works. And sometimes, the things that people talk about aren't all that important, relatively speaking. That's ok. It's healthy to be mentally well-rounded. Thinking about serious issues all the time just leads to depression.

That all being said, let's get our priorities straight people. It can't be all cartoons and Kardashians and Duck Fuckin Dynasty. Those are meant to be distractions in our lives, not the focal point.

How did we get here as a society?

I Love You All...Class Dismissed.

The Cat and The Crows

Aesop Rock - Crows II

"I just don't like how they look at me."

Sharon dropped her keys and purse onto the kitchen table, placing her hands palm down on either side.

"You're being ridiculous, Sharon. They're crows, for chris'sake."

"I know what they are, Daniel. Don't patronize me. I don't like the way they look at me."

"Ok, ok. I'll scare them off."

The man walked towards the door in the kitchen that led to the garage. He remembered storing an air-horn in a box somewhere in the garage a few years back. It was part of an elaborate prank that never came to fruition. Maybe he could finally put it to good use.

He found it surprisingly quick; apparently he was more organized than he gave himself credit for. That, or he just didn't own that much stuff. 

With the air-horn in hand, he pressed the button to open the garage door, waited until it rose enough to let him walk under, and headed into the hazy light of the evening hours. He stopped halfway down his driveway and looked towards the large oak tree in his front yard. The sun was setting and darkness was washing over the skyline, but the crows were still visible in the canopy of the tree.

There had to be hundreds of them, rustling the leaves, jostling and jumping from limb to limb. When he was able to identify an individual bird, he was struck by the feeling of being watched, and he diverted his gaze as quickly as possible. He would not accept that his wife was right. She was being ridiculous.

And yet, walking towards the trunk, he could not bring his gaze skyward, instead deciding to inspect the grass in his yard. He really needed to fix the riding mower and take care of his lawn.

He stopped a few feet from the trunk of the oak tree. Lifting his right hand into the air, he pressed down on the air horn's trigger mechanism, releasing a piercing, shrill blast. Instantly, a cloud of black, fluttering wings and feathers filled the sky. For a second, Daniel thought he had begun the apocalypse.

The birds swarmed above his head for a few seconds, then took off in a tight formation, as if a dark rain cloud was drifting rapidly through the sky.

-

Bubula sat at the window and watched intently as the dark cloud of feathers floated away. Her eyes darted from one end of the cloud to the other. A small stream of saliva dripped from the corner of her mouth.

-

"Well, they're gone."

Daniel placed the air-horn on the kitchen table, took off his coat, and sat in his favorite chair. The old, worn down wooden chair that Sharon hated.

"What's for dinner?" he asked.

"Chicken."

Before the word left her mouth, the cat jumped on the kitchen table.

"Boobie! Off the table!" Sharon gently swept the feline away. The cat jumped off the kitchen table and onto the counter next to the fridge.

"Brat," Sharon said while walking to the fridge. She opened it, pulled out a small plate, then took off a small piece of fish and placed it on the counter near the loudly purring tabby.

As Sharon pet the cat and Daniel read the latest news on his smartphone, they heard a loud yet muffled sound, like a quickly passing rainstorm, outside the front windows. Daniel got up and pushed aside the curtains.

"Huh, that was odd. I don't see anything."

The cat had finished her snack and returned to her perch at the window. She stared at something outside, with her little black nose pressed against the glass.

"You see something, Boobie?" Daniel asked, his nose pressed against the glass, too.

"Did the birds come back?" Sharon asked.

"No, I don't see them anywhere," Daniel assured his wife.

"It was probably nothing. Let's eat. Come pour the milk, please."

-

"Daniel!"

His jolted awake. He gathered himself, threw off the covers, and put on his slippers.

"Daniel!"

He walked quickly downstairs to where his visibly shaken wife was standing in the front doorway.

"Come see this."

She turned and led him outside. His first thought was that it was a lovely day, sun shining, a crisp breeze in the air. His second thought was that it smelled like a dumpster behind a Long John Silver's. He looked to his wife, who was holding her nose with one hand and pointing towards the driveway with the other.

His new Audi and her beloved Lexus were completely, comprehensively, absolutely covered in white, black, and green streaks of bird excrement. A barely visible steam rose from the thick veneer of feces on the cars.

"Holy shit."

"Very funny I have to get to work in 15 minutes. I'm not driving around in that, and there's no way it's all coming off in 15 minutes. What am I supposed to do?"

"Ho-lee shit."

"Yes, I get it. Holy shit, haha. You really find this funny?"

"No, I..."

"This is disgusting, Daniel, and I have to get to work!"

He stood motionless, still staring at the stained vehicles. Finally, he told his wife:

"Call a cab. I'll clean them off."

"You have work in an hour."

"I'll call out. This is an emergency. This is an act of war, Sharon."

"Daniel, don't be so dramatic. It was probably that stupid air horn. You literally scared the shit out of them."

"Well that's a pretty specific target area to be a random fear-shit. No, those flying rats are sending a message."

"They're just crows, Daniel. I'll call a cab. Just please be sure to clean my entire car off. Maybe even take it to a professional."

"It'll be just fine. I don't need a professional. You know, I read somewhere that crows are some of the smartest animals in..."

"Hello?" she put her finger up towards her husband. "Sorry sweetie." She turned and walked inside. "Hi. I need a cab? Yes, as soon as possible."

Daniel continued to stare at the carnage in the driveway.

"Holy shit."

-

When Sharon left, Daniel headed to the garage. He first found the bin full of car wash supplies; still in the packaging, even though he bought them over 2 years ago.

After he opened the soap and sponges and towels, he searched for the hose. It was wrapped up in the corner with the 12-option nozzle he received from his father-in-law on his last birthday. He truly meant it when he told the old man he loved it, he just never had the chance to use it.

He attached the nozzle to the hose.

"Sweet."

Maybe this would do the trick on those damn crows, if they ever showed their beaks again, which he highly doubted. Daniel knew this was their coup de grace, a grand, gross finale.

Or not.

When he finally left the garage, after putting on his thigh high fisherman boots, rubber gloves, and safety goggles, the tree in his front yard was once again bustling with black wings and feathers, loud squeaks and whistles cascading back and forth among the green leaves.

He groaned and stomped over to the water spout on the side of his garage. He plugged the hose in, turned the handle, and headed towards the tree.

About ten feet away from the tree, he stopped. He held the hose in front of him with both hands, pointing it skyward toward the crows.

"Nevermore, assholes."

He lowered his hands.

"Wait, that was a raven. Is that the same as a crow? Which are these?"

He raised his hands again, with his finger on the trigger.

"Doesn't matter. All I know is...you're outta here!"

He pressed the trigger. A soft gentle mist sprayed out 5 feet in front of him, creating a rainbow.

"Shit." Daniel turned the nozzle on the hose to the strongest setting and tried again.

A harsh stream jet forth.

"Get out of here!" he screamed, aiming the water at the fluttering mass of wings in the tree branches.

There were some loud squeaks, and a few birds flew off their branches to a higher branch, but there wasn't the mass exodus Daniel was hoping for.

He moved closer. He spotted an individual crow (raven?) in a low hanging branch. He focused the stream on its beady little eyes.

The bird hopped around and turned its back to Daniel, water splashing off its wings. Daniel walked closer, keeping the stream on the back feathers.

He was standing almost directly under the bird, spraying its hind-parts, legs, anything visible, to no effect.

He stopped spraying.

"What the hell is up with you damn birds?"

The crow hopped around again and looked at Daniel. It seemed to be inspecting the man.

But that was ridiculous.

Daniel suddenly noticed the silence. He looked around at the rest of the tree. All the birds were eerily still, eyes fixated on the now very concerned man.

Daniel looked back towards the wet bird. For some reason, Daniel had deemed this the leader. It looked at Daniel and cocked its head, then let out three loud caws.

Daniel swore that he felt the black mass move before he saw it; or maybe he heard the hurricane-like rustling. Whichever sense was set off first, Daniel was turned around and sprinting towards his front door before he could fully process what was happening.

He could feel their presence at his back as he reached for the front door. He swung it open wildly, lunged inside, and slammed the door behind him.

-

An unnatural silence descended upon the house. Daniel slowly backed away towards the kitchen, keeping his eyes fixed on the small glass pane in the front door.

He didn't see or hear anything, but they were out there. He could feel it.

After a few minutes, he walked toward the large bay window. He looked around the front yard and up in the tree.

Nothing.

He kept scanning until finally he saw movement near the tree trunk. The curtains blocked the full view so he pushed them aside and pressed closer to the window.

"Boobie!"

The cat must have slipped out. But how? He opened the door for less than a second.

The cat circled the tree once, then jumped onto the trunk, hanging on with all four paws. Slowly, it made its way upwards. The cat climbed until Daniel could no longer see it through the leaves and branches.

He wanted to run out and coax it down, but even if his fear of the crows wasn't holding him back, he knew his efforts with the cat would be futile. It was a stubborn beast.  He just hoped it knew what it was doing up there.

-

When she reached a section of the treetop where several branches intertwined, she finally stopped climbing. She stretched her body along one of the branches, pressing herself down as low as possible.

Then she waited. She was ready to wait for hours, maybe days. But she knew it wouldn't take that long. Her natural instincts had always been sharp, and she had an uncanny understanding of the flight and nesting patterns of all feathered food.

She waited over 30 minutes in that position. She was about to arch her back to stretch when she heard it. It was very faint, still a good distance away, but it was undeniable: the crows were coming home.

A stream of saliva dripped from the corner of her mouth.

-

The yellow cab pulled up to the driveway. The driver turned his radio down and checked his phone.

"237 Fontaine St.," he read from the screen.

He looked at the house.

"237," he read off the front door. "This is it." He pressed his hand down heavily on the horn five times, keeping the pressure on the horn longer and longer each time.

-

The cat looked down at the yellow metal beast making all the noise. If the birds were scared off, she'd know where to take out her fury.

-

"Ok," she said as she walked downstairs. Daniel was in his worn out chair, looking rather worn out himself. "That's the cab. I'll call you for a ride later."

He jumped out of his chair. "Wait!"

She looked back at him as she opened the front door. "What?"

"They...it's just..."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Ok. Well, please get the cars clean. And clean off the driveway too. I don't want to have to step in it."

"Sure."

She walked outside.

-

The cat watched as the front door opened. The long brown haired human who always smelled like ham strolled out.

Humans always got in the way.

The fluttering, cawing, black cloud drew nearer.

-

The cab honked again, slowly and loudly.

-

She yelled from the front door, "All right! I'm right here! I see you, and you see me. Jesus."

As she strode toward the taxi, she heard what at first sounded like a small plane flying overheard. She turned to look towards the sky, and the sun was blocked out by a fluttering black mass.

"Daniel! I thought you got rid of..." Before she could finish, the cloud was swarming around her.

Crows flew by her head, brushing her face and hair with their dark wings.

"Gahhh get them off! Ahhhhhh"

-

Daniel watched in horror, from inside the house, as the cloud engulfed his screaming wife.

"This will not be good."

-

The cabbie took his hand off the horn to watch the scene unfolding in front of the house. He had never seen so many birds in one place. They were flying around the woman like a feathered tornado. Her screams made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

This was not in the work manual.

He shifted into drive and sped off.

-

She watched as the human spun and swung her arms wildly. She felt genuine concern that the human would scare off the birds. The tasty, tasty birds.

She couldn't let that happen.

She knew she had to act fast, quickly crawling to a lower branch. A few crows were fluttering in and out of the lower branches, still more focused on the frantic human than finding a resting spot.

She spotted one crow perched on a low branch. She leaped down from one branch to another, then launched herself the last few feet, landing next to the unsuspecting bird. As the branch swayed downward with her weight, she looked into the crow's eyes. Before the terror could even register, she lunged forward and grabbed the bird's head with her teeth. Her momentum sent them off the branch, hurtling toward the ground.

They landed directly next to the human, the cat on all fours, with the bird's limp body hanging from its mouth, head hanging at its side.

She dropped the bird at the human's feet.

-

Sharon looked at the cat and the bloodied, broken bird on the ground, and let out a blood curdling scream, running towards the front door.

She didn't even notice that the black cloud had left.

-

Daniel watched his wife sprint towards the door. He opened it to let her in and moved to the side.

"Jesus! Jesus, Daniel did you see that?"

"No, what happened honey?"

"The birds! The damn birds! And then the cat! Look!"

They walked to the front bay window and peered out.

The cat sat in the front lawn. It looked at the couple for a few seconds, then went back to licking its blood stained paws.

-

The summer months came and went, with no more sign of the crows.

The body of the dead crow remained on the lawn. The head was nowhere to be found.

-

"Honey, I really don't want to see that dead bird every morning. Can you please do something with it?"

"Sweetie, we talked about this," he replied. "The dead crow is a warning, a reminder that this isn't a safe place for them."

"Do you honestly think that 's why they haven't come back?"

Daniel thought for a moment.

"Absolutely."

He sat on his favorite chair, where the cat was stretched out on the armrest.

"All thanks to this little girl, right?" He buried his face in the fur on her belly.

The cat purred and licked its paws.

Daniel noticed something hanging off the pad of the cat's right foot. He pulled it off. It was a small black feather.

He looked at the cat. The cat looked back at him.

Daniel could have sworn it winked at him before going back to licking its paws.

-

*Inspired (very loosely) by a true story*

I Love You All...Class Dismissed.

A man. A dog. A fucked-up farewell.

Ralph Stanley - O, Death (Hey! A reference to my last post! Synergy!)

As in the past, I was inspired to write an angry post after a night of watching Sunday night television. Two shows in particular, both airing at the same exact time. The shows couldn't be more different, but in their most recent episodes (one a season finale) they both made the same mistake: killing off a major character.

(WICKED SPOILERS LAY AHEAD BRO)

Boardwalk Empire decided to kill off my favorite character, after disgracing him first, and Family Guy killed off the family (talking) pet.

I'm not one of those people that petitions the network to cancel a show for killing a character or petition the creator to bring back the character; in fact, I love when a series has the balls to kill off a main character, if it's done well. If it makes for a great episode and story line, and it works for the show as a whole, kill those sons of bitches. But these two deaths felt forced, unnecessary. Just...wrong.

First off, the easier one: Family Guy. I'm not the biggest fan, but I think it's the third best prime time cartoon ever (right behind Fish Police). Brian, the talking, martini-drinking dog, is easily one of the best characters on the show. He is often the one that keeps the show grounded in reality (ironic considering he's a talking dog) and gives it a sense of class. He is the voice of reason in the family, and the show itself. Family Guy is not a show that deals with serious topics. It has an entire episode dedicated to making fun of babies left in the dumpster after prom night. I watched a rerun last night where Peter mistakenly, yet mercilessly and horrifically, slices Quagmire's new cat to death without batting an eye, and all of his friends show no real concern.

There is the occasional "real" emotion, but the show deals mostly in the absurd.Then, this past Sunday night, Brian gets run over by a car right in front of his best friend, Stewie. It's bloody and gross, like the show often is, but it's not played for a gag. Stewie and the family are generally upset. Stewie figures he'll use his time machine to go back and fix it, but he had dismantled it earlier.

So Brian dies.

Stewie can't fix it.

The family gets another dog.

The dog has a heart to heart talk with Stewie about missing Brian.

End episode.

What the fuck? Did Seth McFarlane commission a middle school PSA on dealing with dead pets? What the hell did I just watch?

The one article I read about the episode said it was an idea that came up in the writer's room and they just went with it. They thought it was just the bestest idea ever! How fun it will be to watch the whole family suffer! We'll make this absurd cartoon about a moron, his murderous baby, crazy family, and talking dog into an after school special about the harsh realities of pet ownership. Fun!

Well, the backlash is upon them, and this time, the same internet fury that got Family Guy back on the air after cancellation might just get their asses booted off the air.

I don't mind when characters die, if it makes for a good show. This did not. And there's no way it can be beneficial to the series. Even if Paulie Walnuts was amazing as the new dog (he's not) there is no coming back from this. Think about when your own pet dies. It sucks for a very long time. It's a hard decision to get another pet, and even when you do, you don't love that new pet as much. Maybe you will eventually, but that also takes a long time, and it requires that you accept this pet as an entirely different individual that you will love differently. Well, this is a tv show and audiences don't want to love our shows differently. We want our dramas to remain dramas and comedies to remain comedies (hear that Weeds??). When series replace actors it hardly ever works; we have grown attached to this character, represented by this person, for so long that it feels fraudulent when another actor tries to emulate that character. We can't accept it. And adding new characters is such an obvious ploy to draw attention and boost ratings that the Family Guy writers should be embarrassed. I mean, we all learned that trick on The Simpsons (a much better show overall) a long time ago.

You know the Family Guy writers saw that Poochie episode. One of them remembered it a decade later and instead of seeing it as a hilarious parody of the tv industry's lack of creativity, he took it as a tutorial.

Maybe this is a part of a larger story line and they are planning to bring Brian back, but it seems to me this is a permanent, long-term move (unless they eventually buckle to fan pressure). It was a horrible decision, but like everything else Seth MacFarlane does, it's not the quality of the material that matters, its how much attention the material gets. This move got plenty of attention, I just don't think it's the attention they wanted.

Besides, Futurama already did the ultimate dead dog cartoon. No cartoon should ever deal with the subject again. Ever. Please.

The next death didn't get as much attention, but I think it was just as devastating to the series in which it occurred. Richard Harrow, the man with the half-tin face, made his very sad, sad departure from Boardwalk Empire in the finale of the very sad, sad season 4. The show may have jumped the shark in the previous episode, so it's no surprise that the finale was so disappointing.

The shark jumping occurred when Gillian Darmody confessed her murder (of that guy in her bathtub) to her new fiancee, who ended up being an undercover detective. I won't get too much into it here, but it was a ridiculous twist to an uninteresting subplot.

After the last season finale, where Richard shoots up about 20 gangsters and takes Tommy to a new home, Richard has lost his edge. He doesn't appear too much in season 4, but one scene early on involves him being unable to even kill a dying dog. Late in the season, we see him interact with Chalky White, and it seems as if our (my) wildest dreams will finally come true: Half-face and Chalky are gonna get together and fuck shit UP! Yes!

In the season 4 finale, Chalky meets with Dr. Narcisse, and we see Richard in a balcony with a rifle about to take Narcisse out. Hell yeah! But Richard hesitates. His hands are shaking. His fingers are stiff. He refocuses and pulls the trigger...only to shoot Chalky's daughter, who had just walked in front of Narcisse, right in the head.

Damn. Okay. Didn't see that coming. Surprises are usually good. Like Eli killing the federal agent earlier in the episode. Awesome! But this? Damn.

Richard runs away as Narcisse's men shoot at him. Chalky is dragged away by his people.

Later we see Richard, meeting little Tommy and his new wife in Wisconsin. He's smiling, and we see that he has his real face...he's dreaming. Cut to the final scene of the season: Richard dying alone on the beach under a pier.

Fuck. That was depressing.

Ok, I'm admitting bias here because he is my favorite character, but...WHY YALL DO HIM DIRTY LIKE THAT HBO?

I get it. He's a soldier who lost his nerve, and a soldier without the ability to kill serves no purpose, especially in 1930's Atlantic City. His time had come. But why have him kill the girl? That disgraces his whole legacy. Not to mention, it taints Chalky. Yeah he'll be more outraged than ever, but instead of focusing all the fury on Narcisse, now he'll have to face the fact that he is partially at fault for his daughter's death.

I don't want to see all that. I just want Chalky to fuckin destroy Narcisse. His character is well rounded enough, and deals with plenty already (race relations with the whites, race relations among the blacks, balancing a business and family). This is another level to his character, and it feels very unnecessary.

And Richard. Poor fucking Richard. Besides Buscemi's legendarily ugly mug, he was the face of the show (no pun intended). He was the most interesting character, and it seemed as if he had the most story and character to still develop. When Jimmy Dormady died, it was sad. But he had to go. It fit the story, it improved the story, and it pushed the story forward. I just don't see it with Richard's death. Maybe (hopefully) they prove me wrong, but this season as a whole has left me disappointed.

But what do I know? I don't write these shows, I just watch. I'm just a fan.

A fan with a broken heart... *cue violins*

I Love You All (Goodbye, Brian and Mr. Harrow)...Class Dismissed.

O, Death

Kno - Death is Silent

I don't fear death. I certainly don't want to face it any time soon (I don't have a death wish or anything) but I have come to terms with my own inevitable demise.

On the other hand, when death is in the vicinity of my loved ones, it's harder for me to accept. I've been very lucky to not have lost many friends or family, but even when death takes a friend's family member or a friend of a friend, I start to question the wisdom of the universe's routine of granting sentience to beings just to snatch it away so mercilessly. I'm quasi-Buddhist so I get the whole yin and yang, need-the-dark-to-appreciate-the-light philosophy, but fuck all that. Death fucking hurts. Life would be just fine without death, I'm sure.

When I am far enough away from death, though (or rather, when death is far enough away from my friends and family) I can see the beauty in it. If we can separate ourselves from the pain a little and take a lesson from it, it does make us appreciate our short time in existence. But more than that, as my favorite author stated, when it comes down to it, there are fates far worse than death.

We've probably all considered this notion after watching countless tv shows and movies featuring a person in a coma and the family deciding whether or not to maintain life support. I remember as a kid thinking, "keep that shit on motherfucker!" (I listened to a lot of Wu Tang as a kid). Some point in college, it evolved to, "The answer all depends on whether or not the practical value of keeping me alive outweighs the practical value of removing life support." (I read a lot of John Locke in college.) Now, my official stance on it is: "Let me go." Basically, if I've missed two or more episodes of Boardwalk Empire, pull the plug.

As I said before, I don't fear death...but I'm terrified of any kind of brain damage. It's almost an obsessive fear. When I get headaches I start to think about my brain splitting and having to speak like Sylvester the Cat for the rest of my life.

"Sssufferin ssstroke victim."

Cut off all my limbs and I think I'd have a strong desire to still live, but mess with my brain? Just get it over with and kill me.

I'm exaggerating a little, but it's an honest fear. And its a very good likelihood. Every year, 795,000 people in the US have a stroke, and 135,000 of those stroke victims die. Fuck.

Then there's traumatic brain injuries: 1.7 million TBIs every year in the US alone. You gotta be out of your mind (no pun intended) to play football and suffer concussions regularly. I'm not trying to forget my name at 55 years old. Even if I avoid high contact sports, there's always the possibility of a car accident or a hard fall, both of which I've had. Fortunately I only broke some bones and not my brain.

What really concerns me--and strangely fascinates me--is that my mind will just snap one day. It has always fascinated--and concerned--me how little control we have over our brains. The brain is an organ, and just like any other organ it can malfunction. There have been times where I've felt on the constant verge of breakdown. I have studied (to some extent, I'm certainly no scholar on the subject) the way the brain works, and the scientific consensus is that we really don't understand the brain that much at all. It's very easy for someone's brain chemistry to change and cause an alteration in that individual's personality. A particularly vicious knock to the head, or a parasite, or a virus, or even the ingestion of certain substances can change a person's identity, the essence of an individual. Just think about the last time you got really drunk. You become another person for a while, to the point where it's almost a viable excuse to say "I must have been drunk" when our bad decisions come back to haunt us.

Even if we are perfectly sober and healthy, we still have less control over our own minds than we believe (which is weird in itself because our minds are the mechanism that allows us to "believe" so you'd think it would know best). One of the biggest functions of the brain is memory, which helps us create a vision of ourselves. Unfortunately, memory is tenuous at best. That link is to an article describing all the bizarre things that affect our memory, and that's just the start of the list. So this ability of ours, which is so important to identity creation, is very weak, and as we age, or if it is afflicted with certain diseases, it gets even weaker. Great.

Memento was like a horror film to me. How can you live with no memory of yourself, or your life, or especially (like in the film) with no memory of the past at all?

That shit scares me. What if I just wake up with no memory one day? It could happen. Or what if I wake up crazy? That happens all the time, too. Even Oprah almost suffered from a nervous breakdown. What if I go into work one day and see Nick Jake's 607th bandana and I just lose it?

I sympathize with people who have mental breakdowns. I never sympathize (or condone, obviously) those who harm other people, but I can understand. They're not thinking straight, that's the problem. A lot of them don't understand what they're doing at the time or the ramifications of their actions. I've read too many true crime books about all types of killers to think that they are much different from the rest of us.

That last fact scares and comforts me (I've mentioned that paradox is my favorite word before, right?). The majority of us are living on the verge of crazy. We all do our best to suppress it, and some do better than others. Sometimes external factors cause a snap, sometimes our own personal decisions and mistakes lead to a breakdown, but either way, it's a reality we all could face a lot easier than we assume.

The world is fucking crazy, and if we really paid attention and contemplated all the fucked up things happening in the world for very long, we'd probably all go insane. That's the beauty of human nature. We persevere, we carry on, despite it all.

We prepare for the worst and do our best to understand the realities of life, but that doesn't make life easier. It just makes it tolerable. And that's the most we should ask for out of life. That part of Buddhist philosophy I have completely bought into: life is suffering. A lot of people hear that and think it's really depressing. I think it's a beautiful philosophy, because it means that if we are lucky enough to have a life that's anything but constant misery, we should be thankful for it every second of every day.

Then again, it's hard to maintain that thankfulness. I always thought a particular scene from The Sopranos was the perfect summation of the human existence (not the scene where Christopher gets high on heroin and sits on Adriana's dog, but that one too, I suppose). Tony was recovering from being shot, and he goes to Dr. Melfi's office to tell her he's becoming depressed again. He knows that life is precious, now more than ever, and he knows he should appreciate every moment, but it's just so...well, I'll let him tell it: "This isn't painful. Getting shot is painful. Getting stabbed in the ribs is painful. This shit isn't painful. It's empty... dead."

It's the mundane, endless minutiae of life that gets people. It's why people turn to drugs and alcohol, or any addiction really (and just like with mental breakdowns, it's much easier to become an addict than we all assume). The monotony of life is what drives people crazy. There is no purpose to life in and of itself, we have to do our best to give our lives purpose. Life is suffering, so we do what we can to ease that suffering. I have learned to focus on the positive, and I'm mostly successful in that endeavor. I keep up with the horrible shit (aka "the news") but I balance it out with pictures of puppies, and stories about Malala and heroic acts from average people. Positive psychology scientists (those exist!) believe that  it takes a 4:1 or 5:1 ratio of positive emotions to negative emotions to keep you balanced, so it's important to get a good dose of positivity throughout the day.

And it's important to spread positivity throughout the day as well. Any little way you can. Never underestimate the power of a simple, kind gesture. Sometimes people just need somebody else to hear their stories.

CHiPs saves the day again! California Highway Patrolman Kevin Briggs, aka "The Guardian of The Golden Gate," convinces Kevin Berthia that there are alternatives to ending his life. Berthia is one of hundreds of people Briggs has saved. 

There are people who may be beyond the point of no return, especially if drugs and alcohol are a part of the problem, but it's worth at least trying to help. Otherwise, one day we may be the ones on the wrong side of the bridge, with no one to hear our stories.

Man that's pretty dark. Sorry. Did you know that it has been scientifically proven that optimists live longer? Here, I'll end it with a picture of a dog pulling a kid on a skateboard:

He should really be wearing a helmet though, he could crash and...shit. Sorry!

Epilogue: As I revised and prepared to publish this post, I read a facebook post from a friend of mine. He had just decided to randomly talk to a guy who looked upset. The guy was very depressed and talked about his problems for about an hour. He had been headed to a bridge to jump, but telling his story to a friendly stranger made him change his mind.

And that is the shit I live for.

I Love You All (it's not just a tag line, it's real)...Class Dismissed.

Hollywood Headaches

Public Enemy - Burn Hollywood Burn

There's a new phenomenon in Hollywood these days. Well, maybe it's not new, but it has become more prevalent and definitely more noticeable now thanks to this here internet: movie makers publicly release the actors for the roles of upcoming movies weeks, if not months, before the movie even starts filming. Needless to say, this can lead to quite the web shitsplosion.

Take a look at this link. That's a petition on Change.org (a legitimate site that has brought attention to such serious issues as LGBT rights and the Trayvon Martin case) to remove Ben Affleck from the upcomng Superman vs. Batman movie. It has over 94,000 signatures. 94,000 people took the time to fill out the form and let their cyber-voice be heard on this very pressing matter.

I realize it doesn't take long to fill out an online form, but that's precious time that you could be doing literally anything else and having a more meaningful impact on the world. But my real issue is: who gives a flying fuck? Is the actor portraying a man dressed as a bat that important to you that you had to start a petition, or even just took the time to fill out this form? Your desire to see someone that you personally deem "acceptable" as a grown man in skintight latex is enough to try to sabotage another man's career? If movies are that important to you, you should be more concerned about yourself than Bennifer. The best and most revealing part about the petition is when the creator disses other people who have started similar positions. He chastises someone for petitioning the White House (they fucking petitioned the White House about a Batman movie!!!) saying that the government has more serious issues to deal with. No shit! But let's be honest, Mayor of Petitionville, shouldn't you have more serious issues to deal with? Shouldn't fucking everybody? Unless you are somehow involved in the production of this movie (or you happen to be Bob Kane or Bill Finger) why do you think you have a say in the matter? Why do you so desperately need a say in the matter? Oh, you're a die hard Batman fan? Sorry, you only have hundreds of other Batman movies, cartoons, games, and comics to live for. And in a few years they'll do another reboot with all new actors and a new director and maybe they'll consult you then. But for now, get over yourself.

Social media erupted after the Affleck announcement. Batfleck is going to be a travesty! How could they do this to us?? Someone made a wise-crack about how Affleck ruined the Daredevil franchise and now he'll ruin this one. Oh wait, that was me? Well, jokes are fine, I'm not a humorless gonad. But for the love of Good Will Hunting, let the guy live, and let the director/producers/casting director/other dozens of people involved in the decision do their jobs, which is to make the fucking movie. It's our job to watch it. And if it's a giant turd, like Daredevil or friggin Pearl Harbor, then we can shit all over it. We should shit all over it. Fans can be critics, they can't be casting directors. If you don't want to see a movie made a certain way, you make it that way YA BIG JERK.

We all remember the magnificent performance from Heath Ledger as the Joker, right? Guy won an Oscar playing a murderous clown in a superhero action movie. Every single person who saw that movie raved about how amazing the Joker was. What so many people quickly forgot was the rage we all felt when his name was announced as the Joker. How could Brokeback Knight take the place of Jack Nicholson? What the hell was Christopher Nolan thinking? Well, we must have all forgotten Ledger's performance in Monster's Ball because in his first appearance on screen as Batman's archnemesis, he made everyone forget their complaints. Hell, he made everyone forget Jack Nicholson. Jack's Joker was considered one of the greatest movie villains of all time, and he looked like a harmless birthday party clown in comparison to Ledger. So, I don't know, maybe we should give Affleck a shot? Let's not forget, he was da bomb in Phantoms, yo.

But the retard-ragefest doesn't end with Affleck or superhero movies. Oh no. The ladies have reached the same levels of fanboy insanity, maybe even surpassing it. Did you hear about this new movie coming out, 50 Shapes of Clay, or something like that? I think it was based on a popular book? And the book was originally fan-fiction of Twilight? Oh you've heard of it? Maybe you were one of the thousands of people who signed the petition to remove Charlie Hunnam as the lead role. Congratulations! Your estrogen-induced rage made him quit the role before they even started filming. A talented, hard-working, attractive (but not enough, I guess?) actor lost out on a role that probably would have made him and his future grandkids set for life. Hurray!  And these loud, obnoxious fans are so proud of themselves. They had an influence on the movie! They are a part of it now! Except, no, you're not. You just make the entire ordeal more frustrating, annoying, and drawn out.

The makers of the Fifty Shades movie have an especially impossible job because of the particular source material. The book really gets the juices flowing (literally) in its fan-base because of the overtly sexual material. S&M shops haven't seen this much business since Marquis de Sade himself opened the first ball-and-gag store (citation needed, but I'm pretty sure that's accurate). People don't just love the book, they fucking LOVE it. It has replaced their favorite diamond studded "self-massager" under their mattresses. It speaks to their hidden fantasies and desires and makes them feel something. So now, the makers of the movie are attempting to satisfy the desires and fantasies of every one of their stark-raving mad fans. It's hard enough satisfying one woman's desires, and now they're trying to make every woman happy (and some guys I'm sure).

I can tell you right now, it ain't gonna happen. Even Wilt the Stilt couldn't please every woman (although he did try admirably). I guarantee that with each new choice, more and more insane fans will spout off angry tweets and emails and start more ridiculous petitions. And if the movie makers cave in to their demands, they are establishing an impossible threshold for each replacement. Each guy has to be hotter than the last, not to mention he has to be a perfect match for whoever the actress is, but it still won't be good enough.  He needs to personify the individual fantasy inside the minds of each and every woman.

It's pretty damn ridiculous. Jax from Sons of Anarchy isn't good looking enough for you ladies? It's a good thing most women in their everyday lives are more concerned about finding a partner who is financial stable rather than one who is attractive, because if they held us up to the standards of their fantasies, no guy would stand a chance (I disabled the comment section already, so don't even bother with the angry comments, ladies). Besides, it's not like you will be personally spanked by Christian Grey. He won't be at Comic-Con in the S&M booth giving out free chokes. It's just a movie. They probably won't be showing full on dong action; they won't even show sac, so what's the big deal? If he doesn't cut it for you, and you really need to see Matt Bomer's ass in leather, go watch Magic Mike again (I had to IMDB that one, I swear).

Side note: I feel like girls can get away with being openly shallow a lot more than guys these days. Progress, I guess? It's good that women can feel more comfortable in their sexuality and they are allowed to express it how they want, we all should have that right. But damn, ladies, the thirst is unreal! If a guy says his favorite actress is Scarlett Johanssen, he gets called shallow, despite the fact that she is a phenomenal, respected actress. Yet women have Magic Mike themed events where they watch the movie over and over and hoot and holler at the screen while proclaiming Channing Tatum the greatest living thespian in the world, knowing full well that he couldn't act his way out of a wet paper bag (with scissor in his hands). It's acceptable, though, because women have been considered the less shallow of the sexes for so long, so it's cute to see them openly fawn over a good looking guy. Guys are shallow, yes, but you ladies are giving us a serious run for our money in that department.

Another thing you'll hear a lot now that we know everything about a movie before it even started filming is the phrase, "they are ruining my childhood!" Again, I may be guilty of uttering the phrase myself, usually replacing the word "they" with "Michael Bay", but I don't really take it that seriously. When I first saw Bay was doing the Transformers movie, it stung a little (after all, this is the fucking guy who made Pearl Harbor, and Optimus Prime and friends were an integral part of my childhood) but when I thought about the last time I had seen a Transformers cartoon, I realized it was over 20 years ago. Why did I care? I saw the first Transformers movie, didn't really like it, so I avoided the next 2 or 3 or however many there are. It really didn't affect my life or have any impact on the memories of my childhood. In fact, it brought back a lot of fond memories. That's the only good thing it did, and I'm thankful for that. Oh, they made a shitty G.I. Joe movie? Who cares? It doesn't affect how much I used to love Snake Eyes and Storm Shadow. It actually made me reminisce about the epic battles I used to orchestrate between the two action figures. They (aka fucking Michael Bay) are remaking a live-action Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles as aliens? Who gives a shit? I'll always have the original live-action (not the second one so much, and definitely not the third, that one never happened) and awesome original cartoons. The remakes won't change any of that. I don't have to see the new movie and it's easier than ever to see the originals with Youtube and Netflix. I also have a dvd of the original movie (duh).

So let's just all try to allow the directors and producers that make the damn movies decide what will work for their own projects. Yes, their decisions are often horrible (like whenever somebody casts Jason Segal in anything) but can they make the movie before we deride it? I know it's fun to get all worked up about insignificant pop culture happenings, but let's remember that they are truly insignificant. I don't mean to say that entertainment and art is not significant or important, but if an actor you don't like is in a movie you want to see, try to give the guy a chance, or just don't see the movie. Go watch Tim Burton's Batman movies, they're pretty fucking awesome. Or watch Nolan's Batman trilogy again, that was sweet. Hell even the campy Adam West movie was entertaining. There are a lot of solid options, and none of them include trying to sabotage someone's career. Let's keep the petitions for more serious matters, like beginning construction on a Death Star by 2016. Already 34,000 signatures!

I Love You All...Class Dismissed.

Behind the Music: The Itsy Bitsy Spider - The Dark Side of the Nursery

Ah, The Itsy Bitsy Spider! What a cute little whimsical rhyme! It teaches youngsters about perseverance and the cycle of life. It even has a fun finger-play to go along with it. Such an innocent game!

Or so we thought.

Turns out, The Itsy Bitsy Spider is a dark, disturbing metaphor for the deadly disease of alcoholism.

Take a look.

The Itsy Bitsy Spider crawled up the water spout.

The man started drinking. Water is actually wine, or more likely, beer.

Down came the rain, and washed the spider out.

The beer "rained" down his throat and "washed him out". In other words, he got drunk and passed out.

Out came the sun, and dried up all the rain,

The next morning, the sun came out and he "dried up", he got sober.

And the Itsy Bitsy Spider went up the spout again.

The alcoholic, as if forgetting his tribulations from the previous day, goes back to the drink.

Surprised? You shouldn't be. Think about the awful origins of other nursery rhymes: Ring Around the Rosie was based on the Black Plague; Rock a Bye Baby was a metaphor for the Glorious Revolution; London Bridge is Falling Down is about child sacrifice; and the list goes on.

This particular rhyme has its origins in the era right after the Civil War.  Railroads were becoming common and a popular mode of transportation, especially among the poor, was freight-hopping. This was (is) very dangerous, and it became more dangerous when alcohol was involved, which it often was. To discourage this behavior, parents taught their youngsters this rhyme and the accompanying finger-play. The original song, however, was much more direct with its message. Here are the lyrics:

The Tipsy Dipsy Hobo drinks from the lager spout

Here comes the train it knocks the hobo out

Out comes a man to pick up all the brains 

But a Tipsy Dipsy Hobo drinks from the spout again.

As I said, this was a little more direct in its message. But let's be honest: it just doesn't have the same ring to it. The song only took off in mainstream society when the lyrics were changed during the Great Depression, a time when freight-hopping (and alcoholism) was increasingly common.

So next time you choose a song for that fun sing-along with your young'uns, consider the origins of those silly little rhymes, and decide whether little Cindy and Jamal really need such a hard life lesson at 5 years old.

I Love You All...Class Dismissed.