Yesterday, in heaven, Ben Franklin met a cheery new arrival by the name of Steve Irwin. Said Mr. Franklin, "Pleased to meet you, friend. How, pray tell, did you spend your time while traversing that mortal coil?"
"Glad you asked!" replied Steve. "I spent my whole life studying dangerous animals."
"Fascinating! So you were a naturalist then."
"Sort of. Basically, I walked around pulling tails."
God bless you, Steve. If God is good (and I believe that He is), He'll give you an all-access pass to Dinosaur Heaven.
--The Robo-Pirate
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Monday, August 28, 2006
Commentary on Yester(Fri)day's News #4,903
Dear Pluto,
As far as I'm concerned, you will always be a planet to me. Those scientists, who should be curing cancer and inventing teleporation, have really done it this time. I am cancelling my subscription to Popular Science, the Christian Science Monitor and I will never listen to Oingo Boingo again. And you want to know what else? All of the astrophysicists who voted that you weren't a planet were only like 5% of the total number of astrophysicists. I know! That's what I said! It is a huge pile of crap. You should probably launch some missiles. That seems to be the answer to everything around here.
Your friend,
--The Robo-Pirate
As far as I'm concerned, you will always be a planet to me. Those scientists, who should be curing cancer and inventing teleporation, have really done it this time. I am cancelling my subscription to Popular Science, the Christian Science Monitor and I will never listen to Oingo Boingo again. And you want to know what else? All of the astrophysicists who voted that you weren't a planet were only like 5% of the total number of astrophysicists. I know! That's what I said! It is a huge pile of crap. You should probably launch some missiles. That seems to be the answer to everything around here.
Your friend,
--The Robo-Pirate
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Self Aggrandizement in the Form of a Pre-edited Music Review
This will come out either tomorrow or the following week in the FW Weekly, but I really like this band and really didn't want to wait in case anyone was on the fence about them and happened to be doing some searches.
Valient Thorr
Legend of the World
(Volcom)
Remember Nu Metal, that genre comprised of suckass Jock-Jam bands like Korn and Godsmack? When they weren’t busy making huge, multi-zippered, idiot-pants fashionable, they were supposedly breathing life into the tired, leathery lungs of Regular Metal. What they really did was ruin everything cool and dangerous about hard rock, in a much more damnable way than anything ever perpetuated by Sammy Hagar. In other words, they sucked the fun right out of it.
Fortunately, a handful of bands have managed to reset the whole genre through their own sweat, toil and blistering arpeggios. You’ve probably heard about Australia’s Wolf Mother, who fuse stoner rock and Kansas into fuzzed-out glory. Perhaps you’ve found Early Man on MySpace and added them as friends because they sound like Mercyful Fate covering Maiden. If you’re lucky, you’ve seen The Sword, who out-Sabbath Sabbath, making wolves and cursed blades the coolest hipster trend since PBR and mustaches. If you nodded your head to any of the above references, load your bong and cue up Legend of the World, the second album by Valient Thorr.
Valient Thorr are from Venus by way of North Carolina (which makes perfect sense when you think about it). They have a backstory. It involves a stolen time machine or something. Mostly, it’s amazing nonsense, but not as amazing as their serious devotion to anti-war politics and Southern Rock riffage.
Legend of the World opens up with the bombastic stomp of “Heatseeker,” a paranoid middle-finger to government intrusion, shouted by frontman Valient Himself over speedball blues riffs that sound as if they were made to chain someone to a nuclear missile. From there, it’s pretty obvious what the rest of the album is gonna sound like: basically, it’s a fantasy rock-genre draft combining a leftist punk singer with a Judas Priest tribute band and making them play Lynyrd Skynyrd songs at full-throttle. If not for obvious slashes at Dubya’s foreign policy, you’d swear this album came out thirty years ago. It makes you want to buy a case of the beer your old man used to drink.
Unfortunately, a lot of Legend blends together if you aren’t a fan of the solos-in-lieu-of-choruses formula chiseled by Black Sabbath in times of lore. The riffs are righteous: Guitarists Odinn and Eiden Thorr wield laser-perfect, harmonized shredding that wouldn’t be out of place on a Thin Lizzy album, but because it’s everywhere, it starts to become indistinguishable. Same for the earnest, sermonized shouting of Himself’s delivery, which is a bummer, because he’s shouting about ending the Iraqi war and cleaning up the planet. It’s not exactly Joan Baez, but a progressive message borne on high-octane cock-rock is paradoxically easier to hear. Why Venusian Vikings give a crap about American foreign relations is never explained, but at least somebody cares about this stuff. Add a song about the destruction of the primeval world (“Fall of Pangea”), and the record is pretty fun.
Legend of the World is the aural equivalent of a drinking a sixer of Shaeffer’s; it goes down easy and rocks hard. Your head might hurt later, but that’s the beauty of Valient Thorr—rock ‘n roll that doesn’t kick your ass a little is kinda lame. Luckily, Valient Thorr will kick your ass all the way back to ’76.
--The Robo-Pirate
Valient Thorr
Legend of the World
(Volcom)
Remember Nu Metal, that genre comprised of suckass Jock-Jam bands like Korn and Godsmack? When they weren’t busy making huge, multi-zippered, idiot-pants fashionable, they were supposedly breathing life into the tired, leathery lungs of Regular Metal. What they really did was ruin everything cool and dangerous about hard rock, in a much more damnable way than anything ever perpetuated by Sammy Hagar. In other words, they sucked the fun right out of it.
Fortunately, a handful of bands have managed to reset the whole genre through their own sweat, toil and blistering arpeggios. You’ve probably heard about Australia’s Wolf Mother, who fuse stoner rock and Kansas into fuzzed-out glory. Perhaps you’ve found Early Man on MySpace and added them as friends because they sound like Mercyful Fate covering Maiden. If you’re lucky, you’ve seen The Sword, who out-Sabbath Sabbath, making wolves and cursed blades the coolest hipster trend since PBR and mustaches. If you nodded your head to any of the above references, load your bong and cue up Legend of the World, the second album by Valient Thorr.
Valient Thorr are from Venus by way of North Carolina (which makes perfect sense when you think about it). They have a backstory. It involves a stolen time machine or something. Mostly, it’s amazing nonsense, but not as amazing as their serious devotion to anti-war politics and Southern Rock riffage.
Legend of the World opens up with the bombastic stomp of “Heatseeker,” a paranoid middle-finger to government intrusion, shouted by frontman Valient Himself over speedball blues riffs that sound as if they were made to chain someone to a nuclear missile. From there, it’s pretty obvious what the rest of the album is gonna sound like: basically, it’s a fantasy rock-genre draft combining a leftist punk singer with a Judas Priest tribute band and making them play Lynyrd Skynyrd songs at full-throttle. If not for obvious slashes at Dubya’s foreign policy, you’d swear this album came out thirty years ago. It makes you want to buy a case of the beer your old man used to drink.
Unfortunately, a lot of Legend blends together if you aren’t a fan of the solos-in-lieu-of-choruses formula chiseled by Black Sabbath in times of lore. The riffs are righteous: Guitarists Odinn and Eiden Thorr wield laser-perfect, harmonized shredding that wouldn’t be out of place on a Thin Lizzy album, but because it’s everywhere, it starts to become indistinguishable. Same for the earnest, sermonized shouting of Himself’s delivery, which is a bummer, because he’s shouting about ending the Iraqi war and cleaning up the planet. It’s not exactly Joan Baez, but a progressive message borne on high-octane cock-rock is paradoxically easier to hear. Why Venusian Vikings give a crap about American foreign relations is never explained, but at least somebody cares about this stuff. Add a song about the destruction of the primeval world (“Fall of Pangea”), and the record is pretty fun.
Legend of the World is the aural equivalent of a drinking a sixer of Shaeffer’s; it goes down easy and rocks hard. Your head might hurt later, but that’s the beauty of Valient Thorr—rock ‘n roll that doesn’t kick your ass a little is kinda lame. Luckily, Valient Thorr will kick your ass all the way back to ’76.
--The Robo-Pirate
Friday, August 18, 2006
Indestructible
So I went to Chipotle for lunch today and when I went to the bathroom, do you know what I found in the toilet? Lettuce. Just floating around. Like someone had been feeding a tiny manatee in there.
Which is funny, now that I think about it, because manatees do sort of look like poop.
--The Robo-Pirate
Which is funny, now that I think about it, because manatees do sort of look like poop.
--The Robo-Pirate
Oogh....
You know that song "Just Dropped in," about checking in to see what condition one's condition is in? Well, did you know that it was performed by Kenny Rogers? He of the Roasters and of the knowledge of appropriate times to hold and fold? Technically, it was a band called First Edition that recorded it, but those are his pipes on the track.
Boy am I hungover!
--The Robo-Pirate
Boy am I hungover!
--The Robo-Pirate
Thursday, August 17, 2006
My new power: Invisibility!
I was ignored today. I made what I thought was a valid suggestion and a viable offer of assistance, and I was directly ignored. So I've got that going for me.
--The Robo-Pirate
--The Robo-Pirate
Thursday, August 10, 2006
The Grampus, My Beloved Mobile Oven
I finally got around to taking the Grampus into the shop to get its A/C fixed, having been told by Will the brilliant but unreliable mechanic who works with my friend Cliff that it was likely just a short.
Quoth Ruben, who looked into the matter today, "I checked it all, but the compressor doesn't work."
Apparently, compressors do not grow on trees. Ruben told me it would be about $1,100 to get a new one and install it. Now I don't mind driving around sweating, as I have been doing it since May, but Kerry and Eric (said in that "duh!" voice children are so fond of using) think it's better to drive without losing ten pounds of water weight. Pussies, that's what I think.
Anyhow, there is no way I'm fixing that thing if it costs eleven-hundred fucking dollars. Now Kerry, who doesn't know how much this will cost said a month ago, "Maybe we should just buy a new one and make payments," implicitly expressing a rather optimistic view of our band's potential longevity. Ain't gonna happen, nor will fixing the A/C. Sweat we shall.
--The Robo-Pirate
Quoth Ruben, who looked into the matter today, "I checked it all, but the compressor doesn't work."
Apparently, compressors do not grow on trees. Ruben told me it would be about $1,100 to get a new one and install it. Now I don't mind driving around sweating, as I have been doing it since May, but Kerry and Eric (said in that "duh!" voice children are so fond of using) think it's better to drive without losing ten pounds of water weight. Pussies, that's what I think.
Anyhow, there is no way I'm fixing that thing if it costs eleven-hundred fucking dollars. Now Kerry, who doesn't know how much this will cost said a month ago, "Maybe we should just buy a new one and make payments," implicitly expressing a rather optimistic view of our band's potential longevity. Ain't gonna happen, nor will fixing the A/C. Sweat we shall.
--The Robo-Pirate
Monday, August 07, 2006
Starry, Starry Night
Dear Dr. Berhard's Office,
You know how Canada's healthcare is supposed to be free, but the drawback is that you have to wait for a long time before you can get in to see a doctor?
WELL, I DON'T LIVE IN FUCKING CANADA!!!
I'm about to cut my goddamn ear off rather than wait for my appointment tomorrow morning!
Sure, I guess I should have gone to the appointment I made for last Monday on the PRECEDING FRIDAY, but my ear ache went away over that weekend. Bank hours are more accessible than yours. And why was the office closed after noon? Was there a holiday I was unaware of? Why couldn't I have been passed on to the partner? Have you seen Resevoir Dogs? Because I'm about to tie myself to a chair and call Michael Madsen.
I'm just saying is all.
Maddeningly yours,
--The Robo-Pirate
Thursday, August 03, 2006
A conversation I had a couple days ago.
I finally made it into the doctor's office. As I suspected, I have a very busy case of swimmer's ear. He prescribed some drops. While there, I read an article in Time about why the Middle East is never going to to quiet down, and it reminded me of a Yahoo article I read and a blog I wrote in response, which mysteriously went unpublished. So here it is again.
A Conversation with God
"Hey, God?"
"What, Steve."
"Um, I bought another lottery ticket."
"The answer's no."
"Hahahaha--no no, see I'm not wanting to win the money. This one's a PAC-MAN lottery ticket, and if you scratch off the ghosts and uncover a Pac-Man, you win a Pac-Man cocktail. I want to use it as a coffee table."
"Look, Steve, first of all, you have a perfectly good coffee table."
"But the legs are all wobbly!"
"Second, you're really not my favorite person right now. I know you went to that titty bar the other night, and I caught you looking at pictures of that Hindu deity."
"But she's rad! She has a sword and a trident and she's riding on a tiger. You have to admit that Jesus is pretty boring, compared to her."
"Did she die for your sins?"
"no....."
"All right then. Look, I'm really kind of busy right now."
"Doing what?"
"Helping Hezbollah fire rockets on Tel-Aviv. Apparently they aren't able to do this on their own."
"Oh. Um, don't Your chosen people live in Tel-Aviv?"
"Yeah, but it turns out the Muslims are right."
"Right about what?"
"Everything."
"Oh."
--The Robo-Pirate
A Conversation with God
"Hey, God?"
"What, Steve."
"Um, I bought another lottery ticket."
"The answer's no."
"Hahahaha--no no, see I'm not wanting to win the money. This one's a PAC-MAN lottery ticket, and if you scratch off the ghosts and uncover a Pac-Man, you win a Pac-Man cocktail. I want to use it as a coffee table."
"Look, Steve, first of all, you have a perfectly good coffee table."
"But the legs are all wobbly!"
"Second, you're really not my favorite person right now. I know you went to that titty bar the other night, and I caught you looking at pictures of that Hindu deity."
"But she's rad! She has a sword and a trident and she's riding on a tiger. You have to admit that Jesus is pretty boring, compared to her."
"Did she die for your sins?"
"no....."
"All right then. Look, I'm really kind of busy right now."
"Doing what?"
"Helping Hezbollah fire rockets on Tel-Aviv. Apparently they aren't able to do this on their own."
"Oh. Um, don't Your chosen people live in Tel-Aviv?"
"Yeah, but it turns out the Muslims are right."
"Right about what?"
"Everything."
"Oh."
--The Robo-Pirate
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Sorry mom, but I have to talk about this because it's kind of cool.
Darth Vato has been in the studio this week recording two new songs. They sound pretty good. For me, recording bass tracks is little bit like taking off all my clothes, putting a flashing light on my head and trying to read Mandarin while being simulcast across the globe. And of course, hearing my tracks over the expensive and super crisp (but not super golden crisp) studio monitors is a great way to remind myself of why I have a day job.
Anyway, I did my best.
The best part about this week is that I have taken most of it off from work, which means I have spent considerable time reddening beside various apartment pools and drinking beer. If there is one thing I am getting good at, it's getting sunburned and fatter. Seriously, I'm glowing like a brake light.
In other news, something really special happened on Monday night, and it happened at the naked lady bar. Now, I want to make it clear that I don't normally frequent gentleman's clubs, as great as their promises of low-priced steaks and Def Leppard sound. It's because I'm not interested in paying money for something I could see in my imagination for free. Also, I'm never sure what sort of face I'm supposed to make while standing in front of a naked lady displaying ultimately impractical limberosity. Do I grin? Do I make eye contact? Do I manifest an aura that obviates the fact that my personal vehicle is a van whose side doors do not open from the inside? In any case, I went with Eric, our rockstar/producer friend Jordan and Maunder, who owns the Moon. Prior to leaving, we speculated on the hats allowed/not allowed policy, deciding that they probably weren't. Eric said, "Crap. Now I'm gonna have to fix my hair," to which Jordan said, "You don't have to fix it, you just have to pay 'em." Truer words were never spoken. Except for in the Bible, of course. And on FOX News--BA-ZING!!!
Anyway, we get there and fork over a bunch of money for over-priced unleaded Buds and the privilege of ogling cheerfully naked ladies. We had heard from the girlfriend of this dude we know who's in a different band that "strippers fucking love guys in bands," so of course, we bided our time for the perfect moment, and then played that card like an UNO Draw Four Wild. Eric gave "Jo" twenty bucks to ask the DJ to play a song off the EP we made last summer, telling her that if the DJ didn't want to, that she could just give him another lapdance instead. So she did, and the DJ loved it, and Maunder got a lapdance to the tune of "Seven Seas." Naturally, we thought this was the most fantastic thing in the history of the universe, and I sent a confusing mass text message to a bunch of people who mostly replied with, "What are you talking about?" What was really cool, however, was that he went on to play two more of our songs free of charge and asked for more CDs to pass out whenever he played it at the club, which we did the next day during happy hour. Predictably, the parking lot was at 5:15 already filling up with trucks sporting rebel flags and Calvin-Peeing-On-Things stickers.
"Man, the creepy pervert factor is pretty high," I said.
"Yeah," said Eric, "and it's about to increase by two."
--The Robo-Pirate
Anyway, I did my best.
The best part about this week is that I have taken most of it off from work, which means I have spent considerable time reddening beside various apartment pools and drinking beer. If there is one thing I am getting good at, it's getting sunburned and fatter. Seriously, I'm glowing like a brake light.
In other news, something really special happened on Monday night, and it happened at the naked lady bar. Now, I want to make it clear that I don't normally frequent gentleman's clubs, as great as their promises of low-priced steaks and Def Leppard sound. It's because I'm not interested in paying money for something I could see in my imagination for free. Also, I'm never sure what sort of face I'm supposed to make while standing in front of a naked lady displaying ultimately impractical limberosity. Do I grin? Do I make eye contact? Do I manifest an aura that obviates the fact that my personal vehicle is a van whose side doors do not open from the inside? In any case, I went with Eric, our rockstar/producer friend Jordan and Maunder, who owns the Moon. Prior to leaving, we speculated on the hats allowed/not allowed policy, deciding that they probably weren't. Eric said, "Crap. Now I'm gonna have to fix my hair," to which Jordan said, "You don't have to fix it, you just have to pay 'em." Truer words were never spoken. Except for in the Bible, of course. And on FOX News--BA-ZING!!!
Anyway, we get there and fork over a bunch of money for over-priced unleaded Buds and the privilege of ogling cheerfully naked ladies. We had heard from the girlfriend of this dude we know who's in a different band that "strippers fucking love guys in bands," so of course, we bided our time for the perfect moment, and then played that card like an UNO Draw Four Wild. Eric gave "Jo" twenty bucks to ask the DJ to play a song off the EP we made last summer, telling her that if the DJ didn't want to, that she could just give him another lapdance instead. So she did, and the DJ loved it, and Maunder got a lapdance to the tune of "Seven Seas." Naturally, we thought this was the most fantastic thing in the history of the universe, and I sent a confusing mass text message to a bunch of people who mostly replied with, "What are you talking about?" What was really cool, however, was that he went on to play two more of our songs free of charge and asked for more CDs to pass out whenever he played it at the club, which we did the next day during happy hour. Predictably, the parking lot was at 5:15 already filling up with trucks sporting rebel flags and Calvin-Peeing-On-Things stickers.
"Man, the creepy pervert factor is pretty high," I said.
"Yeah," said Eric, "and it's about to increase by two."
--The Robo-Pirate
Friday, July 28, 2006
A Partial Retraction: Ken Jennings is not an asshole. He has been downgraded to a tool.
Well, I actually bothered to read Ken Jennings's blog about Jeopardy. I concede the following points:
- It appears that he is not ungrateful to Jeopardy!, remarking that it is putting his kids through college. That sounds grateful enough, I suppose.
- His other blogs are kind of funny.
- His thesis, buried under lame cracks about the show being stuck in 1984 (a pretty good year, as I recall), is really that Americans are idiots.
He is still beneath my contempt for his disparaging remarks about Alex Trebek.
I will not be deleting the post below, nor will be changing my practice of "take umbrage first, fact-find later."
--The Robo-Pirate
p.s.
He is probably not a polygamist, as I only found references to one wife. He also no longer lives in Salt Lake City, but instead lives outside Seattle, which technically could be in Idaho, which has a pretty big Mormon population, relative to say, Mars.
p.p.s.
But not Tonga. Apparently there are lot of Tongans who get married wearing Holy Underwear.
Ken Jennings is a Fucking Asshole
My dear friend Billy sent me this thing, about Ken Jennings unfunnily ripping on Jeopardy and Alex Trebek.
In case you don't know who Ken Jennings is, he's the guy who won 74 straight games of Jeopardy! and walked away with two and-a-half million dollars. In a perfect example of biting the hand that fed you, he posted recently on his website a bunch of unfunny comments about Alex Trebek being a robot because he doesn't age and how the Jeopardy set is rarely updated.
Well you know what, Ken Jennings? Who fucking cares what the set looks like? It's a game show. Part of a game show's charm is its dated look, and frankly, I think it looks great. Furthermore, you are a software engineer, and as such, your ideas of what of an attractive visual aesthetic should be are automatically supsect. And then you attack Alex Trebek for appearing as if he has not aged? Clearly, you have not watched the show as consistently as the rest of us have. Though his journey through life has been graceful, Alex Trebek shows the wear of the years just like the rest of us do or will. His hair is considerably grayer than it was when I was a kid, but apart from shaving his mustache, I think he has remained a dapper and tasteful fixture of afternoon television. I will be very grateful to Jesus if I have held up so well by the time I am 66. And what's so bad about being a young-looking gameshow host anyway? Do you also find fault with Pat Sajak and Vanna White? Looking young comes with the territory. Hosting a gameshow is a ticket to eternal youth, as opposed to whatever nerds in Mormonsylvania like you do.
But why stop at affonting Alex Trebek's youthful handsomeness? You also mock the "effete, left-coast" categories. Well, Ken Jennings, the categories are geared to challenge contestants' mastery of intellectual traditions and disciplines, as well as their familiarity with pop culture. In other words, they seek to find an agreeable balance between the high brow and the middle. This is why its contestants come from a pool that includes everyone from professors to unemployed pony-tail guys who play video games all day. I will concede that "effete" might be an acceptible modifier on a technical level, but I do not think the show's categories carry the prissy elitism that your use of the word implies. As for your left coast-centric allegations, Jeopardy! has to plead guilty, seeing as how it is written and filmed in Burbank. On behalf of the show's producers and writers, I apologize that the questions and categories do not reflect the radiant culture regularly enjoyed by you and your wives in Salt Lake City.
I guess I just don't understand what motivated you to level such a fusillade at a game show that was nothing but fun and profitable for you. Though I commend you on your achievement, let's not forget that Jeopardy provided you with an opportunity to acquire a bunch of money without having to do a whole lot of work, apart from emptying your head of a lifetime's worth of accumulated trivia. It's not as if you founded a Fortune 500 company, invented jet packs or cured cancer. You merely stood behind a podium and pressed a button before anyone else did, which makes you little more than an insufferable, quick-drawing know-it-all. So fuck you, Ken Jennings. Alex Trebek has more character and likeability in 1/100 of his mustache follicles than you do in your entire body.
--The Robo-Pirate
In case you don't know who Ken Jennings is, he's the guy who won 74 straight games of Jeopardy! and walked away with two and-a-half million dollars. In a perfect example of biting the hand that fed you, he posted recently on his website a bunch of unfunny comments about Alex Trebek being a robot because he doesn't age and how the Jeopardy set is rarely updated.
Well you know what, Ken Jennings? Who fucking cares what the set looks like? It's a game show. Part of a game show's charm is its dated look, and frankly, I think it looks great. Furthermore, you are a software engineer, and as such, your ideas of what of an attractive visual aesthetic should be are automatically supsect. And then you attack Alex Trebek for appearing as if he has not aged? Clearly, you have not watched the show as consistently as the rest of us have. Though his journey through life has been graceful, Alex Trebek shows the wear of the years just like the rest of us do or will. His hair is considerably grayer than it was when I was a kid, but apart from shaving his mustache, I think he has remained a dapper and tasteful fixture of afternoon television. I will be very grateful to Jesus if I have held up so well by the time I am 66. And what's so bad about being a young-looking gameshow host anyway? Do you also find fault with Pat Sajak and Vanna White? Looking young comes with the territory. Hosting a gameshow is a ticket to eternal youth, as opposed to whatever nerds in Mormonsylvania like you do.
But why stop at affonting Alex Trebek's youthful handsomeness? You also mock the "effete, left-coast" categories. Well, Ken Jennings, the categories are geared to challenge contestants' mastery of intellectual traditions and disciplines, as well as their familiarity with pop culture. In other words, they seek to find an agreeable balance between the high brow and the middle. This is why its contestants come from a pool that includes everyone from professors to unemployed pony-tail guys who play video games all day. I will concede that "effete" might be an acceptible modifier on a technical level, but I do not think the show's categories carry the prissy elitism that your use of the word implies. As for your left coast-centric allegations, Jeopardy! has to plead guilty, seeing as how it is written and filmed in Burbank. On behalf of the show's producers and writers, I apologize that the questions and categories do not reflect the radiant culture regularly enjoyed by you and your wives in Salt Lake City.
I guess I just don't understand what motivated you to level such a fusillade at a game show that was nothing but fun and profitable for you. Though I commend you on your achievement, let's not forget that Jeopardy provided you with an opportunity to acquire a bunch of money without having to do a whole lot of work, apart from emptying your head of a lifetime's worth of accumulated trivia. It's not as if you founded a Fortune 500 company, invented jet packs or cured cancer. You merely stood behind a podium and pressed a button before anyone else did, which makes you little more than an insufferable, quick-drawing know-it-all. So fuck you, Ken Jennings. Alex Trebek has more character and likeability in 1/100 of his mustache follicles than you do in your entire body.
--The Robo-Pirate
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Spider-Vac
LOOK AT THIS THING!
Pretty sweet way to get rid of bugs, though I have a few suggestions for improvement. It needs a longer tube, say, maybe ten feet longer, and possibly someone else to operate it for you. Also, the little chamber in which the bug gets trapped is missing a couple whirling blades. It also needs a reverse-suction function to blow the chopped-up bug pieces out the patio slider. Basically, what I really want is a combination vacuum, food processor and blow dryer. Someone needs to get on that.
--The Robo-Pirate
Pretty sweet way to get rid of bugs, though I have a few suggestions for improvement. It needs a longer tube, say, maybe ten feet longer, and possibly someone else to operate it for you. Also, the little chamber in which the bug gets trapped is missing a couple whirling blades. It also needs a reverse-suction function to blow the chopped-up bug pieces out the patio slider. Basically, what I really want is a combination vacuum, food processor and blow dryer. Someone needs to get on that.
--The Robo-Pirate
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
In Place of Dying, or How I Came to Loathe Phrasecore
From a local band's MySpace page:
"In Silence And Shadows was formed in the extinguished flames of die in plain sight.*"
Honestly, In Silence And Shadows, don't you think a better and more literally descriptive name might be Born in Ashes?** It would make a lot of sense, and In Silence And Shadows has two S-sounds in it, which don't sound really great when made into a microphone. Plus, if your name has some kind of personal significance to it, it will make all the nights spent practicing hammer-ons and screaming in the garage seem all the more awesome.
Here's what I would like to see. I'd like to see a high school metalcore band whose name is comprised of a maxium of three words, none of which form a prepositional phrase. If this naming convention doesn't peter out soon, we are going to have to subdivide the metalcore subgenre even further, classifying bands of that particular stripe as Prepositional Phrase Metal or more simply as Phrasecore.*** And as an aside, is it a rule that because you play some variant of metal, you have to have a name that indicates what type of band you are? For instance, I would be much more likely to check out a band called LaserPeen (who wouldn't!) than a band called Whispers in the Grave or some other similarly ridiculous prepositional seriousness. And then, when I discovered that LaserPeen played metal, I'd be that much more pleasantly surprised.
I'm just saying is all.
--The Robo-Pirate
*I don't know who is responsible for extinguishing the flames of gravely humorless teenage metal bands, but I need their mailing address so I can send my charitable donation.
**Patent Pending. That's my metasitional phrase so don't you touch it.
***I'm claiming coinage.
"In Silence And Shadows was formed in the extinguished flames of die in plain sight.*"
Honestly, In Silence And Shadows, don't you think a better and more literally descriptive name might be Born in Ashes?** It would make a lot of sense, and In Silence And Shadows has two S-sounds in it, which don't sound really great when made into a microphone. Plus, if your name has some kind of personal significance to it, it will make all the nights spent practicing hammer-ons and screaming in the garage seem all the more awesome.
Here's what I would like to see. I'd like to see a high school metalcore band whose name is comprised of a maxium of three words, none of which form a prepositional phrase. If this naming convention doesn't peter out soon, we are going to have to subdivide the metalcore subgenre even further, classifying bands of that particular stripe as Prepositional Phrase Metal or more simply as Phrasecore.*** And as an aside, is it a rule that because you play some variant of metal, you have to have a name that indicates what type of band you are? For instance, I would be much more likely to check out a band called LaserPeen (who wouldn't!) than a band called Whispers in the Grave or some other similarly ridiculous prepositional seriousness. And then, when I discovered that LaserPeen played metal, I'd be that much more pleasantly surprised.
I'm just saying is all.
--The Robo-Pirate
*I don't know who is responsible for extinguishing the flames of gravely humorless teenage metal bands, but I need their mailing address so I can send my charitable donation.
**Patent Pending. That's my metasitional phrase so don't you touch it.
***I'm claiming coinage.
Friday, July 14, 2006
The Punisher Cure Journal
Dear Every Cure Fan,
Back in 1993, I had this girlfriend named Denise who really, really liked the Cure. She wasn't like the rest of you, what with the eyeliner and romantic misery and all, on account of being sunny and bubbly, but she really, really, really liked the Cure, the way a burning man really, really really likes to get doused by a bucket of water. It took a while for me to come around, in part because I spent much of that year surreptiously listening to Master of Puppets (mostly while mowing the lawn), but I did eventually, but not without forming certain, um, opinions about the sort of person who would rigorously defend the dubious merits of Mixed Up.
Anyway, the point is that you guys created a certain stereotype for me, and part of that stereotype includes softly playing Disintegration while leafing through Sandman comics on rainy Sunday afternoons. Well guess what? Judging by this picture, your beloved lipstick-wearing crybaby likes the same comic as all those brainless athletic chumps who drove you in a frantic sprint from the end of sixth period to the synth-pop sanctuary of your bedroom.
Now, I like Fat Bob well enough, but if he really is a Punisher fan, I like him a whole lot more.
--The Robo-Pirate
Back in 1993, I had this girlfriend named Denise who really, really liked the Cure. She wasn't like the rest of you, what with the eyeliner and romantic misery and all, on account of being sunny and bubbly, but she really, really, really liked the Cure, the way a burning man really, really really likes to get doused by a bucket of water. It took a while for me to come around, in part because I spent much of that year surreptiously listening to Master of Puppets (mostly while mowing the lawn), but I did eventually, but not without forming certain, um, opinions about the sort of person who would rigorously defend the dubious merits of Mixed Up.
Anyway, the point is that you guys created a certain stereotype for me, and part of that stereotype includes softly playing Disintegration while leafing through Sandman comics on rainy Sunday afternoons. Well guess what? Judging by this picture, your beloved lipstick-wearing crybaby likes the same comic as all those brainless athletic chumps who drove you in a frantic sprint from the end of sixth period to the synth-pop sanctuary of your bedroom.
Now, I like Fat Bob well enough, but if he really is a Punisher fan, I like him a whole lot more.
--The Robo-Pirate
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Yesterday's News
On Sunday, Darth Vato won Best Live Band in the FW Weekly's annual music awards, showing that all of our drunken idiocy (which includes, but is not limited to, nut-punching, rib-kicking, pants-losing, mic-farting, beer-spitting and tired-joke-telling) has not gone to waste.
--The Robo-Pirate
--The Robo-Pirate
Monday, July 10, 2006
Hamstrung, Hobbled, Hidebound, Hindered
The internet is slow. For my job, having to do work with a lethargic server is analogous to hauling logs cross-country in an 18-wheeler with ten flats.
I want to go home.
--The Robo-Pirate
I want to go home.
--The Robo-Pirate
Friday, July 07, 2006
An Apology
Dear Friends in my Office Who Sit in the Same Room as I Do,
I want to apologize to you guys right now for getting Fartaburger for lunch. I know, I know--it's not like I don't know what will happen, but every time I contemplate getting into the drive-thru queue, I think, "Maybe this time will be different. Maybe this time I can enjoy a delicious hamburger with bacon, cheese and grilled onions and not experience massive seismic activity in my lower intestine." Of course, those maybes pour the foundation of wholly unrealistic hopes. I hear alcoholics use this reasoning as part of their denial, that maybe they can have a scotch or two and not drink their way into having blacked-out sex with someone's pill-billied grandmother, and that realizing the fallacy of this logic is a step towards sobriety.
Well, I'm not addicted to Whataburger; in fact, I don't even like it that much, but sometimes it just sounds irresistable. I just want you guys to know that I'm sorry. I know better, and I'll be sure to remember this letter the next time I cruise by that soaring orange W. Hopefully, I will keep cruising. Also know that as I spend the rest of the afternoon blasting away, I will do my utmost to spare you all the noxious fallout and drill them into my chair.
Your Friend,
--The Robo-Pirate
I want to apologize to you guys right now for getting Fartaburger for lunch. I know, I know--it's not like I don't know what will happen, but every time I contemplate getting into the drive-thru queue, I think, "Maybe this time will be different. Maybe this time I can enjoy a delicious hamburger with bacon, cheese and grilled onions and not experience massive seismic activity in my lower intestine." Of course, those maybes pour the foundation of wholly unrealistic hopes. I hear alcoholics use this reasoning as part of their denial, that maybe they can have a scotch or two and not drink their way into having blacked-out sex with someone's pill-billied grandmother, and that realizing the fallacy of this logic is a step towards sobriety.
Well, I'm not addicted to Whataburger; in fact, I don't even like it that much, but sometimes it just sounds irresistable. I just want you guys to know that I'm sorry. I know better, and I'll be sure to remember this letter the next time I cruise by that soaring orange W. Hopefully, I will keep cruising. Also know that as I spend the rest of the afternoon blasting away, I will do my utmost to spare you all the noxious fallout and drill them into my chair.
Your Friend,
--The Robo-Pirate
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Oblivion Update #2 (No new girls, just new spells)
Actually, that's a lie. Morricone doesn't have any new spells. He did, however, recently acquire the Battle Axe of Embers and the Longsword of Shocking, and they both contributed to his recent successes in the Imperial City Arena in a really big way. He's now the champion and is on his way to buying a little shack of his own down at the waterfront. As for me, I am still a huge nerd.
--The Robo-Pirate
--The Robo-Pirate
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