It’s the triumphant return of Movie Sequel Monday! I am cheating a little this time because the movie I am writing is pretty much in the works already. Since the previous installment was only marginally more entertaining than Charlie’s Angels: Full Throttle Charlie’s Angels, there is some room for improvement. That’s where I come in. Being someone who has seen his fair share of movies, I’m obviously better qualified to write the box office sensation of 2010; Mission Impossible 4.
In honour of the upcoming baseball season, I think it’s time to explain "The Speed of Beer". This term is pretty much the key to enjoying the classic summer past time. Really, most people cannot stand to watch baseball because it is painfully slow. I’m pretty sure you could apply three coats of paint to your house waiting for the pitcher to stop scratching his nuts and throw the ball. Boredom is the number two killer of entertainment (Carrot Top being number one), and an entertainment free night is never a good night.
This is where relativity comes into play. Science has fancy schmancy explanations about how speed can be interpreted differently depending on the observer. The secret to enjoying baseball is changing your frame of reference. Baseball moves at the speed of beer; which is defined as the speed of events that can be absorbed whilst under the influence of alcohol. Slowing yourself down not only makes baseball tolerable, it actually makes it fun to watch because you can actually follow everything that is happening.
Relative speeds of stuff
Now, if you happen to be an elderly dog with leprosy, then you’ll need to speed yourself up. I recommend rat poison for that.
It’s amazing the insight you can get into people from mundane, every day objects. Whether you subscribe to Hinduism, are crazy awesome, are tripping on LSD, or are just really, really creepy (sorry, but you are), chances are you’ve felt some sort of connection to seemingly random objects. It could be a cherished childhood blanket, a favourite t-shirt, a prized nose booger (as opposed to prized booger from elsewhere, sicko), or even a pet rock. These simple connections are not always easy to explain; sure that blanket has memories attached, but so does that soiled pair of underwear you keep around but you don’t show that off do you?
Anyway, there’s a particular food that is very telling on a person’s character; doughnuts (donuts from now on because I don’t feel like typing the whole thing out). Why donuts? Donuts encompass a wide range of tastes, textures, and shapes, with each of these attributes shedding valuable insight into your soul. Before I can get into some specifics on donut to personality discussion, let’s look a little more in depth at donuts themselves. For starters, donuts come in all different shapes and sizes.
Figure 1: Donuts in different shapes and sizes
As my amazing diagram illustrates, donuts can be round with a hole, round with filling, round with a hole and sauce, a hole, round with a hole and sprinkles, and a giant turd, and so on. I could write an entire book on donuts, but I’m lazy and definitely don’t want to give that away for free, so my expert psycho-analysis will be limited to these 6 donuts.
Donut 1: Old fashioned plain
Contrary to popular belief, those who eat these are not dull, boring people. They live such rich and exciting lives that they don’t need their food to be exciting. They are, however, soulless ghouls lacking a true center.
Donut 2: Boston cream
Yeah, I know the filling isn’t supposed to be red… These people are the dull, boring people. Eating chocolate laced donut with creamy wholesome filling is way to safe in the donut realm. Heck, even apple fritter freaks have more pistachio than these folks.
Donut 3: Chocolate dip
You’d think these people would be like Boston creamers, only lamer but you’d be wrong. Thankfully, I’m here to set you straight. Chocolate dippers are the naughty schoolgirls of donuts. A safe exterior with a soulless streak of kinky. Buyer beware!
Donut 4: Shiny Timbit thing
You may have noticed the linking of donut centers to souls (although you probably didn’t because you are not all that swift). Timbit eaters are really just grown up children. They are still youthful and enthusiastic, full of idealistic dreams. That really shouldn’t be warming your heart, perv.
Donut 5: Sparkles
OH MY GOD!!!! SPARKLESS!!!!!11!!!
Donut 6: Turdling
It’s a piece of poo. Really. Anyone who eats these are desperate and will settle for anything. In other words, “Dear Diary: Jackpot!”
I hope this has been enlightening to you all (especially you dirty turd eaters). You’re probably curious what my favourite donut is, and you know what? I’m actually going to tell you. My favourite donut is the thing I get 99% of the time I go to donut shops; black coffee. Take that Freud.
I’m back! Not that I really went anywhere or that I was gone for a significant period of time. Of course it probably felt like a long time when all you have to do during the day is sit on Steveblog clicking the refresh button hoping for the next installment of the world’s best Steveblog, way better than that stupid Blogspot Steveblog.
I know all of my faithful readers are curious about the Mayfairathon, which was awesome by the way, but that recap will have to wait. Today I want to talk about the colour blue (or grey for you colour blind people). Blue is treated as the traditional “boy” colour. I can understand why girls get pink, but boys getting blue seems pretty arbitrary. It’s not like there is anything inately blue about boys, other than our faces when we choke each other to near death in the playground. Really, the boy colour should be green (grasstains and boogers), or brown (mudstains and dry boogers), or red (bloodstains and bloody boogers).
I know, who really cares about colours, it’s just a traditional. Well that’s what the commies said when they cornered the bread market on fourth and main, and you don’t want the commies to take over babies do you? Yeah, well your opinions don’t count, you kid hating monsters! Side note: you non-kid hating people also don’t matter, unless your name is Steve, in which case you deserve a high five, bro! We need to rise up and crush the blue movement before it’s too late. Down with smurfs! Burn them blue suede shoes! Don’t even eat those blue smarties! Actually, don’t eat Smarties period.
Personally, I dress my boy in burlap sack brown. I’d put him in a green sack but apparantly the burlap sack company is stuck in the 1800s. That and he’s not my favourite kid. It’s the responsibility of parents to choose favourites. I know most parents try to play up the equal love, but kids can see through that. Contrary to popular beliefs, kids aren’t that dumb. Just kidding, they are. Psych! But really, they are dumb. It’s not like I made up the saying “dumb as a kidknob”.
It’s not like I’m totally heartless. I didn’t make my kid walk home when his soccer team lost in the city finals. No I waited for him after the game, got him an ice cream, then drove him to the airport and shipped him back to his mother. Or at least an address that sounded like a place his mother would live, if she lived in Uganda. If he’s still alive, he’ll should now be a soccer player that I would be proud of. Live the dream, kiddo.
Now I know my fans come here to read my amazingly awesome stories about my exceptional life, but sometimes I feel that I should use my soapbox for the good of all. Usually I drown out these thoughts and go back to being awesome. This time however this particular case is so sad and so overlooked, I have to talk about it.
Everyone knows about the relatively sad (and somewhat creepy) plight of people with gender identity issues. You probably even know someone who had gender reassignment surgery. I even dated a girl who had the surgery. I can’t remember if the surgery was before or after, but the point is she was hot and was able to get me free McDonald’s burgers (she worked there).
The cause that I am trying to raise awareness for is for the poor souls who are trying to pick up the shattered pieces of their lives after a failed sex change. They’ve already alienated their family and friends for the promise of being able to feel comfortable in their own skin, only to have those hopes torn aware leaving them a strange genderless humanoid. You might ask “what can I do to help?”. I have no clue. I’m actually not sure these people exist and I can’t be bothered to do an internet search to find out. Really I’m just taking a page from Bono’s book and say awareness is all I need to do. Now that you’re aware, I can go back to wiping my ass with golden toilet paper.
Success is a difficult thing to measure. Hitting a home run in a Major League ballpark would be an amazing accomplishment for someone like you, but only hitting one would be a disappointment for some like A-Rod. This doesn’t mean that people like you can achieve successes, just that your successes are the common occurances for amazing people, like me. It’s for that reason the air hockey table at Local Heroes has bothered me for so long. I’m used to knocking pucks off the table with ease, however that specific table has shut me out for at least a half dozen games.
For most people, hitting the puck off the table is cool, random event. I, on the other hand, take more pride in knocking the puck off the table instead actually winning games. Winning is for people who have nothing better in their life, so I don’t mind letting them have their little victories. Plus it’s way more fun to have random parents yelling at you because you almost clobbered their little precious snowflake in the head for standing too close (ie in the same room).
Tonight was a different night. Maybe it had something to do with the lunar cycle or even the pressure change, but I was feeling especially confident. It turns out my confidence paid off because I totally made up for all of my previous failures. Not only did I knock the puck off the table a half dozen times, I also dented the wall. For those of you who have never been to Local Heroes, their walls are made out of sold concrete, so denting the wall is way impressive. Afterwords I bent lead pipes and lifted cars to entertain the crowd at the bar.
On a somewhat related note, this may be the first time I have mentioned anything remotely sports related. I had wanted to talk sports earlier, but its really hard to talk about sports without repeating something that a billion other obsessive people have already said. Still, my favourite three words are Steve, beer, and hockey, so I now feel much better having mentioned hockey. It may have been air hockey but it is still hockey, douchebag.
The plan is in motion for a six movie marathon at our favourite local theatre, the Mayfair. While this may qualify as the most amount of movies in shortest time period, it is definitely not my longest movie marathon. No, my longest marathon was only one movie longer, but it will probably feel much longer. Whereas the Mayfairathon consists of good theatrical releases with movies like Raiders of the Lost Ark, my longest marathon was mainly direct to video; the Children of the Corn series.
Yes, for some reason someone thought it was a good idea to make seven feature length movies from a Stephen King short story. If there’s any justice in the universe, an eighth will be in the works. I’m fairly vocal of my dislike of nearly everything Stephen King (at least horror wise), so this was an especially difficult marathon. It’s also high praise coming from me when I say that two of those movies were entertaining (1 and 3 if you’re curious).
I assume I had a point originally, but It’s completely lost now. So instead of a point, you will be getting my review of the plate of used utensils and leftover food wrapping that is lying on the table in front of me; The rose and chocolate colured smears are visually attractive, however the distinct lack of green smears leaves me wanting more. Also, It could have used a spoon instead of the redundant second fork.