Opinion: Fuck you, poli-bloggers!

[Note: I know this is a break from the regular format.  Please let me know what you think, but I will return to my more fun self soon, I promise.  Either that or I'll be bitter the rest of my fucking life... time will tell.]

I knew it was going to happen, and now I feel like I must voice my opinion on something.  Like the old man with a newly installed penis pump said to the call girl, "Better fucking stand back, I'm not sure how big this thing will get!"

Punditry must be smothered swiftly in its sleep.  More specifically, FOX News, MSNBC and any other "news" station that litters their air waves with intolerance.  I'm not going to play sides here, as I think they've both been playing far too much in recent years.

You see, I come from a background in actual journalism, not this piss-water yellow "journalism" and hate speech uttered by both the left and the right.  And, yes, I have issues.

It's true that the reporter's job is to cover events from a non-partisan point of view.  And it's an anchor's job to put these stories in some sort of context that everyone can grasp.  But it is not and should not be to play both instigator and referee to two douche bags fighting on national television.

Fuck that.  I'm done.

Maybe it's just that I love the art broadcasting, intellectual insight and proactive discussions on issues that affect people.  And, it is a fucking art.  You can have your paint brushes, and I'll take my laptop and let's see who can make a bigger impact.  Just as I said to the art hippies in college, "Get the fuck outta my way!"

Of course, I was severely hung over at the time and was about to spew chunks all over them if they didn't move.  But they didn't know that.

See?  It's about context.

I often wonder about what some of the great broadcasters would think of the current state of cable news programs.  Murrow, Sevareid, even Rather, Brocaw and Jennings -- you know, NEWS guys -- might think these stations have stepped over the edge into a swirling black hole of anti-news.

The stupid thing is, no one is trying to deny it.  Everyone knows it's mind-numbing pablum meant to entertain and not necessarily inform.  But I thought that's why The Daily Show was created!

Unfortunately, this type of irresponsibility on top of technological innovation has given birth to other forms of severely skewed intolerance and hate speech.  Political blogging (the poli-blog) has become easy for many... maybe a little too easy.

There are the big blogs like TPM, Huffington Post, The Drudge Report.  They spew their own garbage, but at least you know exactly where they're coming from and they don't try to make their news into something that resembles a traffic accident on the freeway.  

But many of these folks just maintain their own little blogs kind of like mine, only more politically based.  Small, unassuming, with a cute title of some sort.  You gotta admit Pat@Play is at least marginally cute, right?

They spew out their vile opinions like Detroit spitting out cars no one wants to buy.  The big difference between the little guys and the big guys is that the majority of little guys don't have a background in journalism, writing, or politics.  And many of them so obviously get their news from... cable "news" outlets.

It's not the views I mind, necessarily.  Hell, if you want to start an argument that's cool by me.  Tell me your reasons why midget porn should be in every classroom -- but make it fucking GOOD.  A couple of witless paragraphs using outdated sources and a damaged frontal lobe will not be good enough!

Fuck you, idiot poli-bloggers!  Fuck you for wasting my time.  Fuck you for wasting any effort I've spent reading your shitty articles, responding to your inane buffoonery in hopes that I might see even an ounce of brilliance in your dull, dull brain.

But, in the end, I know it's not really your fault.  You thought it would be fun and easy to keep a regular post about political issues.  I mean, sure you don't have any particular skills or knowledge at doing such... you just wanted in on the conversation.

A word of advice to all you inexperienced journalism hacks out there.  Learn how to think critically.  Learn how to structure an argument.  Learn the fucking English language.  Know the difference between there, their and they're... or personnel vs. personal.  Know a fucking adverb from an adjective.

Either that, or at least learn to be funny.  Fuck.

Blogger's Blog: The blogoblog...

Don't worry, I haven't run out of stuff to write about, but I decided to give my stories about pain a rest for a little while in order to freshen up my brain. This really is more of a reset for me, as getting stuck in any kind of a rut, even a relatively good one, is still a fucking rut.

So I went to this stupid website that a managed to stumble on called plinky. It's pretty lame from a social networking viewpoint. However, it does supply a bunch of insipid and flavorless stuff to keep your mind busy. I thought I might answer a couple of these prompts in my own style... we'll see where this leads.

Probably straight to hell.

Plinky says: What are the warning signs that you should leave a party?

I say: Plinky, why the fuck do you wanna know? What are ya, a cop or something? I'm not that drunk, you lazy bastard. You wanna fight about it?

That's when the wife pulls me out of the party.

Actually, I'm a laid back drunk. Oh sure, I'll spill stuff all over myself and slur my words. But I'm the funny drunk. You know, the one with the bright red nose with little bubbles coming out of his mouth that say "hic!"

If there's a party, I'm staying till I drive everyone else away.  Unless the wife pulls me out.  Nothing I can do about that one!

Plink-o says: Animal face off! Who would win in a fight between a gorilla and a pack of hyenas?

I say: That's a false fucking choice. Everyone knows what the most feared creature is in the entire universe. And it's a helluva lot scarier than that little alien mouth that was inside that big alien mouth in Alien.

First of all, where would this supposed fight take place, and how would it start? I mean this is just pure and utter nonsense, as they both live in separate climates, and gorillas would (or at least could) go into the trees and never even be seen by this pack of hyenas. It's barely plausible. Fuck you, Plinky.

But let's just say, for the argument, that some kind of large ape got launched into the hyena paddock at the zoo or some such shit. No trees or anything to climb on, and these hyenas haven't been fed in a week or two. The battle begins. Of course, their motives are completely different, as one wants to escape and the other wants fresh meat.  So again, the argument is completely fucked up.

So they start fighting. The gorilla would probably start it off by beating the ground with his fists. And when one of those little fuckers comes in for a nip, this gorilla would pick it up and launch it toward the others.

After that, the hyenas would probably leave the ol' gorilla alone, don't you think?

That's when a bear holding a shark would come in, killing and eating everything in site. Man, nothing gives me nightmares more than bears holding sharks. They're wicked killers on land AND water.

Plunky says: What three songs do you wish you could erase from your memory?

I say: Fuck. Only three? C'mon... I worked in radio for fuck's sake!!!

The first one I would erase is Neil Diamond's "Sweet Caroline." You can get the whole fucking story about that one here.

Fuck you, Neil.  I have a life to live.

The next one would have to be "Red Rubber Ball," a hit from 1966 by The Cyrkle.  First, the band name is the shittiest one in the history of all band names, with the except of the band I was in during high school, Tosti Drexfab.  I still to this day don't know why we called ourselves that.  It was 1990... things were way more fucked up then.  At least for me they were.

The second reason to eliminate this song comes from when I worked at an Oldies station, and that song managed to lodge itself in my brain for four fucking days.  Have you ever had a shitty song stuck in your head for that long?  Here's how I tried to get it out of my head.

I listened to the radio constantly (but that was part of my fucking job, of course) trying to shut it out.  I'd get away from the speakers, and that sickeningly sweet melody would pop right back in my head.  I tried reading, writing, anything and everything to occupy my brain.  But as soon as my mind was remotely clear, that beat would bounce right back.  It was a boomerang song... the harder I tried to throw it away, the quicker it came back to me.  

Fuck you, Paul Simon, for writing that piece of shit.

Third song to eliminate from the anals of history (yes, I misspelled it on purpose... fuck you, spell check!), isn't really a song.  It's a group of songs.  Bubblegum pop has got to go.  From all eras.  There is nothing more sickening to my soul than everything in that group from The Turtles to the fucking Jo-Bros.  

I'm sorry, but "Henry the Eighth" is not a song, it's a musical witticism that's repeated so much that I wanted to actually strangle Peter Noone when I met him in 1998.  He's a nice guy, but his song is pure evil.  

And, do you really care what it's going to be like in the year 3000?  You'll be dead!  Stop it already guys, and take off those stupid fucking rings.  Oh sorry, the stupid no-we're-not-fucking rings.  You're confusing and sad.

Plucky says:  What will you do when the zombies come?

I say:  Now this question I take as theological, really.  According to the New Testament, we already had one zombie uprising on an Easter long ago.  I'm not sure how they shot him in the head, as gunpowder really wasn't used much, but nonetheless it happened.  Amen.

And when the great and powerful Zombie Jesus escaped from the cave, he thus spoketh, "Brains" in slurred speech.  God smote him right there and then, putting him at his right side so he could keep an eye on the fucker.  I think that's a quote from the Book of Revelation, though I may be wrong.

I'm not a strong reader.

And still a lot of folks celebrate the zombie uprising that took place some 2000 or so years ago.

When the zombie uprising of 2027 happens, I'm going to be ready.  I've already got tons of sharp implements at my home.  Chainsaw, axes, knives, CDs.  Hell, I'd probably chuck all the CD's at 'em first since they're really only backup if my hard drive kicks out on me.

I could also sharpen up one of my guitars if needed.  But really, that would be a last resort, as it may effect the sound... and who wants a funny sounding guitar?

But this brings up a point, people.  Really, you should consider being cremated, unless you want to participate in the next zombie uprising.  I've already made that decision... as I've said before, I'm not a fighter.  I'd be dead one second, living dead the next, and then re-dead about a minute later after some random nerd pummels me into the ground with a stack of books or something.  That's just spending way too much energy just for a moment of reanimation.  It's silly.

Speaking of silly... so is this post.  But when asked ridiculous questions, I have a tendency to respond in kind.  So, again, I say fuck you, Plinky.  May you rot in hell.

Health Care: Life at da club...

Another week, another beat down.  But this time I found it difficult to walk out of da club, and was considering my options.

My problem wasn't that I wanted the exercise to stop, but rather that I actually found it difficult to maintain a standing or walking position.  My balance was shot and my muscles burned deeply.

I arrived a little early so that I could jump on an elliptical or a bike for a few minutes to warm up.  The wife had decided not to come, as she was planning on dusting off her Jane Fonda-ish workout video and giving it yet another shot.

"But who's going to drive me home?" I begged.

She then reminded me that I did have a cell phone, and that we only lived minutes from da club.  Bitch.  Pain is much easier to deal with when you have someone to whine to immediately after the experience.  Doesn't she fucking know that?

I saw Danny when I was all ready to go, and he passed me off to Brendan.  I knew it was going to happen sooner or later.

There are two kinds of employees down at the trainers' desk.  There are the black shirts and the blue shirts.  It's kind of like Star Trek in that way.  If you try to think of everything in terms of Star Trek, life does become a little easier.

Until you try to explain it to normal people.  Then it's kind of... weird.

The black shirts are the leads.  They sell the "all the pain you can take and more" packages, start the training so they can analyze your needs and your style to find the right blue shirt for you.

The blue shirts are the trainers.  Generally speaking, they don't have as much personality and are not nearly as fun as the social butterflies that are known as the black shirts.  And of course I'm taking that from my vast knowledge of blue shirts I've talked to.  Two.

When this had all clicked in my brain, I realized something.  And in the Star Trek context, it's perhaps the worst thing ever.  I was wearing a red shirt, and this is technically an away mission.

Fuck me running.

My new blue shirt friend is a professional Martial Arts fighter, and has been for 9 years.  He looks like he's barely old enough to drink and weighed roughly 8 lbs, 4 oz., but what the fuck do I know about that?

The only real "fight" I was in lasted for about a tenth of a second.  However, the teasing afterward went on for about a week.

I was in high school.  One of my football teammates (you know the one... the asshole of the team), started talking to me and my actual friends on a Saturday night at the local hang out.  I was drunk, because hey... it was Saturday night and I wanted to get a jump start on training for college and beyond.

He gave me shit for it since we were only 16, and I told him to go to hell (I think).  He pushed me, and my head hit the wall of a building and I was done.  

Yes, I cried.

Not a great story, I'll admit.  But when I see this guy at the 20 year reunion, I'll wait until he's drunk and then blindly try to punch him in the face, shrieking like a little bitch, "Who's the loser now, asshole?"  

But I'll be drunk too, so maybe I need to come up with a different plan.  I definitely need to get in better shape.  At least I've got a year to train for it.

"I'm not a professional fighter," I said to the blue shirt.  "I'm an amateur lover."  I'm so witty.

I don't know whether he just didn't get it or if he was ignoring me.

"Though I have been thinking of going pro."

Crickets.

This blue shirt had all the personality of an on duty cop.  What a hard ass.

So the blue shirt beat me down like only a redshirt knows how to take... and I think that would be a great title for a country song, at least in the Star Trek realm.  And at Sci Fi Conventions.  Whether you call them Trekkies or Trekkers or Trekkors, they're still fucking geeks, and they just eat up shit like that.

Taking a cue from last week's beating, I decided to go to the strongest part of my body, my legs.

As a side note, during my evaluation, Danny (the black shirt) was surprised by my leg strength.  I did a max of about 330 lbs. on the leg press.  However, I think he was also equally confused by my lack of arm strength.  So maybe it all evens out in the end.

I've always had solid legs.  I get that trait from my dad's side of the family, who are mostly all "sturdy" folk.  Let's just put it this way... none of them are wearing skinny jeans, even the skinny ones.  

I tried on skinny jeans once (when I was skinny) and felt like I was going to burst out of them like the fucking Hulk, only I would have been the Incredible Albino Hulk -- or the Great White Hulk, which I think sounds a little more ominous.

Though, does the name really matter if you can't fight and are prone to cry easily and often?  Might as well be the Great White Hulking Mass of Grown Up Baby.

The blue shirt took me around the gym, beating my legs senselessly.  Or maybe it was sensefully, as it was with purpose.  

Either way, it still fucking hurt.

It was kind of a blur.  I remember lots of different modified lunge positions, a large step, squats, leg curls and more lunges.  Of course, all were done in combination with each other, multiplying the pain factor by 10 to the sixth power.

We finished it all off with a tough but fairly light core workout on the mat, and we were done.  I was breathing heavily, my red shirt drenched in sweat, but didn't feel nearly as shitty as the week before.

Then I tried to get up.

Then I thought about what it would be like to just stay there until I could stand.  

Then I thought about staying the night.

I figured that I could sleep on the mats, though I'd probably need a blanket or a fire... or a different fucking shirt that wasn't completely fucking drenched.  I looked like I had just been in a water park with a half-day pass.

Considering I was a redshirt, I knew that if I stayed I was doomed for sure.  I'd get eaten by an invisible creature or get a laser beam to my brain.  Either that or one of the gym's numerous cougar population would surely devour me, most likely out of sheer desperation.  

Especially the mother of all cougars.  The wife and I can't help but notice her in da club every single time we go.  She prowls around, always in a different tight outfit to show off the hardened muscles under her leathery, over tanned skin.  That, combined with her bleach blonde hair and the creepy vibe she throws off (kind of a cross between a realtor and an axe murderer, or Suze Orman), she has come to be one of the ones to watch (out for) at da club.

And, like the wild cats in the fucking zoo, she has a particular route she always takes in her lair.  She walks from the classroom, winding around through the machines to the main aisle so she can get a look in the free weights section, bounding up the stairs to scope out the ellipticals and bikes before grabbing one of the treadmills.  Then she'll hop off the treadmill and head back down the steps to stop at the basketball court, walk past the racquetball courts (especially during the weekly tourneys) and walk back to the classroom.

I'm never sure if she's looking to find a free machine or if she's looking at the people.  Though I usually feel violated in some way when she breezes past me.  

But if I remained on the mat, I don't think she'd be able to resist a helpless, brightly colored animal.  And I don't think my wimpy arms or terrible fighting skills would help any.  I had to get up.  

So I pushed off and wobbled up on my feet like a fucking newborn foal.  I then proceeded back to the trainers' desk, walking like I just had my first colonoscopy (or a really shocking time at a roadside rest area).

I thanked my blue shirt for kicking my ass without killing me and scheduled my next beating.  I can already tell this is going to be... fun.  Riiiiiiight.