Watchmen Weekend.

Like many other fat guys with glasses, I went and saw Watchmen this weekend.  I also read Watchmen this weekend.  And after watching the movie, I read reviews of Watchmen this weekend.  After taking in as much Watchmen I could, my overall opinion is… I agree.

You see, random fat guys with glasses were arguing with other fat guys with glasses about many things this weekend.  “What to expect from Watchmen the movie.”  “What Watchmen the graphic novel (That’s nerdspeak for comicbook, to the layperson) really meant.” “Did the plan really succeed, or did Rorschach succeed?”  “Was Papa Smurf really neccessary?” “My wasn’t that a lot of gore for a comicbook movie?” “3 hours?  Seriously?”  These questions and more have teh internets tubs clogged.  And I agree with everyone.
Some people are saying they were disappointed.  Others loved the movie.  Others still have placed it on a pedestal.  Others want to scream out and cry foul.  I agree with all of them. The violence was unparralleled, gory, exhausting, entertaining, tiresome, unremarkable, uncharacteristic and exhilerating.  Dr. Manhattan’s full frontalness, the Nite Owl’s thrusting and Silk Spectre’s high beams were all completely gratitous, unneccessary, required, impressive, meaningful, stiff, ironic, satirical, grotesque, blasphemous and appalling.  I have never enjoyed such a boring masterpiece with so much action packed excitement it could put down a sick horse in my life. I couldn’t possibly be more disappointedly pleased that they were able to stray so close to the original source material.  
Three Apples Tall.
The fact that this movie has shocked, confused, amazed, bored, alienated, disgusted, disgruntled and entertained millions while nearly becoming a huge commercial success means it is exactly like the graphic novel.   And because the graphic novel is a textbook technical classic that is quite open to misinterpretation, that means that no one, and everyone, has the right, and wrong, opinion of it, and I agree with them.

Sucker.

So, Mel wanted to go to The Salvation Army (TSA) again tonight.  There was talk of a couch or something there.  I was very worried.  But we went anyway.  Fortunately for me, the couch was a much bigger piece of shit than she had remembered, and far worse than the one we have.  Score.  So I don’t have to move a couch.  With that ordeal wrapping up in my favour, I turned my attention to the kids shit… because as a Fat Guy With Glasses, I still have an unhealthy affinity for plastic molded in the forms of nerd icons and stuff from my childhood.

Turns out there was a C-3PO carrying case that said it was made in ’83.  It wasn’t busted all to fuck, and it was sitting in a bin at TSA, so I was doubtful.  But it was only 2 or 3 bucks or something, so I ended up getting it.  After some quick ebay and Google searches, it turns out it was actually from the mid 90s Star Wars revival.  So it’s not from my childhood at all. I feel duped.  
I know it’s my own fault, though.  There was a time when I could tell you exactly what a Darth Vader with a 2 3/4 inch lightsaber in a 3 3/4 lightsaber tray was worth, when it was produced and what the asian kid that slapped it together made for an hourly wage.  Now I’d have to think about which one was 4-LOM and which one was Zuckuss.  (4-LOM was a droid, so that should make recognition easier, I suppose.)
Pop Quiz! Who’s Who?
I’ve lost touch with my inner Fat Kid With Glasses He Never Wears ‘Cause He’s Still Trying To Fit In.   Sure, I still send him e-mails from time to time… but he’s on Facebook now, and it’s really awkward ’cause I don’t really need to know what his current status is every 3 seconds so I don’t do the whole Facebook thing.  And he’s all uptight about it because everyone’s on Facebook and I should just join Facebook already so we can keep in touch, and I’m all like, “Dude, seriously, back off with the Facebook, ok?” and now we don’t really connect as much as we should.  So I bought him this C-3PO thing and it’s not good enough and now he’s all like “I don’t even like Threepio, douche.”  It’s really annoying too, ’cause things were starting to get better since a few weeks ago I bought him this Spikor figure at this store he really likes for 3 bucks, but now I’ve gone and fucked it all up, I guess.   Way to go, man.  I should plug in the NES and smooth things over, but then he’d probably just bitch about having to give away his Atari again.  Fuckin’ ingrate.

Roof Racks.

Those racks on the top of bigger vehicles that are supposedly for hauling around canoes or skis or other stupid crazy active living garbage on the roof of their vehicle.  No one uses them.  Ever.  For anything.  But almost every large vehicle has them.  Why?  It’s exclusively to piss me off, I’m sure.

Why does it piss me off?  Snow.  The fucking things collect ice and snow like a fucking OCD penguin.

Satan’s Greatest Tool.

Look at the picture.  Just fucking look at it.  See that big square it makes an inch and a half above the roof, just waiting for some kind of ice/snow mixture to gather up inside it?  You can almost feel the cold wind blowing by as your arms tire from flipping from scraper end to brush end, each time getting no closer to having a snowless rooftop.  Along with rolling up the rim of Tim’s cups to “Essaie Encore SVP” and watching the pre-empted Canadian commercials of every televised Super Bowl, scraping off the roof a vehicle with these things is just one of the many forms of familiar eternal punishment awaiting all Canadians when we get to Hell.
And how fucking insane is that roof rack site?  Look at the links…  “News”, “Press Office”?  Is roof rack technology that fucking cutting edge that there’s news?   MODEL #36GBM5-78IOS NOW AVAILABLE IN TITANIUM GREY!  NEW VERSATRACK™ SYSTEM INCREASES STORAGE CAPACITY 22.7%.  I could just piss with excitement.

I Fucking Hate Commericals

I can’t fucking stand commercials. They’re all fucking stupid. Even the ones I like, I fucking hate, because they’re commercials. I’m sure there’s all sorts of ways that they benefit the world… increasing employment, getting out an important message, generally increasing economic growth…

See what I did there? I could have used “stimulating” rather than “increasing” there, but then I’d be an even bigger asshole than I already am. I’m so fucking sick of the word stimulate/stimulating/stimulus that I could scream. But that’s another post. I’m here to bitch about commercials.

As I said, I’m sure they’re great for all kinds of really important fucking reasons. But mostly, they drive me up the fucking wall. Last night was particularly bad for me. I was trying to watch what turned out to be a really shitastic episode of Heroes, when every 15 minutes or so, I got hit with a ton of my most hated commercials. At this moment, I’m mostly riled up about how terrible the gum commercials are… so that’s what I’m going to focus on.

Dentyne – Make Face Time

So this fucking thing is on all the fucking time.  I’ve seen this more of this fucking thing in the last few months than I have of snowflakes.  And I live in Eastern Canada.  I’ve seen a pile of fucking snowflakes.  This pile of dogshit is actually a shorter version of another commercial they made a few months back.  Shorter should be better and less annoying right?  Wrong.   At least in the longer version you didn’t have some fucking idiot read the text to us.  Oh, does that really say the original instant message?  If kids can’t read that they’re not fucking smart enough to buy your piece of shit gum.

And the message they’re conveying…  Oooh we’re so fucking hip.  We know technology has destroyed the way people think about social relationships.  A peck kiss is the original instant message.  Fuck you.  “Mmmlunh.”  That was the original instant message.  Two fucking cave assholes.  One was probably trying to sell the other one a sharpened stone for 2 round ones and a stick or some fucking thing.  A peck on the lips isn’t even a fucking message.  It sends one, sure.  But it is not, in itself, a message.  I’d like to film myself hitting whatever choda-licking douche came up with this one with a sledgehammer and edit in that pop they use for when their skull caves in and blood splurts out on the lens a little.
Also… fuck off with the hip indy style music.  I don’t give a shit how popular Lily Allen, Feist or any other neo-hippie, indy rock near-starlets are becoming.  Just because Belle & Sebastian are showing up on a shitton of Last.fm playlists in recent years doesn’t mean that the music sounds good.  Shoo sha sho shut the fuck up.
Trident Xtra Care – Thank You

This one… angers me beyond words.  When I watch it, I want to puke.  Creating this shit is what someone is using their graphic arts degree on.  They went to school for years to learn how to design and animate.  And this thing is what they’re using their hard earned skills for.

The idea is tired.  The use of computer animation is tired.  The making up of words  is tired.  Seriously, Recaldent?  Recaldent?  Holy shit, I need some of that.  I can almost feel the calcuim of my teeth regenerating at the look of the word.  I bet the janitor needed the Xtra big mop to clean the jizz off the marketing boardroom floor.
I long for these days :
Remember then? When catchy tunes and strong sexual overtones sold us gum instead of stupid fucking animations, an annoying voice and a ridiculous face?  That jingle was so successful in brainwashing me and my generation that when they made fun of it years later every one of us had a collective nostalgasm and bought some Juicy Fruit, even though the taste now lasted for only 30 seconds instead of 60.
Know how soon I’m going to buy some Trident Xtra Care?  Never.  Ever.  If Mel buys it, I’ll throw it out.  I would greatly appreciate it if they’d lick my Recaldent™.

Saving Daylight

So, this weekend, according to two or three of the calendars that I flipped over today anyway, is the start of Daylight Savings Time. Which means we’ll throw away another hour, to the benefit of no-one, for no real good reason.

A popular myth is that they started this crock of shit for the farmers, letting them have more daylight to work by or some shit. Except the fucking farmers have exactly the same amount of daylight to work with, whether we fuck around with our clocks or not. Just because we spin some little plastic shit a twelfth of a circle doesn’t mean a goddamn thing to the sun. It still rises and sets based on gravity and axises and our spinning and shit, just like always.

Whatever bullshit reason they had for starting this shit, the need has long passed. What exactly the fuck do they think we’re saving? “This way, it won’t get dark until 9! If it’s brighter for later in the day we won’t have our lights on,” That’s another steaming load I’ve heard people spout. Know what lights most North American rooms by 9pm? You’re fucking looking at it right now. TVs and Monitors. They’re the lamps of the 21st fucking century, and they’re not going to take any less juice in a bright evening than in a dark one.

And why the fuck does the summer daylight need saving, like it’s some starving kid in Africa? You know what daylight needs saving? Winter daylight. If we saved our fucking daylight in winter, it wouldn’t get dark at goddamn 4 o’clock. And apparently the evening is when we need to save our daylight, right? That’s the whole fucking point, isn’t it? So yeah, fuck it. I guess we do need to jump ahead an hour, in November… right about the fucking time we’re supposed to fall back. Fuck that shit.

Why haven’t we just altogether thrown that hour away yet? No one wants to keep changing their fucking clocks. Some studies… probably bullshit, like all studies, but still… some studies show that people drop from the stress of losing and/or gaining hours every year. We clearly don’t need the 4 months (That’s all that’s left. Four fucking months) of “Standard” time. Let it go. If anyone in charge of this shit is reading this, please, Spring forward this year, and don’t look back.