Dog owners of Los Angeles, I appreciate your dog’s enthusiasm for pooping. I’m not asking you to curb your dog’s enthusiasm. I’m just asking you to curb your dog. You’re not taking care of business, and as a result this whole town smells like summery canine butt-hole. Savion Glover couldn’t tap dance around all this poop. That’s right, a tap dancing reference, and an outdated one at that. That should be enough to curb everyone’s enthusiasm.
There are dogs everywhere here. Three to every person. Do the math: That’s a population of 30 million dogs. And, contrary to census stats, they all be poopin’. Oh, be they poopin’. I haven’t seen this much doo-doo since the Taco Salad Incident of 2004. Have me tell you that story the next time you’re looking to induce so much vomit it comes out your eye sockets.
I’m starting to know things about the poop. Like C.S.I-type stuff. Not necessarily the breed that it came from, but occasionally I’ll look down at a pile and think to myself, “That poop came from a mean dog.” I’m differentiating between nice and mean doggy droppings.You’ve gotta eye-ball a lot of droppings before you can use it to complete a psych evaluation.
Probably I’m right when proclaiming a particular poop mean. Because there are a lot of mean dogs in this town. A LOT. In the 32 21 years I have been alive, two dogs have ever chased me. This doesn’t sound like such a lofty sum when expressed that way. But both of the dog chases came within two months of moving to Los Angeles. 31 20 years of never being hunted by a canine; of pleasant dog-chase-free living; then I become an Angelino and am immediately treated like fresh meat. THIS AIN’T PRISON, DOGS! YOU DON’T RAPE THE NEW GUY!
And you don’t make a poopy where he walks. But if your dog breaks this rule, owners, literally, pick that shit up. It may have come from your dog’s butt, but if it ends up on my shoe, YOU are the asshole responsible.
And I’ll be forced to let my shoe take a poopy on your butt. Eye for an eye, bitch.
Since we talkin’ doggies: In Charlie news, Charlie got fat! Don’t worry, though. We put him on this specialized doggy diet plan called “Did any one remember to feed Charlie?” so he should be back down to his fighting weight in no time. Which is good, because Charlie loves fighting.
Wanna see a picture of fat Charlie? Well you can’t, ’cause I don’t have one. And even if I did I wouldn’t show you. That would be extremely rude, and I pride myself on being only a tiny bit rude. Socially rude. It’s not like I’m a rude-a-holic. I never rude and drive. Exposing fat Charlie would be intervention-worthy rudeness. Charlie has feelings. He’s a human being. Oh wait, no he’s not. I guess I just won’t show you ’cause I don’t have one.
But seriously, take my word for it: Charlie is fat! And I don’t feel bad announcing that. He said the same thing about me on his blog.
It’s on, Charlie Dog. BLOG WAR!
My name is Ben and I blogged this.
SPOILER ALERT! LAST NIGHT’S LOST! IF YOU HAVEN’T SEEN IT, RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!
Lost season finale! What the F-U-Double Hockey Sticks. Wait. That spells full. What the H-E-C-K. Wait. That spells heck, which technically works, but really lacks the appropriate oomph. There are nuns in vows of silence who were cussing after that ending. As a foul-mouthed agnostic, I was cussing throughout. Sometimes at the screen. Sometimes at the God who may or may not exist. Sometimes at the ghosts of Libby and Charlie, who haunt me/watch Lost with me. There was one moment that was especially uncomfortable between us:
What? Why are you speaking in ghost voices again?
Weeeeeeee neeeeed toooo…
Seriously. Dude. That’s annoying.
Sorry. We need to warn you of something.
Can’t it wait until the commercial?
No. We need to tell you now.
Fine. But be quick. Hurley just got into the car with Jacob.
I don’t want to miss this.
Yes you do. Change the channel.
You need to change the channel now.
What? No way.
You really should change the channel.
What’s going to happen? Does this have to do with my destiny?
You guys are up to something. I think I’ll keep it right here.
Hey, you guys are still hanging out with Hurley? You told me
it was just me. I thought I was special.
You are special.
What the F-U-Double Hockey Sticks. Wait. That spells full.
You guys know what I mean.
Actually we don’t. You could mean either fuck or hell.
Either way. You guys are dick.
But hey, that’s for me and my ghost whisperer to work out. My ghost whisperer will be able to do nothing, however, about the image of John Locke’s man boobs perma-lodged in my brain.
Locke should know better than to go off on a perilous voyage without the support of an all-purpose brassiere. Poor Ben Linus can’t even look at him. Watching those titties bounce, I must’ve missed five minutes of dialogue. Thank God (maybe) for torrent downloads. In part because they allow me to replay missed scenes. And part because they allow me to screen grab and draw arrows on Locke’s man-humps.
Enough about excess estrogen. Back to the episode. I have no idea what happened in the episode. Do you want to talk about boobies again? No? Okay, let’s just sit here in silence.
I guess we could talk about “the fight.” I love how Lost waited so long to give us the uninterrupted Sawyer-Jack brawl that we lost all desire for it. I used to want Jack to kick Sawyer’s ass so badly. Then I wanted Sawyer to kick Jack’s ass even worse. Then Jack. Then Sawyer. I finally want them to hug like brothers and instead they fight like…brothers. This never would’ve happened with sisters. If it did it would’ve been way sexier. And I’d have a third reason to thank someone for torrent downloads.
All episode long Jack put the “M.D” in commando. Shooting, killing, fighting, bleeding, nuking, talking about his feelings. Y’know, Rambo shit. In general, the feelings were laid on a little thick. Jack and Kate. Sawyer and Juliette. Ben Linus’ emotional reveals. Miles calling Dr. Chang dad. Locke’s boobs (I had to sneak it in one more time). Save the tearful goodbyes for the end of summer camp. We watch Lost for jungle kidnappings and weird science.
Weird science there was a-plenty. Just not the weird science we had been studying in Lost class all semester. The 1977ers took two hours to do what we knew they intended to do last week, then as soon as it was completed, the show ended. To be continued. Meanwhile, the 2007ers set off on a mission to kill Jacob, a character introduced at the beginning of this episode, and succeeded. What? That storyline just began. They spent five months building a plot that ended in a cliffhanger, but felt confident introducing and murdering the island’s magnanimous supernatural presence over the course of 85 minutes?
I recognize that this “loophole” phenomenon is a taste of Season 6 medicine, it just felt a little hard to swallow in such a large dose so quickly. Jacob, this intangible spirit that rules the island, suddenly appears all Thom Yorke-looking and chillaxed, telling Oceanic peeps to be cool during all these awful moments. And then he is killed by simple knife-stabbing inside his home, a giant boot statue that someone escaped everyone’s gaze for the last forever. Oh, and not to mention there are two John Lockes, one of them is dead and other is a transplant reincarnate from the distant past.
Did you see all that coming? Short answer, no. Long answer, yes. Lost is like a murder mystery where the killer has not yet been introduced. Season 5, essentially, answered every question this show has ever raised. The Hatch, the Others, the Dharma Initiative. Who is Jacob? Who is Charles Widmore? Who is Dr. Chang? Then it revealed that all of this is not the actual story.
Our protagonists still might not know where they are. They might not even know when they are. But at some point along the course of realized destiny, I think they actually stopped being “lost.” We the viewers forever will be.
My name is Ben and this blog has no season finale.
Read carefully. This blog may save your life.
Beware this bag, y’all. Inside it lies the grossest chip of all time.
Diablo Enchilado. Translation: The Devil’s Angry Snatch.
Sure, that sinister, red-faced devil looks harmless. DON”T BE FOOLED. He wishes you much harm. He isn’t like those friendly demons who give you helpful advice like “Listen to more rock music,” or “Burn down your school.” He wants to steal your tongue’s virgin soul.
As best I can ascertain, the four main ingredients in Dorito’s Diablo Enchilado are artificial spicy, artificial sour, artificial gross, and crushed peyote.
Spicy and gross enter first, with sour and peyote lurking not far behind. By the time you realize the intrusion, sour has locked the mouth door and you are flavor trapped. You struggle at first, panic even. Then the peyote sets in.
The rest is, as they say, chipstory. The peyote made me write that.
Even Charlie won’t eat these things…and he eats dirty underpants!
Grossest thing ever. Like Octo-Mom, the snack chip.
My name is Ben and I blogged this, ate that, and regretted one of them.
Hey, yall. Remember Charlie?
Wish him a happy new year and tell him he’s a real swell guy.
Happy Thanksgiving everyone! I come to you on this day of family-oriented subtle racism with a bit of a pitch:
Tired of feeling tired after your Thanksgiving meal? Wish you had the energy to jump rope, or dance a jig, or stand up to pee?
This year, baste your turkey with cocaine. I tried it last year and I couldn’t be happier with the results. Within two-hours of my feast I had completed three years worth of online Christmas shopping and given every member of my family a haircut. Plus I had enough gas in the tank for three rounds of bare-knuckle boxing with Grandma.
You owe me a re-match this year, Grandma!
This year take out the fine china and pile it high with “fine china.” A birds-worth of nose candy guarantees to add a minimum of twenty minutes to your overly sincere and heartfelt dinnertime toast. After all, it’s important to tell everyone you’ve ever met that you love them.
Ever wish you could enjoy your Thanksgiving dinner while running a marathon? Cocaine says, “YES WE CAN!”
Forget deep fried turkey and turducken. You want to do something different this year, try Turcaine. Also known as Corkey.
Corkey Turcaine just might be my new nom de plume.
Here is a picture of my uncooked Thanksgiving turkey:
Charlie’s a delicious turkey!
To everyone who has read my blog, I give you thanks.
Cheers! Salut! L’chaim! Other words that mean “Toast!”
My name is Corkey Turcaine and I am thankful for this blog. You’re thankful for me too, blog? Thanks.