Episode of Stadbury - A Fist Awash in Flame

As the door creaks open and a swathe of light from the hallway cuts a path through the otherwise faintly moonlit room, neither of the soldiers sleeping in the beds on the room's opposing walls pays any mind: Their slumber is too heavy. Even when the door is pushed back into place, and the clicking of its settling tumblers sets the intruder’s heart into a wildly arrhythmic patter, the men do not stir.  

The diminutive Wilden holds his breath for a moment, half expecting the men to awaken the moment he exhales. Gradually he releases the air in a long, slow burst and when they remain in place, he sets to work, moving around the room as close to noiselessly as he can manage gathering as he does the weapons that are propped against the wall and stowing them under the beds of his new enemies. Once this small feat is accomplished he saunters up close to one of the beds and reaches under his robe removing a small sickle that had been strapped to his leg. "Unfortunate," he whispers, "That yet another life must be taken. Woe be to he whose allegiance falls on the wrong side of my own. Perhaps one day you'll be a footnote in the legend of Stadbury." Stadbury raises his sickle as a look of grim finality crosses his face and brings it down suddenly as the sound of cloth being sliced fills the room. 

Stadbury is blinking at the sickle now, which he notices, as he raises it is not dripping with blood. In the moonlight pouring through the window he makes sudden note of feathers floating around his head he hadn't seen before. He looks down at the man he'd attempted to kill and meets his eyes, very much alive. The pillow the man's head had been laying on however had recently been sliced and drained of filling. Stadbury connects the dots just in time for the man's fist to connect with his jaw. A solid hit for a man laying down, but the dwarfish Wilden sorcerer is not floored by this blow, unexpected though it was, his composure is quickly regained, and he leans forward and puts an open palm to the groggy man's gaping mouth. "Big mistake." he says through gritted teeth, "You can’t begin to understand the power with which you trifle.”  A burst of flame erupts from his flattened hand and into the man's mouth scorching his insides. The man gurgles in pain and goes limp, the sudden increase in his body temperature causes the sheets he is wrapped in to break into a smoky smolder.

“Well, what have we here?!” The other soldier calls across the room as Stadbury turns from his fresh kill to face him, “Why if it isn’t the littlest Tree-Fuck!” He had always considered the slur for his people (a forest dwelling “one with nature” type of folk) to be a bit uncreative, but it still managed to get on his nerves considerably. Add to that a jab at his height and it is more than Stadbury can manage to maintain his composure. Seething now, he rushes the other soldier and in preparation for another burst of fire, thrusts his open palm toward the soldier who is still quite nude from being freshly awoken. The soldier slaps the hand away with his left and delivers a fierce right-hook to Stadbury’s nose sending him reeling as his newly repositioned offense goes off; briefly illuminating the room before catching a bureau that manages to remain lit.

The room now lit, the man glares at Stadbury before speaking, “I recognize you. You’re one of those idiot “mercenaries” the captain hired to help the guard two days ago. What’re you up to?”

Stadbury climbs up from his position on the floor holding his now bloodied nose, “Training exercise, soldier! And you passed! As world-renowned soldiers of fortune, we were hired to whip this guard into shape. Now, I know our methods may seem a tad unorthodox, but—“

“Enough, Tree-Fuck!” the soldier barks, and Stadbury’s eye twitches a bit as he says it, “No ‘training exercise’ murders one of the participants in cold blood. Would you like me to beat you to death now, or would you rather extend your life by the length of your explanation?”

“Initially I hesitated to tell you, impudent little soldier,” Stadbury begins, part of him still seeking that magic combination of words that defuses the situation, or at the very least spares him another working-over, “because it would mean your death. But of course, then I realized, there isn’t an end to this conversation where you survive, so I’ll enlighten you as quickly as I can. We are mercenaries, this much is true, however we work for the Aldide Family, not for your joke of a captain. Thirty men have been signaled to attack this manor within the next five minutes, and my comrades and I have dispersed to do in the sleeping soldiers to even the odds a bit.”

“Why?” The soldier asks, not so much as blinking.

“We were hired to get what you are guarding. The artifact. The sword. Where is it? If you tell me now I might see you live as a cripple rather than take your life.” The soldier rushes now, aiming his punches downward so they won’t soar over the head of his foe. One blow misses but a second lands and Stadbury rolls backwards over himself landing, with agility that surprises even himself, in a squatting position on his feet. His thrusts his palm forward and lets fly with another burst of flame this one catching the soldier (already preparing to loose another flurry of blows) in the torso. The flames on the soldier catch immediately and the now flaming man shrieks in pain as the fire spreads up his torso and down his arms. Stadbury allows himself a moment of smug satisfaction before a flaming fist lands on the side of his face.

An incredulous Stadbury now gapes at his enemy, still screaming in agony, and must allow himself a moment to both relish the absurdity of his situation and begrudgingly acknowledge his respect for his opponent’s dedication to the fight. Another flaming fist finds its way to Stadbury’s bruised face and he realizes all at once that he can hear his heart thumping in his ears over all the screaming and bludgeoning going on. It occurs to him that he really ought to consider doing something. It occurs to him further that he really ought to lay off the fire.

Another fist to the face, another intelligible shriek of intense suffering. Stadbury rides this one backwards and uses it to make some distance between him and his assailant, distance which his addled mind correctly assumes would be advantageous. His back hits the wall and with nowhere else to go, he focuses his effort on swirling his hands. The soldier inhales and his lungs pop audibly as a luminescent orb appears in Starbury’s hands, filling the whole room with sickly greenish hue. He hurls it at the soldier and it splashes against him. The soldier mimes a scream, but is now incapable. His face melts away as the flames are extinguished and the flecks from the acidic orb land on the floor around him and eat through it. Gradually the floor around the dying soldier gives way and he falls through as Stadbury scooches back against the door to avoid the growing maw.

            Stadbury breathes a sigh of relief and lays his head against the door. The door swings open and knocks him on the back of the head. Agitated, he looks up, “Sorry Stadbury, did you get yours taken care—“ the slender dark-haired girl looks around the room and makes note of the burning bureau and the dripping hole in the center of the room. Her eyes finally land upon Stadbury’s own battered visage.

            “Mayfaire, you insult—“ he pauses momentarily to spit out a tooth, “You insult me, Mayfaire. Of course my two are taken care of! Am I not your glorious leader?! Are we not the Fellowship of Stadbury?!” He gestures grandly at nothing in particular.

            “Uh… Huh… Well, the others have their guards taken care of and we’ve actually managed to find someone who seems kind of important to take hostage. We think we might know where the sword is and the men are in the courtyard of the manor fighting their way in here right now. I uh… I hope you’ve still got enough left in you for a real fight.”

            “Of course, Mayfaire, of course. Naturally, the plan is going off without a hitch. Go on now, and I’ll catch up to you. I’ve got to finish some things in here.” Stadbury barely finishes the sentence before he collapses on the bed. Mayfaire leaves the room, shutting the door behind her and returning to her comrades.

            There remains much to do.

           

           

          

Vegeta Sucks

In the universe of Dragon Ball Z, a man’s value is not determined by how hard he can punch or how loudly he can yell, but instead by how loudly he can yell as he punches really hard. By the end of the original Dragon Ball series, protagonist Goku has yell-punched his way to the top of the Tenkaichi Budokai (roughly translated as “The Yellingist Puncher”) tournament ladder and has been formally recognized as the world’s foremost expert in yelling and punching, both separately and in conjunction.

When your protagonist has been officially recognized as the strongest person on the planet and your series is based on him fighting progressively more powerful foes, there’s really not much to do but bring in some space aliens. In steps Vegeta, the proud prince of a powerful galaxy conquering warrior race with his sights set on Earth. In his first appearance Vegeta handily wipes the floor with every character that isn’t Goku and even then only loses that fight due to bad luck and some assistance from Goku’s pussy friends. When the dust settles both men are battered and almost unable to move and Vegeta lies helpless, his fate in the hands of Krillin, perennial bitch of the Dragon Ball universe. Always one to recognize a pattern, Goku begs Krillin to allow Vegeta to live on the merit that given the nature of the series, they’d probably all end up friends anyway, something Krillin is incapable of forming an argument against.  Vegeta gets into his spaceship, flies off swearing vengeance on Goku and the audience collectively goes, “Oh, shit, this buster is gonna be trouble.”

I could write an entire entry on the characters in the Dragon Ball franchise who didn’t live up to their potential, but no one got it quite as bad as Vegeta. In the storyline immediately following the one in which he was the major threat to the heroes, he is surpassed in Punch-Yelling capacity by Goku and spends the rest of the series playing catch up. When he isn’t getting his face smashed into the geographically vague desert environment as an example of the power of whatever freaky-deaky space alien is lobbing fireballs at the earth this week, he’s relegated to the growing group of gaping losers that follow Goku around and offer insightful commentary like, “I’ve never felt this type of power!” Even his little victories are snatched away immediately, either by bad luck or his own hubris. When he appears to be able to go toe-to-toe with Frieza, Frieza simply transforms and bats him away like a fly while the ten-year old Gohan takes his place in the fight. Despite this bad history with transformation, in his battle against Cell where he clearly has the upper hand, Vegeta allows the monster to absorb the android it needs to complete its transformation and once again receives an all you can eat buffet of fireballs and fists. 

The Prince of all Saiyans

Vegeta receives arguably the most character development of anyone in the entire series, growing from brutal would-be world conqueror to over-bearing Tiger Mother. There is a case to be made that DBZ is more about him and his journey than that of its actual protagonist and for the entire run of the show he’s consistently one of the top three most powerful characters. Despite this, his crowning achievement after his first appearance is admitting that he is inferior to Goku and distracting the last bad guy by presenting his ass for a whooping long enough for Goku to save the day. 

-The Management

[Standard Comedy Entry]

I've been thinking lately that although my life is pretty full right now, something was missing. I did some soul-searching and finally figured out what it was, and what I needed to fill the void in my life, and, dear reader, do you know what I came up with? What the essential element missing from my life is? Perhaps even has been for as long as I have lived?

That's right! Tired stand-up comedy cliches!

I haven't been on a plane since August, and even then I didn't have the opportunity to sample the food, so my ability to comment on it's quality is decidedly less than satisfactory. In lieu of that, I've begun going to the gym (irregularly) so that I might work the "Unfit Person Tries to Get Fit" angle of hackneyed over-used jokes. You see, reader, it's part of my New Year's resolution to make this blog as trite and devoid of interesting subject matter as possible by any and all means short of simply not updating it at all for the entire year (and as much as I hate tooting my own horn (in public at the very least) I'd say I'm off to a rousing start.).

Watching Paint Dry: A more interesting (and also cliche) alternative to reading this entry. 

Yes, I've become the dumpy looking loser at the gym struggling to perform the incline press with 15 pound dumbbells; face twisted into an expression of pain and shame as my arms shake on the second repetition. As strange as it sounds, my quest to hate the person I see in my mirror every morning just a little less has brought me here, to a room filled with heavy things to lift into the air, surrounded by other men far better at lifting heavy things.

As any third-rate comedian could (and will) tell you, sticking to a new exercise regimen can be exceedingly difficult; there are literally a handful of things that can slow ones progress towards becoming the Adonis one knows they are inside. Things such as laziness, soreness, and general incompetence with the equipment are major roadblocks, but the one thing that gets me more than anything is that I haven't once seen a single other person there in the same "just getting started" physique as me.

Logically we have to assume that these people started somewhere. I mean, nobody jumps solo on their first sky-diving lesson, right? Walking into a gym, though, the lack of other flabby weak-ass bros gives you the impression that these other guys were made to lift heavy shit, like the doctor slapped these motherfuckers on the ass and then spotted them while they bench-pressed the placenta.

I'm going to tell you the laziness of the edit is part of the joke, and you're going to believe me.

The idea that they were probably just like me when they started out, though? I have to admit, that humanizes them a little bit for me. I think pretty much everyone has the same end-goal in mind when they start a work-out routine, though. It pretty much boils down to: Look better, feel better and intimidate the shit out of the newbies once you do. 

It's a three step program. 

-The Management

Peanut Panic

This is part of an article I pitched to Cracked (which they rejected) about board games. I might put more of it up here eventually.

Peanut Panic is a game about peanuts and the horrific trials they endure on a daily basis. The plight of the peanut is oft ignored, and only in the 1990’s did we finally attain the courage to stand up and say that something should—Nay, must be done.

In the form of a bright, primarily colored board game.

The thrilling narrative involves a group of peanuts attempting to escape from a peanut butter factory and being stopped at nearly every turn by the Big Brother like surveillance of the… Ugh… Nut Patrol.

The Peanuts are separated into teams of two based on the color of their shell. The racial commentary is obvious here, so I won’t waste time expanding upon it. The movement of your peanuts through the factory is dictated by a spinner in the center of the board. You move your peanuts (always moving the one furthest from the goal) to the closest space with of the color you landed on.

But woe be to the peanut whose spinner lands on the “push down” symbol. If this happens, the Nut Patrol car is brought to stuttering, horrific, mechanical life. It putters its way around the track lifting with its two scoops of terror any peanut hapless enough to have landed on an unsafe space. Once its dark ritual is complete, the Nut Patrol car returns to the start of the board, emptying the contents of its dump truck into the start where the peanuts, now devoid of hope begin their doomed journey anew.

Peanut Panic also serves (much like William Golding’s Lord of the Flies) as a handy reminder of the inherently sadistic nature of the human race. Every once in awhile the Nut Patrol care will fall off the tracks, but we, being the disgusting violence craving beings we are will right it every time, returning the stalwart nuts to their perpetual hell.

“I have seen the two-fisted scooper of death”

Being there are very few spaces on the board and being that there are even fewer safe spaces, a game of Peanut Panic can either be very short if the spins are lucky, or alternatively last as long as a typical game of Monopoly if they are not, which, at rough estimation, is eternity.

And Good Will Toward Men

Because someone had to do it, I was stuck working the grave-yard shift in the Gas N' Go on the corner of West and Third on Christmas Eve this year. My boss had appealed to me desperately. He didn't offer holiday pay. He didn't offer over-time. But he did threaten my job, which was encouraging to say the least.

So it went, on December 25th at 2:30 AM, rather than being asleep at home, visions of Sugar Plums dancing in my head, I was standing behind a cash register slinging cigarettes and hard liquor to what I have to assume were the less than reputable inhabitants of Mansville, Alabama.

Mansville is not the sort of place that I belong. I think the fact that someone could waltz into an area, establish a town named, "Mansville" and have no one raise an eye-brow at that for two-hundred years sums up the general population of this quaint little community better than I ever could given the limits of the English language, so I'll just allow that to speak for itself. That said, deservedly or otherwise, I do have quite a high opinion of myself when compared to the other residents of the town. I mean, I'm no Shakespeare, I'm no Einstein, but I'll say this: The fact that I'm working in a gas station at the age of twenty five is a god-damned crime.

The bell on the door jingled, rousing me from thoughts. I looked up from the counter I had been absent-mindedly staring at to see one of our regulars, A Mr. Evan Schaal walking into the store. As usual I kept an eye on him as he sauntered around the store, glancing up at me every two to three minutes as he jammed various products into his pocket. Like I give a fuck. Finally he approached the counter and addressed me, "Pack 'uh Marlboros," he grunted as he slid a case of Keystone onto the counter.

I turned to get the man's smokes and heard a quiet little voice pipe up from beneath the counter, "Daddy, will you buy me this?" I spun back around and faced the counter. I peered over it to see a golden haired little girl standing beneath the counter. I hadn't even noticed her. Where had she been? I hadn't even noticed her. She was holding one of the little wooden dolls from our frankly lack-luster toy-shelf up towards her father.

"Gloria, if I told ya once, I told ya thousand times: We can't afford shit like that right now. Necessities only." Something about this outraged me. Evan Schaal robbed the store blind every time he entered. For the most part, he knew I didn't care (or at least cared more about my physical health than I did about the financial security of the Gas N' Go) and yet he still didn't have the time to steal a dinky little convenience doll store for his daughter.

I turned and set the smokes down on the counter, "You know, Evan, it's Christmas and stuff, so if you just want take the doll, I could cover it," I said to him, doing my best impression of someone who didn't utterly despise him.

Evan Schaal stopped and blinked at me rapidly in a stupefied fashion. What I assumed was that he had been taken aback by my self-less attitude and willingness to help out my fellow man. I actually had begun to feel pretty self-righteous by the time he finally opened his mouth. "Th' fuck did you say to me?"

I stammered, clearly confused, "I-Er-I was just offering to help out Evan. I just thought, your daughter really seemed to like that--"

"Zip it pencil neck." Evan barked at me, "I don't need your fuckin' charity. My family," He beat on his chest, "Don't need your fuckin' charity. An' where I come from? That's a damn insult."

"Listen man, I didn't mean anythi--" was all I got out before I woke up on the floor. Head throbbing. Someone was flecking water on my face. I groaned, "What happened..."

I opened my eyes and was staring up at my manager, "Looks like you got robbed again, Mitch. Who was it this time?"

I struggled to my feet, "Evan Schaal."

"Again, man, Mitch, if this keeps happening, I'm going to have to let you go."

"I know, Dave. Can I just... Can I just get the hell out of here? It's Christmas. I think my girlfriend got me an ice-pack." Dave sort of laughed. He really didn't want to, but I got him with that remark. I rubbed my shiner as I walked out the door. It was a two-mile walk to the apartment. It was snowing.

Merry Fucking Christmas.

Twisted Metal

Last night I crashed my car. Not content with just ruining my own singular mode of transportation, I also went ahead and ruined someone else's in the process.

Eye-Witness Account

The experience was harrowing to say the least. A car crash isn't really the sort of thing you plan for (I think that's called vehicular man-slaughter) so needless to say, I was kind of caught off-guard. The thing about driving is that you wouldn't really be going 45+ miles per hour were it not for the steel container carrying you. The other thing about that is, when that metal hazard stops going suddenly, you do not. For those of you unfamiliar with the basic laws of physics, what this means is, if I hadn't been wearing my seatbelt I might have flown on the windshield face-first. Instead, what I did was lurch forward violently until my head connected with the steering wheel, at which point my head bounced and (apparently not content with a single helping of blunt-force trauma) went back for another.

I've often found (and honestly, this is probably just adrenaline) that after what should have been a very debilitating occurrence (on prior example was the time I accidentally jumped my friends mini-bike. I ended up doing some sort of superman thing mid-air, which was probably pretty impressive until the bike flew out from underneath me and I landed flat on my stomach) I can often hop right back to my feet. This instance was no exception. I hit the other car and leapt out of my own in what I can only describe as a heroic fashion, pausing to inspect the damage on the way. This is what I found:

Along with the obvious cosmetic damage to the front of the car, there were glass and metal shards littering the general area and an unknown fluid leaking out onto the ground. I couldn't see it, but the inside of the smashed machine sounded like someone had turned on a faucet, so I had to assume the radiator had burst or something. As for me, I managed to get out with little more than a bump on my forehead and severely damaged pride. The police were really cool about everything; I'd stupidly left my wallet at home that evening and had to run it to the police station that later in the night, and some numbness in my left side warranted a trip to the emergency room but everything worked out all right all things considered.

Sincerest apologies to the man's car that I smashed up. You're free to hate me. I would if I were you.

-The Management

A Dialogue With a Blog: Blog's Response

Oh... Salacious. It's you.

You've got a lot of nerve, coming here at this hour, asking me to take you back. It's been quite a while, and I was just starting to get over you. The neglect you put me through.

It was... Unbearable.

You want to write on me again? I don't know about that, Salacious. Maybe, we can hang out sometime get some coffee or something, but until I know what's what... I just don't know if I'm ready for that.

Though... I must confess, I do still think about you sometimes.... Late at night... When there's no one to write on me, I remember you. You weren't the best, but you did fine, and, to be honest, I found your flustered, floundering style sort of endearing... The reason I had such a hard time being ignored by you is because... I really miss you!

Oh, who am I kidding! I can't make you jump through these stupid hoops!

Write on me, Salacious! Write one me now!

-The Blog

A Dialogue With a Blog

Hey, Blog.

How have you been?

Me? Oh, I've been good. Can't complain. Thanks for asking.

I know it's weird, coming to you now out of the blue like this after all this time, but, the truth is... Well, I've been thinking of the good times. Do you remember, blog? The fun we used to have? I'd come to you late, in the dead of night and I'd whisper something like, "Sphincter". Sometimes I'd write a review of something that was too old to be legitimately reviewed, or I'd just generally muse about life. Sometimes I'd just try to be funny and fail spectacularly, but you didn't care. You let me write on you anyway.

And it was good. No, it was great.

I guess, blog, what I'm saying, is that... I want to try again. I want to give us another go. I want to muse on you again! I want to write outdated reviews on you again! I want to make short cop-out posts and use pictures as a substitute for actual jokes!

If you can find it in your heart to forgive me, blog, I promise you'll never regret it.

Yours Truly

-S. Crumb.

I hate it...

When my boxers don't have button flies and my dick falls out of them.

-The Management

SMURFS. MOVIE.

Somebody has got some serious explaining to do.

Alright, alright, really I'm not angry. Somebody played a practical joke on some gullible movie studio executive, "Yeah, what the people really want is a Smurfs Movie," he probably said, and the other members of the board pissed themselves laughing, while their boss thought, "You know what, yeah."

Nobody's in trouble, I can't make that clear enough. I'm just going to turn off the lights for a second and I want the guilty party to make this movie stop existing. No one will know it was you, so just do it quickly and we can all get on with our lives.

*Click*

*Click*

Dammit, you guys.

What's New Scooby-Doo?

Cartoon Network has decided to (once again) drag the Mystery Inc. gang out of homeostasis and though initially I was a little confused as to why they would even bother, I took a look at the first episode of Scooby-Doo: Mystery Inc and I must say, I was quite pleasantly surprised.

The first thing that must be acknowledged if this article is to continue (and by the looks of things, it is) is that the original Scooby-Doo series was lacking. To say the least. On top of the show itself being absurdly boring to look at and even worse in motion, the gang are the most one-dimensional group of characters I can be bothered to think of (unless we compare them to the other characters in the Hanna-Barbera stock). Seriously, think of two things about each member of the gang that make them unique characters.

Go ahead.

I'll wait.

So, here's what you probably came up with right off the bat:

Velma: She has glasses and is also smart.

Shaggy/Scooby: They are easily frightened and frequently hungry.

Fred: NOTHING

Daphne: NOTHING

These answers are all correct, unfortunately, you did forget to answer in the form of a question.

That's right, two members of the Mystery Inc. gang have no discernible character attributes, two of them are the same character and one of Velma's character traits is her glasses.

In a desperate bid to make these characters characters, we've been met recently with What's New Scooby-Doo which retained essentially the same formula as the classic Where Are you? shows but in a modern setting and as of 2006, we've received Shaggy and Scooby-Doo Get a Clue.

It's not discernible from this intro, but in this show, Shaggy inherited a fourtune, whereupon he and Scooby became secret agents with a Bond-esque Arch-Nemesis name Dr. Phibes. Yes, really. Look it up.

Go ahead.

I'll wait.

Anyway, these shows failed to add anything new to the character's character and in one case (I'll let you guess which one) managed to be the worst thing that has ever happened.

Now we're looking at Mystery Inc. which manages to seriously blow my expectations for what a Scooby-Doo show can actually be. Here we've got Scooby, Shaggy and the rest of the gang living in a coastal town renowned for the sheer volume of unexplained super-natural activity that occurs within. Needless to say, the gang does what they do, solving mysteries and ruining everyone else's fun (and the town's profitable business as a tourist trap) in the process, such to the point that they apparently get arrested with some degree of frequency for cracking these craaaazy capers.

The characters depicted here are basically what we've come to expect, but the fact that the show viciously lampshades the one-dimensional characters of past incarnations (Fred is so obsessed with building traps and catching ghosts, that he is blind to the very... Eager Daphne's less than subtle advances) and the promise of an over-arching story linking every episode together have me legitimately interested in a Scooby-Doo show. Something I never thought would happen.

It doesn't hurt that Scooby's playing a smaller role, either. Christ, he's annoying.

Several Convincing Arguments to Support the Claim that Wife Swap is the Greatest Television Program Ever Conceived

There are a lot of television shows, but one stands high above the rest, asserting it's dominance above all others like a great king. All other shows pale in comparison in every possible way. From it's ability to make us laugh, to it's astounding tendency make us deny our connections to the human race, there is but one television series as far as we here at Meaningless Meandering are concerned, and that one is....



Yes, that's right, Wife Swap. For those unfamiliar with the premise of the show, please, allow us to explain: Two families from startlingly different backgrounds are brought together to change wives for two weeks. For the first week, the new wives must live by the rules of the new family, in the following week the wives get to change the rules to their liking, and the new family must abide by them. Generally, this means that a well-to-do liberal, but obscenely strict wife who would rather lock her children in a cellar than let them interact with the opposite sex trades places with a wife from a poor, conservative family that believes that woman should remain in the kitchen and who's children already have children of their own. At age 12. The two families follow the rules for two weeks and one of two possible outcomes is eventually reached, 1) they learn their lesson, and make changes to their lives accordingly, or 2) they learn nothing from the experience and openly insult the other family on national television.

Of course, this is just generally how it plays out. Sometimes it gets mixed up a bit. Here's a few of my favorite Special Cases

-a family of clowns

-a family of wizards

-a family of alien hunters

-a family that refuses to cook any of it's food

-a husband that would rather wake board and jet ski than spend time with his kids. So he does.

Please note that, in the episode with the clowns, one of the rules was that they go to a talent agency where they are told they are failures as clowns. Top scientists have been working 'round the clock here at the Meaningless Meandering Institute of Higher Knowledge (MMHK) to confirm the theory that, yes, this was in fact the only thing funny thing that has ever happened involving a clown.

Our favorite part of the show is how it (no doubt through COPIOUS editing) shows us both sides of a debate as ignorant, argumentative and stupid. Truthfully, there has never been a likable participant of the show. From the carnies who teach their children "physics" by taking them on the tilt-a-whirl rather than putting them in school, hyper-religious zealots who's daughters, at 19, pray for a husband rather than date, to the man who outright tells his step-daughter he doesn't love her on national television, it's truly and simply a parade of horrible and stupid individuals, and we hear at the Institute will be god-damned if that doesn't make for darn good television.

One must wonder, with the way EVERY. SINGLE. PARTICIPANT. Is portrayed so negatively how new ones are so constantly found, but I submit to you, dear reader, that we as America are not at a loss for stupid people who want to get on television. Not by a long shot. In fact, one could easily argue that the majority of America consists of stupid people who would embarrass themselves to be on television.

That's right, you heard (read?) correctly. If Wife Swap is nothing but stupid, horrible people, and American is nothing but stupid, horrible people then I submit to you, dear reader, that Wife Swap IS America.

If A=B and B=C, then once can assume that A=C.

Wife Swap the single most patriotic anything that has ever existed.

As our final argument for the show, we've decided to let it speak for itself.

Bacon is Good For Me - watch more funny videos

Air Buddies: Why Do They Exist?

There are a number of things in life I'm aware I'll never fully understand. A few quick examples include: Truck Balls, wearing camouflage in suburban areas, the enduring popularity of Jeff Dunham and women (am I right, men?).

Highest on this list (at least at the time of this writing) is the Air Buddies franchise.

Just in case you don't remember, Air BUD was the heartwarming tale (or should I say tail?) of a boy and his dog taking the rock to the net. Occasionally from downtown.

The basic plot revolved around a boy named Josh who was too much of a wuss to try out for his school's basketball team and instead adopts a dog named Buddy. Actually it might not have been "instead", necessarily, I don't really remember. At any rate, the dog, as it turns out, is not only an exceptionally skilled basketball player, but better by a great deal than Josh. This roller coaster ride of a plot comes to a head when Buddy's original owner, an alcoholic birthday clown, show up and tries to take Buddy back after having realized how valuable he is. This results in a stand off where Mr. Antagonist and Josh stand on either side of Buddy calling at him to come to them. Buddy chooses Josh (obviously) and if memory serves, something wacky probably happens to Sir Bad Guy, like getting a sticky substance like fudge or syrup dropped on him or something.

Through several direct to video and DVD sequels with names like Air Bud: Golden Receiver Buddy would crush the spirits of little league teams everywhere by defeating them in sports where having thumbs served a significant advantage and truly cementing how little a fuck the Refs of kids sports actually give.

Finally after several years of imitators and increasingly ludicrous premises for the films themselves, someone decided to step in and do something about this mess of a franchise (Unfortunately for fans of Michael Phelps, his planned cameo in Air Bud: Water Logged Dog never materialized due to the script of the movie being rejected). Finally. It was over. Finally, we could sleep.

Or could we.

Just when the universe collectively thought it was safe to go back into the water, so to speak, executives, apparently still as keen on the idea of a dog playing sports as I was when I was seven decided that one dog that could play a shit-load of sports wasn't RAD enough. Instead they opted for a shit-load of dogs that could play one sport each.

Also, they could talk.

No reasonable explanation is ever given for this.

Saddled with his precious mistakes, Buddy became a stoic, soft-spoken stay at home dad (partially because he is a dog, and cannot talk, and would just as soon eat his puppies as nurture them) while the Buddies (who, I'm told do all have names or something) go increasingly insane adventures, each one making the fact that they all play sports a little less significant.

In the third movie, Space Buddies, the puppies went to space.

What.

D'aw.

Also, what.

My Brush With Death

Today my computer got a virus.

I wish there was some way to put a positive spin on it, but there isn't. It got a virus, and it was horrifying. I was trying to download the new Mountain Goats album and a little bit of carelessness got me saddled with a Trojan, a Worm, and a plain, old-fashioned Virus. I put my torrent into the queue a was very promptly met with the vocalization, "NEW VIRUS DETECTED". I brushed it off initially as so many of us do, but my screen started flickering, making weird crackling noises and letting me know that I could be sued because my PC was being used as a spam-bot, I leapt into action.

As I said, the first thing my protection software did was alert me to the presence of the Virus', (which was helpful indeed, though I doubt I'd have been able to ignore them for long). Unfortunately when I tried to get the software to do something about it it told me I had to purchase the full version of program before I could.

What.

Consider, if you will, that someone has told you outright that they will protect you, and you, secure in this knowledge get yourself into admittedly precarious situations because of the added assurance. Now consider someone wants to punch you in the face repeatedly, but when you go to your body-guard, you are told that, while they are in fact capable of dealing the brutes attacking you, you will need to give them forty dollars before they lift a finger to help. Finally, consider that you are getting the ever-loving shit kicked out of you, and that, during the course of said shit-kicking your "body-guard" intermittently chimes in with, "Hey, there are some dudes punching you," and, "Forty dollars and I'll save your shit." Now you've got a pretty good idea of my situation.

Finally I resolved to just format my hard-drive. It was a annoying, stupid and I lost everything in the process. I don't want to be a douche here, but the after-math could be soundly compared to the Earthquakes in Haiti: Nothing was spared, there is nothing to do but pull myself up by my boot-straps and rebuild. And rebuild I shall. Feel free to send money and food.

It was a learning experience to be certain, and the most important thing I learned is to not use torrents. I should just get my friends to download stuff for me.

-The Management

My Greatest Achievement

The first time I saw this trailer I presented the following as a potential tag-line:

Mo' Mummy Mo' Problem.

It is, to this day, the funniest thing I've ever said. I am still proud of it.

Ancient Chinese Secret, Huh?

Author's Note: The following post contains "interactive elements". Please open a 2nd tab containing THIS and press the red button when directed for full effect.

The Chinese were pretty awesome at crafting fables. Seriously. They rocked. It's impressive how they're lessons are still pretty applicable today.

For example:

The Tigers and the Strawberries

A Meaningless Meandering Special Presentation

Paraphrased by the Meaningless Meandering Staff

Once long ago there was a man who was approached by a ferocious tiger. Being that he was of sound mind and body, he of course did exactly people are always told not to do when confronted by a man-eating animal: Run away. The tiger, being the sleek killing machine it is, followed it's instincts and gave chase. The pair tore across the plains, the man's will to live apparently more inspiring than the tigers desire to get some dinner. Hey. Somebody should tell that tiger to lay off the fast food. (press button)

The man ran as fast as he could until he came to a steep cliff. The tiger was approaching quickly and with little other option, the man jumped from the ledge. Falling and assuming he'd finally given the tiger the slip, he saw as he fell that the tigers had tricked him. There was one tiger above him, the one that had chased him, and below him, sat another tiger waiting to eat him whole. "Resorting to trickery and out-numbering me?" Thought, the man as he fell, "Finally I see the tiger's true stripes!" (press button) The man swiftly grabbed onto a branch and held on with all his might. He knew that his grip wouldn't hold on forever, and that eventually, he'd fall down to the tiger below and be eaten. Sitting and pondering his inevitable death, the man took notice of a strawberry hanging from one of the branches. He reached out for the strawberry and plucked it from the branch.

It was the sweetest strawberry he'd ever eaten.

It's a story about a man with horribly mis-placed priorities.

I mean, come on! This man shouldn't stop thinking about these tigers to enjoy a strawberry. Foolish man. This story is about how people today need to pay more attention to their surroundings. Think of how many car accidents would be avoided if we told this story in Driver's Ed.

Feel free to draw your own conclusions about this tale. I've never claimed to be infallible.

Welcome... To the World of Tomorrow!

In less than 24 hours (that's a full day for you Rhodes Scholars out there) it will be the year of our lord 2010. Just to give you some perspective, the Jetsons took place in the year 2062.

Tragically, anyone who remembers the Jetsons well enough to be waiting for Robotic Maids and flying cars that fold into easy to tote suitcases (and really, this should be everyone) will surely be dead before these great scientific milestones can be achieved.

Additionally, Suicide booths.

Which according to Futurama were invented in 2008. Which is now, as of tomorrow fully two years ago. Zounds.

That's right, ladies and germs. We are living in the god-damned future. Although, honestly, I feel like a lot of magnitude of this has been lifted by the fact that now that we're in the future, it's the present. Which, is truly depressing, this means the future is always a couple of years off. Because of our rigidly defined concepts of how "time" works, we'll never get to see awesome shit like this:


Maybe the key to time travel is simply not understanding how time works. Maybe if men and women long dead hadn't used the first sundials to keep track of when they had to move their rocks to their other rocks, we could all be living in a world of personal space shuttles and sexy flying saucer women.

Oh, what could have been.

Mo' Gun, Fewer Problem

I found this on my flash drive. It's a persuasive paper I wrote for my college English class last semester. I thought it was kind of funny.



As long as fire-arms have existed, there too has existed a certain breed of person who, for one reason or another, seeks to ruin everyone else's gun totin' fun. Criminals (or even the occasional gun wielding lunatic) have convinced much of America that guns are the root of a lot of the violent occurrences in our country, and as a result, several attempts have been made at making the guns themselves more difficult to obtain. While this may be at first construed by bystanders (and even the people responsible for the movements themselves) as a genuine attempt to protect the innocent people of our freedom loving land, it is entirely possible that these movements are hindering more than they are helping.

Let us imagine, if only for a moment, an America where "Guns are outlawed," and, "Only outlaws have guns."
One morning a robbery occurs, the clerk at the convince store has no means by which to defend himself, and when the gun is drawn, the customers simply cower behind the shelves. By the time the police arrive (as the clerk has pushed the silent alarm button) the robber has made a clean get away.

Now, let us imagine this same scenario, but instead of helpless customers and clerks, let us imagine a world where a hand-gun is general issue for not only the persecuted Convenience store clerk, but every US citizen (and their grandmother).

The robber walks and draws his weapon. The clerk startled reaches for his but is too late. The robber has his pointed at him. As the robber demands the money he hears several clicks from behind him. He turns slowly to see three customers standing behind him, weapons drawn. Startled, and without much more of an option, the robber raises his hands and is forced to wait until the police arrive, whereupon he is given into their custody.

Now, some would argue that if everyone had a weapon violent crime would increase based solely on the fact that the ability to commit one would be much more readily available, but I say nay. Secure in the knowledge that everyone everywhere could "Bust a cap" in their "fanny" violent criminals would most probably decide better of whatever plan they had, and even if the criminal has a death wish, with every citizen now a dubiously trained murder-machine, his wish will most assuredly be granted.
With criminals (hopefully) thinking better of their plans violent crime will drop off entirely.


Ended kind of abruptly didn't it. I actually got a pretty good grade on this.

I'm not happy with this paper, actually. I admit I wrote it kind of hastily, but you dear reader, get the un-edited version. No matter how unfit for consumption it may be. And do you know why? It's because I care!

I Want to Ride My Bicycle

I busted out the bicycle today. "Busting out" referring to the lengthy and frustrating process of dragging it out of the storage room and up the stairs out of the basement. We have open stairs and the ceiling is low above them, when I turned the handle bars to get them to stop getting caught on the ceiling the tire of the bike slid in between the steps. After several minutes of what I consider a series of very creatively constructed expletives such as "COCKING SHIT" I finally got the damned vehicle up the stairs and collapsed.

Biking itself is a means of saving money. I've got to start paying rent soon, and now seems like as good a time as any to start being frugal. Of course, my free-wheeling lifestyle was supported in my early days by my parents being obligated to keep a roof over my head, but as I leave the nest (so to speak) I'm realizing that my spending habits need to be cut back a bit. Hence the bike. Pedaling around town will hopefully save me some scratch so I can get to places of necessity as well as keep up on the important things like vidya gaems and comic books. You know. The essentials.

At any rate, for those of you who haven't ridden a bike in a while, let me tell you first hand that it's no cake walk. Pedaling utilizes muscles I haven't thought about in ages, much less actively used. Because of this, one inexperienced with this method of transport will find that the transition between "Hey, this is kind of fun" and "Oh, god I'm going to die" not only comes up quickly, but happens without warning.

Even now, easily eight hours after my quarter-mile (potentially less) ride to my father's house, I ache in my legs. Remember when you were a kid and you stayed up too late? You're limbs started to hurt? If you asked my mother about it, she'd tell you that this was the cause of your body growing, something it does at night when you're supposed to be asleep.

Maybe I'm finally getting taller.

-The Management