Author Archives: Doug Walker

Sailing! It takes me away to whemnommnorman . . .

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Some recent things that amused us:

It’s not a party until my rooftop DJ and the DJ on the neighboring rooftop improvise an ironically hip mashup of Run-D.M.C. and The Knocks

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Corona Light apparently targets a demographic so elusive that it doesn’t actually exist. Or maybe that’s my wishful thinking as I age my way out of the demographic advertisers find desirable.

Actually, given the hipster half-life, you cannot produce a commercial fast enough for it to remain hip by the time it airs. Rooftop parties with DJs? Have fun with Tara Reid and Sinbad. We’ll be playing Parcheesi with Zooey Deschanel and James Murphy in a refrigerator box on top of a moving city bus.

Thanks Mr. Serafinowicz and Mr. Eldon for this Glimpse into the Future of Music

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Peter Serafinowicz and Kevin Eldon share the music of tomorrow, from yesterday. We occasionally consider this the funniest thing we’ve ever seen.*

*Subject to the “According to Jim” Exemption. And more often than occasionally.

Let the Bodies Dribble More

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I visited the Bodies exhibit awhile back. Surprised that so many small Asians died while playing basketball.

Tragic Johnson

Dirt Nowitzki

Rick Buried

 

 

 

Joe Johnson (Atlanta fans will appreciate it)

And our favorite apparently died not playing basketball, but transporting an enormous pistachio nut to his village:

 

Steve Nosh

Long live @peanutfreemom

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Just when I figured she’d lost all breath, @peanutfreemom resurrects and the site traffic here picks up again. Apparently a new group of angry, puzzled or fascinated followers cycle in every week or so to debate whether she’s real or brilliant satire. (Note to @peanutfreemom Googlers who found this post: She’s brilliant satire.)

I remain fascinated by the indignant, frothing rage of the people still responding with passionate anger at peanutfreemom. I understand if you’re at your kid’s basketball game, and some asshole parent is yelling obscenities at the refs and the kids on the other team, you might feel obligated to say something. You are physically confined to the space and the situation, so you have to intervene.

But on Twitter, nothing is easier than ignoring an obnoxious asshole, real or perceived. Yet people get so drawn in, and take it so personally, that they post tweet after angry tweet in hopes of defeating this evil mom in Massachusetts somewhere who they didn’t know (or think) existed the day before. I just love this kinda shit.

I mean, it’s just a cup. Not even a glass.

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Big deal, Japan won the Women’s World Cup. We’ve won way more awesome stuff:

1) The Super Bowl! USA! USA! USA!

Bart Starr, meet nipple star

2) The moon! USA! USA! USA!

The U.S. always seeks new reserves of cheese

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

3) Oprah! USA! USA! USA!

You get a moon! And you get a moon!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

4) The Trans Am! USA! USA! USA!

Sally Field not included.

He Can’t Believe It’s Not Sutter!

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Kurt Sutter, creator and executive producer of Sons of Anarchy on FX, has launched a hilariously bitter and vulgar Twitter war against the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences for completely shutting his show out in today’s Emmy nominations. Some highlights:

  • “these two academy member walk into a bar. one orders a beer. then they both die because they’re so fucking old.”
  • “i envision every academy member having sex with a cheap, light blue poly-cotton sheet between penis and vagina.”
  • “fuck glee. hate those annoying, “please accept me for who i am”, singing brats. there, i said it. are you happy?”
  • “best part of not getting an emmy nod. now i don’t have to pretend i give a shit about the profiteering douchebag academy.”

We don’t watch the show (although we’ve heard it’s good), but we are thoroughly amused by Sutter’s reckless, heartfelt tirade against the Academy for the snub. It’s refreshing, in a nasty, petty, vindictive, disproportionately self-satisfied sort of way.

But we’re most impressed at how absolutely Fabiolous Kurt Sutter looks:

You should see me with a dead bird on my face