Boing Boing: Space Ghost Coast to Coast + 60 Minutes + Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip + McGyver = The A-Team. Well, The B-Team, anyway. Either way: RIAA? You better watch your backs, fools!
Suicide Girls: America’s Next Top Model + Attack of the Show! + The Real World = The Apprentice. Is it exploitation or empowerment? Who cares. If you’re not 17–36, conventionally unconventional and hawt, you’re fired!
Wil Wheaton dot Net (WWdN: In Exile): My Name is Earl + Family Matters + Celebrity Poker Showdown + Wheel of Fortune (I’d like to buy another “L”, Pat) = Max Headroom
Google = TV Guide
YouTube: America’s Funniest Home Videos + Nova + Public Access Television + Jackass = The Gong Show
Fark: The Gong Show + WrestleMania = When Animals Attack
MetaFilter: Mythbusters + The McLaughlin Group + The Soup + American Idol + Antiques Roadshow + Talk Sex with Sue Johanson = The Simpsons. Or Are You Smarter than a Fifth Grader? I can’t decide. Maybe both, I guess. So what's The Simpsons + Are You Smarter than a Fifth Grader? Ah. Got it. MetaFilter = South Park. I should have known. You bastards!
You're on board when the Food Network's private jet loses an engine and crash lands in the Andes. All of the network's celebrities survive. So... who do you eat? There are a few criteria to keep in mind:
1) Bam! for the buck. You'd want to pick someone with a bit of meat on the bones. Giada may look good enough to eat, but she'd hardly make for a feast.
2) Tenderness. Age may bring wisdom and superior wine, but youth just tastes better on the barbie. Paula Deen might be a good source of ready-made jerky, though, for the long hike out of the wilderness.
3) Quality of feed. Okay, more than one of the celebrity cooks are packing a few extra meals around on their frames, but what ingredients went into making all that well-marbled meat? If you are what you eat, you just know Sandra Lee and Rachael Ray are at least 75% artificial preservatives.
4) Cooking chops. Once the menu has been selected and dispatched, someone has to prepare it. You'd probably want to keep the best chefs around for sheer aesthetics. And because they'll cut you. Very, very efficiently.
5) Annoyance factor. Sure, Bobby Flay is the BBQ king, and undoubtedly the most qualified to whip up an expedient long pork banquet. You get the sense it's something he's done more than once before. But would you really want to be trapped on a mountainside with him?
All things considered, I'm voting go with the flo. Tyler Florence - it's what's for dinner.
Everything you really need to know
about supply-side economics
can be learned by watching The Roadrunner.
Not everyone can be a roadrunner,
and coyotes are pretty much doomed
to be coyotes, but you should invest heavily
in the ACME Corporation, regardless.
Because so long as there are roadrunners
and coyotes, there will always be
an imbalance of power, and hunger,
and a nearly genetic refusal
to learn from the failures of history.
And even if it would be cheaper
to order takeout every night, roadrunners
and coyotes are tradition-bound creatures,
set by God or fate in eternal opposition--
and wouldn’t you just kill
for a pair of rocket-powered roller skates?
> From: Ted H.
> Sent: Tuesday, February 6, 2007 3:26 PM
> To: itsrainingmetaflo@hotmail.com
> Subject: A guy can dream, can't he?
>
> Oh, man, I had the freakiest dream last night! I'm at this posh lake resort when all of a sudden, Julia Roberts walks up with a bunch of her people. Julia Freakin' Roberts! And, oh, man she's happy to see me! Turns out we're very close friends. She gives me a big, warm hug, and we ditch the entourage to go sit together by the lake.
I kind of lie back and Julia curls up in my arms. I stroke her hair and kiss the back of her neck, and she holds me as tight as she can. And the whole time I'm telling her how beautiful she is, how wonderful; and how nobody realizes how special she really is as a person, as a woman - but I know.
And she's soaking it up, she's just absolutely loving and craving this shit. It's like our private ritual: I bathe her in unconditional love, and she's rejuvenated. And we're both filled with indescribable joy.
Then I woke up alone, and it felt like my guts had been ripped out! Talk about your nightmares! I mean: Julia Freakin' Roberts! What a talentless hack!
> From: An Infinite Number of Monkeys
> Sent: Thursday, January 20, 2007 1:42 AM
> To: itsrainingmetaflo@hotmail.com
> Subject: SPAMlet Fellas
>
> Angels and ministers of grace defend us!
Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn'd,
Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell,
Be thy intents wicked or charitable,
Thou comest in such a questionable shape
That I will speak to thee:
What the fuck are you doing?
You're hanging around my fuckin' neck
like a vulture, like impending death!
You think I'm funny? I'm funny to you?
I'm a clown to you? How the fuck am I funny?
What the fuck is so funny about me?
Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of
me! You would play upon me; you would seem to know
my stops; you would pluck out the heart of my
mystery; you would sound me from my lowest note to
the top of my compass: and there is much music,
excellent voice, in this little organ; yet cannot
you make it speak. 'Sblood, do you think I am
easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what
instrument you will, though you can fret me, yet you
cannot play upon me.
O, that this too too solid flesh would melt
Thaw and resolve itself into a dew!
Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd
His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! God!
How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable,
Seem to me all the uses of this world!
Today everything is different.
There's no action.
I have to wait around like everyone else.
I'm an average nobody.
I get to live the rest of my life
like a schnook.
The rest is silence.
The Last Post Before Christmas
Twas the last post before Christmas, when all through the land,
The atheists plotted to have Christmas banned,
According to talk show hosts, spreading the Yule love,
In hopes that their savior would make them more moola.
The Dems and the Lobbyists were hurriedly making their beds (together),
While visions of Hillary '08 haunted Republican heads.
With Ma at her scrapbook, I sat down to blog,
Armed with barrels of clichés and 90 proof nog.
While out on the tubes I dodged Britney's cooter,
It was behind every address, on every computer.
In windows and tabs, on YouTube and Flash,
It made my soul shudder, it made my snow crash.
But with filters and blockers I finally managed
To get back to surfing with minimum damage.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear?
Damnit, Britney – I don't want to see your underwear, either!
Yadda, yadda, yadda…
The term's "morbidly obese," not "pleasingly curvy."
Now finish your veggies. You're going to get scurvy.
Yadda, yadda, yadda…
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a high click-through rate!
Star Wars, Episode IV - A New Pulp
"That's no moon - it's a space station, fool!"
