Every Halloween, I go out trick-or-treating and watch all the young children pass me as they say things like, “Aren’t you a little old to be trick or treating?” and “Nice John Stamos costume, loser!” and “Hey! That’s my candy!” I just lower my head and walk away, knowing that these kids know nothing about what Halloween is truly about: pure, unadulterated fear.
I miss the times when Halloween was all about being scared. It was the time when the dead could walk amongst the living, bringing sickness and bad harvests to all those that crossed them. There used to be bonfires, where people would throw the bones of slaughtered livestock into the flames, all while wearing masks to honor the dead, but no longer; now it’s all about “Fun Size” candy, best dressed competitions and oddly provocative outfits (ladies).
Enter Halloween’s new mascot: Halloween Hank.
Halloween Hank will change everything, by getting back to the good old days and scaring the life out of your kids. He’ll hide in the bushes, and when your kids get close, he’ll jump out and rip his shirt off, as he holds the bones of slaughtered livestock and screams, “They ruined my harvest, they ruined my harvest!” He will then run off and start a fire in front of your house to honor the spirits that walk among you.
Now, some “nay sayers” and “angry mothers with lawyers” and “farmers with missing livestock” will tell you that Halloween Hank is an evil notion, some people have even gone so far as to call him a “wanted felon”. These people, however, simply don’t see the positives of having Halloween Hank around.
First, he builds your children’s character. The next time your kids are walking down the street, do you think they’re going to be afraid if a guy comes out with a knife and demands their money? Hey, after some dude comes out of nowhere with slaughtered cow in each hand, an everyday mugging just isn’t scary anymore.
Second, you won’t even have to engage in the awkward “he’s not real talk” with your kids. Halloween Hank is very real, and very frightening. He doesn’t wait for your kids to go to sleep; he prevents them from doing so.
Truthfully, at his core, Halloween Hank is just as scary an idea as a dude in pajamas that breaks into your house and is rumored to “know when you are sleeping”, or a fairy that makes his way into your children’s bedroom and gives them money for disassembling their mouth. We’re already trying to freak out our kids; Halloween Hank is just here to finish the job.
So call him a “menace to society” and “some dude with too much time on his hands”. Despite the pending lawsuits, restraining orders and the obvious therapy needed for all who meet him, Halloween Hank will be out October 31st to spread the holiday fear. Let’s see the Easter Bunny top that.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Viva La '90s
As we enter the second decade of this new millennium, there seems to be a lot of talk among adults about how modern pop culture is a moral wasteland. They say that since the dawning of the new millennium, kids, like me, have become desensitized by the moral sewage brought to them through tabloids and television. They even say we have become spoiled by new technology and social networking that seems to live life for us.
After thinking it over for a long time, though, I must agree that all this technology and pop culture makes this the worst time for kids to grow up in. Look at any other time, a decade like the 1990s, for instance, and you will see that it’s obvious that we’ve fallen quite far off the wagon of morality.
Sure, like any time, the ‘90s had moments that would make you cringe. Someone allowed Vanilla Ice to go out in public, Mike Tyson forgot to eat before a fight and I wasn’t able to locate a knife to gauge my eyes out during Carrot Top’s classic film Chairman of the Board. But, with the help of a still attractive Britney Spears, we were able to flourish in a world before reality TV and before Paris Hilton was famous.
Let me take you back to a simpler time; a time when short shorts were still socially acceptable, the Spice Girls were reminding us all that if we wanted to be their lover, we had to get with their friends, and the world was slowly asking itself, “Does that Michael Jackson guy suddenly seem weird to you?”
Don’t you remember “Sock ‘Em Boppers”? They were the toy that encouraged hostility and fighting among children, but it was okay because they were still, “more fun than a pillow fight”.
We all had the experience of playing with those when all of the sudden one of your friends got way too into it and knocked a kid out cold. You all thought he was dead, and then just when you had decided which one of you was going to prison, he woke up, and you had to punch him back out, because you didn’t want to add a loose zombie to your problems.
Go ahead and find modern day artists to compare to the stars of yester-year. Zac Efron? He’s fine, but he’s no Nick Carter. Seriously, my parents had to declare an Amber Alert because I was lost in his eyes from ’97 to ’99.
Which brings me to the “boy band". They created an unbelievable era when a couple of handsome young guys with no musical ability could come together and make digitalized songs that would be loved by millions of naïve teenage girls.
Every guy, no matter how macho he was, wanted to be a part of a boy band. I dreamt at night of having facial hair that made me look like an Internet predator and getting up on stage in front of thousands of screaming fans to lip-sync songs I didn’t write while dancing around like an intoxicated river dancer.
It really does hurt me to be dissin’ a decade like the 2000s, because it started off with so much promise. No one embodies this more than John Mayer, who started off in 2001 with a poppy spirit that would have made him an icon of the ‘90s. He, like our decade, lost his way and ventured into the blues, and it was all downhill from there.
Say it ain’t so John, was no one’s body a “wonderland” anymore?
So, you can have your iPods and plasma screen TVs, but I long for back in the day when you could say things like “bangin’” and “oh snap”, and no one would hate you. I yearn for the days when rappers weren’t “Lil” or “Yung" but “Dr.’s” and “Doggs." So, ladies and gentlemen, if you want this next decade to be as slammin' as the one we grew up in, I mean one that will make you jump up and say "boo ya", just click your Nike Pumps together and say softly, “I want it that way… again.”
After thinking it over for a long time, though, I must agree that all this technology and pop culture makes this the worst time for kids to grow up in. Look at any other time, a decade like the 1990s, for instance, and you will see that it’s obvious that we’ve fallen quite far off the wagon of morality.
Sure, like any time, the ‘90s had moments that would make you cringe. Someone allowed Vanilla Ice to go out in public, Mike Tyson forgot to eat before a fight and I wasn’t able to locate a knife to gauge my eyes out during Carrot Top’s classic film Chairman of the Board. But, with the help of a still attractive Britney Spears, we were able to flourish in a world before reality TV and before Paris Hilton was famous.
Let me take you back to a simpler time; a time when short shorts were still socially acceptable, the Spice Girls were reminding us all that if we wanted to be their lover, we had to get with their friends, and the world was slowly asking itself, “Does that Michael Jackson guy suddenly seem weird to you?”
Don’t you remember “Sock ‘Em Boppers”? They were the toy that encouraged hostility and fighting among children, but it was okay because they were still, “more fun than a pillow fight”.
We all had the experience of playing with those when all of the sudden one of your friends got way too into it and knocked a kid out cold. You all thought he was dead, and then just when you had decided which one of you was going to prison, he woke up, and you had to punch him back out, because you didn’t want to add a loose zombie to your problems.
Go ahead and find modern day artists to compare to the stars of yester-year. Zac Efron? He’s fine, but he’s no Nick Carter. Seriously, my parents had to declare an Amber Alert because I was lost in his eyes from ’97 to ’99.
Which brings me to the “boy band". They created an unbelievable era when a couple of handsome young guys with no musical ability could come together and make digitalized songs that would be loved by millions of naïve teenage girls.
Every guy, no matter how macho he was, wanted to be a part of a boy band. I dreamt at night of having facial hair that made me look like an Internet predator and getting up on stage in front of thousands of screaming fans to lip-sync songs I didn’t write while dancing around like an intoxicated river dancer.
It really does hurt me to be dissin’ a decade like the 2000s, because it started off with so much promise. No one embodies this more than John Mayer, who started off in 2001 with a poppy spirit that would have made him an icon of the ‘90s. He, like our decade, lost his way and ventured into the blues, and it was all downhill from there.
Say it ain’t so John, was no one’s body a “wonderland” anymore?
So, you can have your iPods and plasma screen TVs, but I long for back in the day when you could say things like “bangin’” and “oh snap”, and no one would hate you. I yearn for the days when rappers weren’t “Lil” or “Yung" but “Dr.’s” and “Doggs." So, ladies and gentlemen, if you want this next decade to be as slammin' as the one we grew up in, I mean one that will make you jump up and say "boo ya", just click your Nike Pumps together and say softly, “I want it that way… again.”
Sports: Hard Work, Perseverance, and Fireworks
These days, many sports are trying to tone down the amount of showboating athletes do during a game. Punishments have come in the form of penalties, fines, and sometimes, even suspensions. Players say that while over the top celebrations should not necessarily be encouraged, they should at least be condoned.
Unfortunately, I can not seem to get behind either side in this case because, frankly, I believe that athletes should not only be allowed to celebrate all that they want, it should be mandatory for them to do so. Nothing gets me more excited than watching a athlete getting paid millions to play a children’s game celebrate a routine play by making a mockery of their opponent. After all, it’s not whether you win or lose, it’s how awesome you make yourself look.
Now, the National Football League says that they need to maintain the “integrity” of their sport by banning excessive celebrations. They say that they don’t want their league turning into a group of thugs and criminals, stealing the sportsmanship out of the game they claim to “love”.
You know what NFL, my judge and jury says you’re the criminal. The crime? Depriving the children of America the opportunity to see what sports is really about.
Yes, the children; how are kids going to know the proper technique for pulling a pen out of their sock after a touchdown, signing the ball, and tossing it into the stands? How are they going to know the correct way to plant a cell phone on the field, pick it up, and use it to call their families on live, national, television? If wide receivers Terrell Owens and Joe Horn had not authored these so called “shenanigans”, I would have no idea what it takes to be a professional athlete.
I play baseball, which is quite a tough game to look awesome in, as there is very little room for personal celebration. That’s why I’ve developed my own little routine for the upcoming season, one that will hopefully show the kids of America that if they believe in their dreams, anything is possible. It’ll go a little something like this:
They’ll call my name, and as I walked out to the field, “God Bless America” will be playing in the background. I’ll pay some sophomore 10 bucks to set off fireworks in the outfield, as a group of POW’s salute me with tears rolling down their cheek. For each strike I throw during the game, I’ll take off my shirt, toss it into the stands and yell to the other team that I am a direct offspring of Nike, Greek Goddess of Victory, and that their efforts in this match are futile.
You can do it, too, no matter what your sport or activity. If you are in gymnastics, and you complete a successful routine, run back, grab the hand rosin, toss in the air and dance as you proclaim yourself the greatest thing in gymnastics since hand rosin. If you are in the chess club, every time you get your opponent in “check”, knock over the chess board, stand up, shimmy a little and scream, “Quit searching, Bobby Fisher's been found, bitch!"
If you’re a skier, every time you are successful, take off one of your skis, run over to the opposing side and beat one their players to within inches of death. SIDE NOTE: I’m told this is what’s called “aggravated assault”, and that it is in fact a crime, yet knowing that you have taken part in the true meaning of sports should be reward enough.
From when Babe Ruth allegedly “called his shot” in the middle of baseball game, to when Chad “Ocho Cinco” Johnson asked a cheerleader to marry him after a touchdown, sports have always been about drawing attention to yourself. Just remember, if it’s not mentioned in the rulebook, then it can’t be against the rules. Until they specifically say that I’m not allowed to have Las Vegas showgirls and a flock of flamingos escort me to the mound each inning, it’s all fair game to me.
Unfortunately, I can not seem to get behind either side in this case because, frankly, I believe that athletes should not only be allowed to celebrate all that they want, it should be mandatory for them to do so. Nothing gets me more excited than watching a athlete getting paid millions to play a children’s game celebrate a routine play by making a mockery of their opponent. After all, it’s not whether you win or lose, it’s how awesome you make yourself look.
Now, the National Football League says that they need to maintain the “integrity” of their sport by banning excessive celebrations. They say that they don’t want their league turning into a group of thugs and criminals, stealing the sportsmanship out of the game they claim to “love”.
You know what NFL, my judge and jury says you’re the criminal. The crime? Depriving the children of America the opportunity to see what sports is really about.
Yes, the children; how are kids going to know the proper technique for pulling a pen out of their sock after a touchdown, signing the ball, and tossing it into the stands? How are they going to know the correct way to plant a cell phone on the field, pick it up, and use it to call their families on live, national, television? If wide receivers Terrell Owens and Joe Horn had not authored these so called “shenanigans”, I would have no idea what it takes to be a professional athlete.
I play baseball, which is quite a tough game to look awesome in, as there is very little room for personal celebration. That’s why I’ve developed my own little routine for the upcoming season, one that will hopefully show the kids of America that if they believe in their dreams, anything is possible. It’ll go a little something like this:
They’ll call my name, and as I walked out to the field, “God Bless America” will be playing in the background. I’ll pay some sophomore 10 bucks to set off fireworks in the outfield, as a group of POW’s salute me with tears rolling down their cheek. For each strike I throw during the game, I’ll take off my shirt, toss it into the stands and yell to the other team that I am a direct offspring of Nike, Greek Goddess of Victory, and that their efforts in this match are futile.
You can do it, too, no matter what your sport or activity. If you are in gymnastics, and you complete a successful routine, run back, grab the hand rosin, toss in the air and dance as you proclaim yourself the greatest thing in gymnastics since hand rosin. If you are in the chess club, every time you get your opponent in “check”, knock over the chess board, stand up, shimmy a little and scream, “Quit searching, Bobby Fisher's been found, bitch!"
If you’re a skier, every time you are successful, take off one of your skis, run over to the opposing side and beat one their players to within inches of death. SIDE NOTE: I’m told this is what’s called “aggravated assault”, and that it is in fact a crime, yet knowing that you have taken part in the true meaning of sports should be reward enough.
From when Babe Ruth allegedly “called his shot” in the middle of baseball game, to when Chad “Ocho Cinco” Johnson asked a cheerleader to marry him after a touchdown, sports have always been about drawing attention to yourself. Just remember, if it’s not mentioned in the rulebook, then it can’t be against the rules. Until they specifically say that I’m not allowed to have Las Vegas showgirls and a flock of flamingos escort me to the mound each inning, it’s all fair game to me.
Gallantry Greene
I always knew that I was different. Be it my first day of kindergarten, when I came to school biting on an unlit pipe, wearing a silk bathrobe and slippers with a top hat on my head. Or the time in 7th grade science when I argued with my teacher about the triviality of learning biology when there were so many students who had such a limited knowledge of fine European wines.
Even in high school I got the feeling I was peculiar, especially when I was the only one who seemed to be outraged by the fact that one could not letter in jousting.
Even in high school I got the feeling I was peculiar, especially when I was the only one who seemed to be outraged by the fact that one could not letter in jousting.
All of this led me to the final conclusion that, as crazy as this sounds, gentlemanly behavior and chivalry, as we know it, is a dead art form.
I fear that the era of white glove slapping and splurging soirees will never live again. I still dream at night of the day when I can walk into school only to find a sea of walking canes, coattails, and conversations describing the day’s lunch as a “weak farce that regales the stomach but cannot furnish the soul”. Unfortunately, until I get the administration to award my cause even the tiniest of victories, such as allowing a parking pass on my noble steed, I’m afraid that chivalry on a grand scale will never be what it once was.
Yes, I am living in the past. I know now that tea and crumpets are no longer acceptable or desired at a tailgating party before a football game, and that challenging another man to a duel simply because he insulted my honor is not acceptable school behavior. I’d therefore like to take this opportunity to apologize to the sophomore who I challenged to “pistols at dawn” for stealing my crumpet before the Minnetonka game; I now know there was a better way to handle that situation.
I’m even learning that women are different than they were when my version of chivalry would have been accepted. At a bonfire one evening, a group of young women informed me that they were fully satisfied with a toned down version of romance. Modern gentlemen, therefore, do not have to do the kinds of things that I was raised to believe would make a woman happy.
For example, men of today feel that the purchases that flatter a woman are jewelry and flowers, yet medieval history, or the “Golden Age” of chivalry as I like to call it, shows us that men bought women livestock as symbols of their affections. These days it seems like I’m the only one who still finds that tradition appropriate. Which reminds me that to the lucky lady that found a pig tied to her locker this morning, you’re welcome.
I guess what I’m saying is that times have changed, and instead of sitting around complaining about these darn kids and their “music with words in it”, I must adapt. What I used to think was just a bunch of hullabaloo and tomfoolery has now turned into the social norm.
So now every time I have the urge to talk down to someone that doesn’t know what part of France Merlot Vin de Pays de l’Ardeche comes from, or petition the administration to make public humiliation a form of punishment once again, I stop and remind myself to modernize. Though I still believe that if you’ve never witnessed a young madam’s scream of joy after finding a herd of cows in her room, your life has been nothing but hootenanny.
I fear that the era of white glove slapping and splurging soirees will never live again. I still dream at night of the day when I can walk into school only to find a sea of walking canes, coattails, and conversations describing the day’s lunch as a “weak farce that regales the stomach but cannot furnish the soul”. Unfortunately, until I get the administration to award my cause even the tiniest of victories, such as allowing a parking pass on my noble steed, I’m afraid that chivalry on a grand scale will never be what it once was.
Yes, I am living in the past. I know now that tea and crumpets are no longer acceptable or desired at a tailgating party before a football game, and that challenging another man to a duel simply because he insulted my honor is not acceptable school behavior. I’d therefore like to take this opportunity to apologize to the sophomore who I challenged to “pistols at dawn” for stealing my crumpet before the Minnetonka game; I now know there was a better way to handle that situation.
I’m even learning that women are different than they were when my version of chivalry would have been accepted. At a bonfire one evening, a group of young women informed me that they were fully satisfied with a toned down version of romance. Modern gentlemen, therefore, do not have to do the kinds of things that I was raised to believe would make a woman happy.
For example, men of today feel that the purchases that flatter a woman are jewelry and flowers, yet medieval history, or the “Golden Age” of chivalry as I like to call it, shows us that men bought women livestock as symbols of their affections. These days it seems like I’m the only one who still finds that tradition appropriate. Which reminds me that to the lucky lady that found a pig tied to her locker this morning, you’re welcome.
I guess what I’m saying is that times have changed, and instead of sitting around complaining about these darn kids and their “music with words in it”, I must adapt. What I used to think was just a bunch of hullabaloo and tomfoolery has now turned into the social norm.
So now every time I have the urge to talk down to someone that doesn’t know what part of France Merlot Vin de Pays de l’Ardeche comes from, or petition the administration to make public humiliation a form of punishment once again, I stop and remind myself to modernize. Though I still believe that if you’ve never witnessed a young madam’s scream of joy after finding a herd of cows in her room, your life has been nothing but hootenanny.
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