The End of the Beginning

After much deliberation, shouting, lawyers and slamming of briefcases, my freind Rico and I have decided to merge our blogs together into one ultra internet laser squad. It's called Rico and Rory: Live! and combines the edgy-yet-retarded rhetoric of myself with the irresistable taste of testosterone and Spanish cuisine. Make sure you check it out. Do it!

Thank you and goodnight.

Physicians

In my constant search for purpose in life, I came accross an online career finder prepared by a "PhD-qualified social scientist" to help me take my first steps toward finding my Authentic Direction. At FutureProofYourCareer.com I took an extensive quiz that tested my aptitude and personality traits to decide the perfect career for me. This was a quiz I was determined to fail.

Using my internet quiz alias Bolton Jacknife, I logged in and began my journey towards my life's purpose and ideal career.

I gave myself the lowest possible scores in all aspects of human ability, answering the personality questions like a schizophrenic. If I was able to contradict myself at any time, I did. As far as this quiz knows, I can’t do math or stack objects, I’ve killed several drifters and I did great in math class while working as an object stacker. I’d like to think that by the time I finished, a computer somewhere was screaming and shooting itself in the mouth.

So now that this computer brain knows I can’t do anything right, and the property damage from me trying would be unacceptable, it suggested my primary field of study: healthcare practitioner. Not what I was expecting. Maybe because giving myself the lowest possible scores in everything proved I was honest enough to tell someone they have cancer without fucking with them, yet incompetent enough to have that turn out to be wrong. That’s win/win for everybody.

Seeing as though this is fully scientific there's no room for any subjectiveness on my part. It's like how sexy women make guys spurt out the names of body parts when they talk, or how puppets only know songs about the alphabet. It's just simple science.

Good Morning, Vietnam

A filmmaker's goal could be to make the funniest war movie ever made, but being the funniest war movie is a lot like being the best looking child molester. You only won because no one else entered the contest, and it probably shouldn't have been held in the first place. This was almost as bad as Coyote Ugly. And I don't just throw around comparisons to that piece of trash. I mean this movie was bad.

In case you haven't seen this film, here's the whole thing: Robin Williams tells jokes that clearly aren't funny and then they cut to the other actors laughing uproariously at them. Then at the end, the sad clown cries. The box said it's "the most fun you can have with your VCR." Unless of course you count putting in a tape that's actually good, or maybe dressing up the VCR in a swimsuit and taking it to a picnic on the beach. I wouldn't have known it was a comedy if the box didn't say so, and I still think it's a typo.

I have a film minor, so I do consider myself barely credible when it comes to movies, and I can say that there are truly not enough feet in the world to kick this producer's ass as much as he needs it. The Vietnam War, one of the biggest tragedies in American history, according to Amazon.com, "makes a great gift idea." But only if you hate someone and want them to hate you back.

How could this have happened? I'm not sure, but I came up with what I think was exchanged between the film producer and the Touchstone Pictures studio executive:

Film Producer: "Hey, we're almost done shooting that movie we were talking about at the bar."

Studio Executive: "Hey, Ralph. You're wearing your underwear outside your pants again. Now, what's this movie you're talking about?"

Ralph: "Good Morning, Vietnam. You know, the movie about the unorthodox and outspoken DJ who can make troops laugh while they're being filled with bullets that you said sounded like a great idea."

Studio Executive: "I was kidding, you stupid ass."

Ralph: "Oh... Well, it's pretty much ready to go. What should we do now?"

Game Producer: "I don't know. Give it a catchy tagline and get out of my office. We'll worry about you getting fired later. Jesus, we're so fucked."

I'm sorry, but any comedy with a lead character that can be described as “free-spirited” is not going to be funny. I should have seen it coming though, because it made AFI's top 100 funniest movies of all time, which automatically means there's a 90% chance of it being unwatchable. If you've ever seen a top 100 AFI list, you'll know what I'm talking about. AFI's comedy list was a mess of confusing mistakes, and by the end, the only thing that was clear was that the AFI doesn't like comedy in their comedies.

(For those who are wondering, a movie is only an official Comedy if it follows one specific criteria: A main character must at least once stand outside a restaurant and be mistaken for a valet parking attendant and be given the keys to a super fast red sports car. If you don't see this happen during a movie, you're either not watching a Comedy or you went to the bathroom at the worst possible time.)

Anyway, when retarded people fail at something, you have to handle it very carefully and make sure to stay positive. That's why I'm responding to AFI by saying, "Nice try, American Film Institute. It was a very good try."

Comic Ads

I recently stumbled across an online library of old ad-based comics, and, like the rotary phone, helps demonstrate how retarded people were fifty years ago. So have a look at some of these links and see what I mean.

Life Size Inflatable Doll

Thanks to modern advances in loneliness, having sex with a giant woman-shaped balloon no longer seems that crazy. But you know what is? An ad for an inflatable doll desperately trying to find non-sex uses for it WRITTEN BY THE DOLL ITSELF.

Judy and Jim Defy Savage Gorilla

Okay. You can earn a rifle. A gorilla-killing rifle. Starting now, the rest of my life is narrowed down to two goals: Goal one is selling you some salve, and goal two is killing gorillas from the back of my live pony. If you see anyone at any time doing anything else, it's not me.

The fact that the gorilla immediately responded to the children and their guns either means it understands English fluently, or it has been shot before many, many times. And if there was really a zoo cool enough to leave the gorilla cages open and let little boys and girls come in fully armed, Mickey Mouse would have to give out free blowjobs to keep Disneyland from going bankrupt.

Vacutex

Not to get all emotional, but if you're engaged to a woman who won't marry you until your skin clears up, maybe instead of a new skin treatment, you should find a woman who isn't a total bitch.

Old Nick Richest Milk Chocolate

As far as I can tell, Old Nick's plan to save the crowd was to jump out of the audience and highjack an ambulance, then crash it into a burning car right next to them. If the fact that that crazy fucking idea worked had anything to do with a candy bar, then hell yes I'll eat one. His quick thinking might have saved twenty lives and yet only totally killed the shit out of one midget car racer.

He-Man and the Wonders of Big Babol

You're always going to run into problems when you translate your ad from Italian into English and then into He-Man. It's the only way you can get well-written phrases like "Friends! Skeletor should die or everything will be ruined!"

Panic Magazine

It doesn't really instill confidence when the best thing you can say about your magazine is that most consumers prefer the one you're ripping off. And since they seemed happy with barely modifying some clip art they found and calling it an ad, I'm going to do the same thing with my review of it:

EGM and Maxim

In my youth I used to subscribe to a magazine called Electronic Gaming Monthly, because I was a dork. An awesome dork. But then this magazine was purchased by a company who replaced every reader's subscription with Maxim. Many of these readers said "Can I just have my money back?" These readers all got checks for the remaining part of their subscription. These checks bounced.

My first thought was, “Duh.” My second thought was, “Not only does Maxim still exist, they have enough money to passive aggressively tell millions of people to fuck themselves!” And I have to admit, that's an impressive feat when your reader mail section looks like this:

Dear Maxim,

I really liked your feature on masturbation safety in speedboats. I live in Florida, and thought I knew it all. Turns out I should be dead, 100 times over!

Derek

Miami, Age 8

I never got Maxim because my subscription to EGM ended about 8 years ago, which is a similar explanation for everybody else who doesn't subscribe to Maxim, and I still don't want it. Turns out Maxim is just a censored version of the internet, that costs money, and is written by horny guys writing articles called "How to bang a hot chick." “Bang a hot chick” is something you say to your friends to celebrate the last moment of them not knowing you’re a virgin.

And whose decision was it to replace a videogame nerd's favorite magazine with a subscription full of stuff they're never going to get? That's just mean. When these bastards arent mocking geeks, they're probably reading jogging magazines aloud to crippled orhpans. I mean, imagine being a Maxim subscriber and having your issues replaced with EGMs. If that's not a giant "fuck you" than I don't know what is.

The Music Genome Project and the Oral Phil Collins Rating System

If you're not familiar with Pandora, they have this system called the Music Genome Project, which is basically a robot that maps out the DNA of music, and then finds songs that have similar DNA for you to enjoy. If you didn't go to school, think of it like a matchmaker in a room full of cousins.

Most people use this program so the robot will create a radio station based around their favorite song. I'm going to use it to discover what happens if Phil Collin's song "Sussudio" was allowed to breed. If you did go to school, think of Phil Collins as the gay version of the worst thing you ever heard.

What I'm going to do is tell Pandora that I enjoy the song "Sussudio", which is already quite dangerous, then see what song it spits out to please me. I'll then take that song and create a radio station around it. And so on. This experiment may shock you. You may learn that your favorite song may be genetically linked, directly or indirectly, to "Sussudio". Snakes surgred out of my computer as Pandora created an electronic DJ capable of creating a "Sussudio"-based playlist- Beulah was born. She is Hitler's finest Phil Collins fan, in the body of her favorite robot, weekdays from 6 to 9 a.m. Don't try this at home.

Degree 1: "Relax" by Frankie Goes to Hollywood

Beulah thought that the “groove based tonality” and “repetitive melodic phrasing” was a close match to Phil Collins’s song about tongue abuse. I actually think it had more to do with the fact that “Relax” starts out with these exact lyrics, simulating something that Phil probably said while having sex with many other men:

Mahaha, hiya

Give it to me one time now

Yeah, whoa, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho

Well, now;

Now's a good time to explain the Oral Phil Collins Rating System. As we know, Phil Collins enjoys man meat, as much as possible, in and around his mouth. To apply this towards a rating system, say "Relax" gets 1000 dicks. This means that while Phil Collins is enjoying the smooth electronic tones of "Relax", he still wants 1000 dicks in his mouth. Theoretically, the best a song can do is zero dicks, which means Phil can enjoy the song with a mouth completely devoid of johnson. Or a song could get negative dicks, which means that Phil actually forgets about some of the dicks he's had or currently has in his mouth. But that's crazy.

Degree 2: "Tarzan Boy" by Baltimorra

I think Beulah still had some "Sussudio" left in her short term memory because the dominant lyric in this song is "OwowowowowowawowoWOWO." It's still too early to tell, but it seems like going back in time to invent Phil Collins at the dawn of music could be a good way to destroy all happiness as we know it.

Rating: 842 dicks

Degree 3: “Wanna Be Startin’ Something” by Michael Jackson

I'm sure this result hits many people hard to find out that their favorite song and one of Michael's best hits is only three degrees of separation from "Sussudio". That's probably what killed him. Speaking as a Michael Jackson fan, that’s like recognizing your parents’ voices on the other side of a glory hole. This is the worst news I’ve received since I learned what a vaginal suppository was from my box of jellybeans.

Rating: 12 dicks

Degree 4: "I Like Boys" by Missing Persons

No kidding, Beulah in all her evilness went straight from Michael Jackson to some song called "I Like Boys". It's obvious she did it on purpose. Nice joke, Beulah. Did your humor chip come directly out of a Spuds Mackenzie calculator watch? I told her to make a station based off of this song, which sounds like Molly Shannon being kidnapped by a bunch of rapists. Beulah complimented me on my explaining ability and proceeded.

Rating: 1,423 dicks

Degree 5: “Never Gonna Give You Up” by Rick Astley

Let this be a lesson to future generations: don’t tell artificial intelligences living inside your radio that you like songs about liking boys. Even if you do. To a robot, that’s like saying “Search parameter: butthole, subroutine: put it in my mouth and ears.”

Beulah seemed happy when I pushed stop and reset her memory bank. I told her to build a station based off of the Rick Roll classic. Beulah knows now why I cry, but it's something she can never do.

Rating: 633 dicks

Degree 6: “Sussudio“ by Phil Collins

Holy shit.

According to the most sophisticated music DNA-mapping software on the Earth Internet, if you go six degrees away from Phil Collins, it’s Phil Collins. I can’t even begin to describe how mathematically terrifying and impossible that is, but if I had to try, I’d say it’s like the number glorp getting raped by an eight.

“Sussudio” is a bear that’s tasted man– if you try to run away from it, it circles around and waits for you. “Sussudio” will burst through your front door and then appear in your mirror when you lock yourself in the bathroom. I'm geniunely scared. Whatever music you listen to, it's at best only three degrees away from Sussudio. God help us all.

Rating: ∞ dicks

Ratrick part III: Beginnings

Thanks to an uncaring God who created the luckless hobos who taught me how to operate cymbals with my knees while simultaneously playing the spoons, I have some rudimentary music skills. But apparently it wasn't enough to save Ratrick from disaster- other band member Patrick and our highly-trained stage rat Ratty never got along, our songs sucked, and we were frequently beat-up by frat boys, which probably gave us brain damage and at least explained why our songs were so bad. But that's not the whole story.

Believe it or not, Patrick wasn't my first choice for a bandmate. It was former New Kid On The Block Jon Knight. But three minutes into our first rehearsal I accidentaly broke his neck while I was showing him how I could pop his eardrum, and so Sunny Chico, famous boy band creator, introduced me to my replacement, Patrick. Sunny said Patrick could bring to the table two things: talent and looks. "And a third thing: looks," he added. I told him he'd already said looks. We argued, we agreed to disagree, and then, for the first time, he hit me.

"I thought we agreed to disagree!" I sobbed as I tore his knuckles apart from my head. It wouldn't be the last time Sunny Chico hit me- though from then on it would always be by accident and not as painful.

Then the day came when I met Patrick for the first time. It was immediately clear we were natural enemies- he'd poison my coffee in the morning, I'd light his bed on fire in the middle of the night, he'd try to run me over with his car, I'd ask him why we even lived together, he'd say he didn't know, we'd shrug it off, and then go back to trying to kill each other. I continued to brace myself for a long period of mistrust and attempted homicides that would only be resolved- after much time and maybe even some crime solving- when we finally had a fistfight which I'd just barely win by cheating in a fun, lovable way.

Then it hit me. I had known Patrick before- in grade school. On Valentines day we exchanged cards; I gave him a Star Wars one that had a stormtrooper saying "I have my sights set on you." His face didn't show any recognition when I recited it back to him as I'd practiced so many nights in front of the Patrick-shaped stack of meat I keep unrefrigerated at home.

If he didn't like or respect me, he put up a good act. Because that afternoon he asked if we could become blood brothers. He slid a knife across his palm, and with a grim yet friendly look, handed it to me. I accidentally cut most of my finger off and we found out later Patrick's blood gave me hepatitis, but it really helped enhance the chemistry of Ratrick.

Busy

Unfortunately I'm a lot busier than I thought I'd be with my senior year of college so I'm going to have to put the posts on hold for a little while, but before I go, I have to ask- do you ever wonder what all that military spending goes to? I mean, how do you spend 700 billion dollars on food and ammo? I've crunched the numbers, and there's just no way. I always thought they should try to have more fun with it. Like maybe they could give out tricky joke gifts when the men get promoted. The drill sergeant would march out and get everyone lined up. Then he would start screaming at the top of his lungs.

"Men! You are the most highly trained! And deadly! Soldiers in the world! You! Are unmatched in combat efficiency! You can kill a man with your ass in five seconds! Now! You men have proven your worth to your God! And! To your country! Stand easy! And receive your can of pea-nuts!!! Now, men! They sound half full! That is due to settling during shipping! You men are trained to deal with this! Gentlemen! Open! Your! Cans!!!"

Then, when the highly trained deadly soldiers open their (supposed) cans of peanuts, they are surprised to find out that instead of delicious nuts, the cans are bursting with springy snakes!

"You men! Are very funny! You should! Have seen your faces! Ha! Ha! Those were not peanuts! But snakes! They were however! Nutty! Ha! Ha!"

Of course, if word got out that there were snakes in the peanut cans, they could switch the prank to gum that turns their mouths blue, or cigars that explode. And filming events like this would be a much more effective military recruitment video than a bunch of marines standing ten feet apart over some rock formation in Utah.

That's all I got. Hopefully I'll have some free time soon to talk about some equally pressing issues.

Sex Self-Help Books: Part I

Sex is something everyone claims to be good at, but few people take the time to research. Evidently for guys to be good at sex they have to be attentive, fit and focused. As for a woman, she must be awake-ish. And you know what? That's bullshit. But true. And the problem is, there just aren't a whole lot of structured methods to learn how to have sex. In school we were taught sex by being shown pictures of genital warts and child births until crotches were our sworn enemies. Fortunately for us though, there are books that can tell us how to do it.

How to Make Love with your Clothes On: 101 Ways to Romance your Wife.

The author and his wife include so much religion in their sex life that I'll bet 'Moses' is their safe word, and they use it anytime it goes past first base. If you make it past the intro without going mad, blind, or gay, you'll see that the book is 101 tips ranging from the dumb to the religious. And it's CO-written. Meaning every so often his wife will add some "notes". And if you put the book to your ear, you can almost hear her screaming over his shoulder as he types.

Favorite Line:
"#31: Read Song of Solomon together from the Bible (A spicy bit of revelation concerning the romantic love between a husband and wife.)"

Anyone who thinks that's spicy probably get compound orgasms from baking chocolate chip cookies.

A Pocket Guide to Loving Sex

I think the Pocket Guide to Loving Sex was written by the author of How to Enjoy Pizza and Why Cake is Better than Watching Kittens Die. It’s a very, very illustrated reference guide to every aspect of sex. There’s even a helpful index in the back, so if your partner ever pants, “Let’s do parting of the waves!” you can thumb to the page that teaches you how to do it. And let me tell you, you never really realize how filthy sex is until you see a drawing of a hairy married couple with fingers in each other’s butts.

And with all the lovingly rendered 70s haircuts, it also acts as a rated-R handbook for Haircrafters employees. You know, in case a client ever wants to see how their haircut will look next to, for example, a battery-operated cockring. Thanks, Jane Hertford.

The Most Insane Martial Arts Movie Ever

Everyone will tell you that they've seen the craziest asian martial arts film ever, but trust me, the best you've seen will look like an estrogen pill commercial after you've witnessed Ong Bak 2.

Directed by martial artist Tony Jaa himself, we already know that this kind of thing works out for the best. When Jean-Claude Van Damme was given control of a movie, the first thing he did was cast an extra Jean-Claude Van Damme and called it Double Impact. Steven Segal's first direction of course was On Deadly Ground, 65 minutes of which were taken directly from Best of Buttholes 7: Six Hours of Buttle Blasting Action!

What I like about Ong Bak 2 is that it doesn't even try for a plot. There's just so much action that the director went insane. I mean, if a scene requires 50 ninjas, it takes ten weeks just to find them, even if they're in the same elevator as you. THEN you have to teach them choreography, so they're not just randomly disappearing and you find half your camera crew cut in half. Now make every scene like that one. The Persian army would have looked at the call sheet for Ong Bak 2 and said "Where the fuck are we going to get 1500 archers? And 4000 nunchucks!? That's gotta be like half the world's nunchuck population."

And Tony Jaa had to direct, train, and kick the shit out of each one of them. Fortunately, all hospitals in Thailand have a special Tony Jaa wing where they treat victims of Tony Jaa. Unfortunately, there is no branch of medicine dedicated to treating Tony Jaa himself, so after fighting off hundreds of 15th century soldiers, he had a nervous breakdown and disappeared into the jungle. True story.

Ong Bak 2 is like 90 minutes of ancient 911 call transcripts played in no particular order. But because it may get a theatrical release in the states I won't ruin the ending. But I can tell you it's so gay that it's illegal to watch in a public bathroom. But, SPOILER: Tony Jaa is beaten shitless by the second half of the movie's stream of boss fights. Then it fades to black and a voiceover tells us that if we believe in our hearts, we, the audience, can make his life better. Even though a less-gay ending would have been the 500 guys beating him to death gently applying his lipstick with their penises, you should still see it.