Saw this in a story about a kid who got separated from a hiking group over the weekend:
Grayson watches “Man vs. Wild” on the Discovery Channel every week with his brothers and his dad. On the show, host and adventurer Bear Grylls strands himself in the wilderness and then shows viewers how to survive the sticky situations.
That’s where Grayson says he learned to leave clues behind to help searchers find him.
Really? Leaving clues behind is something Bear Grylls taught him?
Maybe if the little shit would’ve spent more time reading and less time in front of the TV, he wouldn’t have needed to watch a man drink his own urine just to find out about leaving a trail of bread crumbs. That probably could’ve been learned by, oh, I don’t know, reading Hansel and FUCKING Gretel.
This story just adds to my disdain for that ridiculous show that Discovery Channel tries to pass off as educational television. My old roommate tried to sell me on this, but I was having none of it.
I mean, to whom is this show helpful? Odds are, if you’re the type of person who watches Bear Grylls to learn something about surviving, you’re probably not the person who leaves the couch unless ultimately necessary. Conversely, if you’re already someone who backpacks through the Amazon, then I’m pretty sure you don’t need a walking jackass to tell you how to do your thing,
Let’s just stop pretending he’s teaching us something when he’s really just there for entertainment.
And kid, read a fucking book.
Filed under: Bright Orange Seats, Dennis Bunnicelli, Must Be Friday, YouTube
No writing around here this week. What’s up with that?
Well, for starters, I’ve been swamped at work. Deadlines and piles of work do not lend themselves to a lot of creative writing. The time I have been able to touch fingertips to laptop have been spent over at Bright Orange Seats, where I was asked to do my first radio interview on Tuesday. Yes, it was a lot of fun. And yes, I did milk it for all it was worth. Since then, my traffic has jumped and I’ve been forced to put a little more effort into the site than usual over the last few days.
As for life away from the computer screen, there’s not all that much going on.
This Sunday is my softball championship. I’m not sure if winning that would make me really cool or an unfathomable loser. Losing would obviously provide the easy answer.
Anyway, it’s Friday, and even though I seemed to be slacking off this week, I’ll still leave you with some Dennis Bunni… oh wait. Nevermind.
Watch this instead:
Filed under: Holy Fuck!, Photo That Will Absolutely Make You Wet Yourself, Photography, WTF?
Not too long ago, I took up photography as something to do to keep myself occupied. Also, because I kinda love photography. Whatever the reason, though, I find myself wandering the pages Flickr more and more nowadays. Some of the things I find are interesting, others ridiculous, and every so often, I find something that’s scary enough to make me soil my underwear.
This week’s Photo That Will Absolutely Make You Wet Yourself is brought to you by the Flickr stream of one, Tomatito Rodrigues.
Enjoy your weekend. May it be filled with much penis.
The other morning, I woke up and stumbled into the living room. It was still dark and so my vision wasn’t exactly all there, but when I looked down, I noticed something crawling toward the kitchen of my new apartment.
My first roach! Fuck!
I looked for a shoe, but there were none in sight. If I didn’t do something quickly, he would’ve scurried into the closet and I would never have been able to find him. I’d spend the next week and a half surveying the floor before I entered any room. There’s no way I could let that happen.
The only other option was the can of Raid, which I really didn’t want to use because the entire apartment would smell like crap. It was my only hope, though.
I reached down and misted his back, but he didn’t speed up. Normally, a roach will haul ass as soon as it catches a whiff of insecticide. This dude just kept walking along at his own slow pace.
I sprayed again.
That’s when I realized that this thing was no roach.
On the top of what appeared to be it’s head, two bright green lights began to glow, like giant radiation-filled eyes. What the fuck? I was no longer fighting an insect; I was up against a fucking alien.
After standing, mesmorized, for a good 15 seconds, I came back to my senses, found a shoe and beat the piss out of it. Those green lights slowly dimmed and eventually faded, signaling his unfortunate demise.
But, really, what the hell was that thing?
A few minutes of Googling led me to my answer–a click beetle. Holy hell, are these things awesome. From Wikipedia:
They are a cosmopolitan beetle family characterized by the unusual click mechanism they possess. There are a few closely-related families in which a few members have the same mechanism, but all elaterids can click. A spine on the prosternum can be snapped into a corresponding notch on the mesosternum, producing a violent “click” which can bounce the beetle into the air. Clicking is mainly used to avoid predation, although it is also useful when the beetle is on its back and needs to right itself.
So, not only can they glow, but they can basically do all sorts of weird shit with their bodies. Awesome. Here’s a video of these bad boys in action:
Now, I’m truly sad that I smacked that little bugger with that shoe. He’s so gosh darn cute. And entertaining. Perhaps he and I could’ve been friends.
Maybe next time.
If I could change one thing about this world, it wouldn’t be global warming, starvation or the horrible sewage that MTV tries to pass off as programing. I wouldn’t cure disease or free countries from asshole dictators. No, I would completely do away with bullshit conversation at work. A few hypothetical rules to follow under my new system:
1. If you say What’s up? or any derivative of the phrase, you better fucking stick around and let me answer. This practice of walking by me in the halls, asking about my day and then continuing to walk away because you could give two shits? It’s done. Either don’t ask me in the first place or stop and listen to me bitch about deadlines and idiots who ask inane questions.
2. Do not, under any circumstance, stop at my desk to talk to me. If you catch me in the halls, fine. I’ll bite. But at my desk, you’re probably just keeping me from being productive with your mindless babble. General rule of thumb: I don’t care. Did your wife just give birth? Son graduate college? There’s a gaggle of militant geese out front trying to take over the company? I really could care less. In fact, the only thing that actually concerns me, while I’m working, is work. So, unless there’s some project you’d like me to get started on, kindly stop hovering over my fucking cubicle.
3. Lower. Your. Voice. Clearly, your story about that underage, midget tranny who gave you a blowjob in the dressing room at JC Penny is as entertaining as they come, but it’s lunch time, we’re in T.G.I. Fridays, there are kids around and I’m pretty sure the dude two booths over is Chris Hansen. So, let’s take it down a notch, eh big fella?
4. Observe the Arms-Distance Rule. Nobody likes a close-talker. You guys make conversation uncomfortable for the rest of us. Are you going to hug me? Kiss me? Stab me in the chest? I can never tell. Just give me enough room to run the fuck away if I determine that you might actually be out of your mind.
That’s it. I don’t ask for much. Just a little revamp of the conversational system. You may think I’m anti-social, but you’ll thank me when that fucking yenta in the cubicle next to you wants to talk about Desperate Housewives.
If you hadn’t noticed, there’s been a distinct lack of content here over the last week. I’m sorry to have let you down, but the moving process is something of a bitch. If you haven’t done it, I suggest you never try. Actually, I suggest you stay in the same place you’re currently in, at the moment, and never–EVER–leave. I left. And because I so stupidly decided to do so, I can let you know what you won’t be missing out on by staying put.
Hygiene. In four or five days of sweaty moving, I think I showered for all of 2 minutes. It was mostly a way to run water over the 3-inch layer of dirt covering my body–no soap, mind you–and trick my mind into thinking I was clean enough to fall asleep in a bed. Aside from falling asleep in a pool of my own sweat most nights, I must’ve gone a solid three days without ever once touching a toothbrush. I couldn’t even tell you where I packed it. Needless to say, I purchased a new one as soon as I settled in and have used it at least 30 times in the last two days.
Food. There’s no time to eat when you’re moving two different people from three different houses. Your time is spent loading, driving, unloading, driving, sleeping, unpacking, unpacking and unpacking some more. I must’ve gone 2 days straight with 0 calories consumed.
Dignity. There is absolutely no way to look cool while driving a moving van. Believe me, I tried. No matter what you wear, how you position your hands on the wheel or the kind of music you blast, you still look like you’re smuggling Mexicans over the border.
Sanity. I spent 5 days sitting in a house of boxes, waiting for Comcast to save me. Because I work during the day, I had to wait until the weekend for the fine gentleman to come and grant me internet access and a television with more than 28 channels. Trust me, there are only so many episodes of the Hills one can watch before being placed on suicide watch.
There are more horror stories, but even thinking about moving again is making my head hurt. Just stay where you are. If you’re at your parent’s house, just pay them rent and ask that they never look into your sock drawer. If you live with an ex-wife, I urge you to stay where you are anyway. You may hate her with a fiery passion, but at least she doesn’t weigh as much as a wall unit. (And if she does, then there’s a reason you married her in the first place and you probably couldn’t do much better anyway.) If you’re a bum, then keep panhandling. Fuck it. If your life never gets any better, then you never have to worry about labeling boxes as fragile and then watching as the bottom falls apart and glass objects are cascading down the stairs of your new apartment building.
If you haven’t been able to tell, I fucking hate moving. But now that it’s over, I’m going to enjoy the bed I put together.
And hope that my bed-building skill set is marginally better than my ability to construct boxes.