Hot or Not: Julia Roberts?

Wow, almost no one (aside from 7 people) read my entry on books. So I’m going to go back to basics today with a question.

It must be asked… I bring this question up a lot in my day to day life and it’s the sort of thing I’ve been pondering since I was 10 years-old and I saw Pretty Woman. Even then, as an ignorant child, I wasn’t quite sure who the title of the film was talking about. They couldn’t mean Julia Roberts…. could they?

It was about 2 years later, when my interest in girls was its peak (both mentally and physcially – you get it?), that I realized who they were indeed talking about. Fucking Julia Roberts. I once asked my Mom why Julia Roberts had so many teeth. Did she not remove her baby teeth? What gives?

I am going to have to vote “Not” on this one, my friends. There is something about her… like, when she laughs hard, her mouth opens so wide as if her head literally splits in two, thus causing the top half to float away like a helicopter of doom.


Julia Roberts and the Helicopter of Doom (2/2009)

Just how many fucking teeth does she have? Even when her mouth is shut and serious, like how it is often in Erin Brockovich, her lips look as if they are in a struggle with the teeth, as if they are prisoners desperately pulling for escape. But the lips do a good job keeping them in there… usually.

“But Mike, how can you not like her? She is so beautiful!”

I beg to differ with you, middle-aged, white female America, who long for her magnificent smile. I long not for her. I think her brother Eric has a lot more acting potential than she does, and he sure as hell has a lot less teeth. Perhaps I am just angry because she won an Academy Award over Ellen Burstyn a few years back. I am not sure, but I am sure that it does have a lot to do with it. What do you think? Check an option in this sweet poll…

And on a seperate note, I am quite proud of today’s picture. Usually I will set out to draw something only to give up seconds later when I realize I can’t draw what my imagination creates. Today is quite an exception for I drew exactly what I pictured.

Nervous Breakdown

For the past few months, I thought I was in the midst of a nervous breakdown (or quarter-life crisis), but it seems that all the things wrong in my life were pretty inconsequential compared to that of my cat. For the past few weeks, my good feline friend Doyle has had a little rash on his belly. He has also been spending a lot of time in my closet, in the dark, all by himself lately. He would only leave during feeding time or if he had to take a shit.

So there he sat, lonely, in my dark closet. Over the past few days though, said rash on his stomach kept getting bigger and bigger. All he ever did in my lonely closet was bite and lick it, no matter how many times I told him that the ladies don’t like self pity. He was never to kick it with a chick that way. He didn’t care though. Nothing phased him.

I started to sense that my poor little kitty was super depressed. He didn’t even get excited at the sound of the can opener anymore (when tuna was afoot). The rash kept growing and growing, and soon began to leak fluids, before finally, he would leave a spot of blood everywhere he sat down. That was no good for business.

After a few days of this, I decided to run him to the emergency hospital (as trying to get an appointment at any vet’s office sometime this century seems a bit impossible in this town). It was 9:00pm on a Tuesday. Doyle hates car rides, and even worse, hates being put into a cat carrier. He’d rather throw himself off my balcony.

After sitting in the patient’s room for a while (where there was a sweet HDTV set up with Planet Earth playing on loop), the doctor came in and examined him closely. Doyle is a long-haired cat, so his stomach area was mangled with all the blood and saliva of the past few days. They took him in the back and shaved his belly. I don’t think he liked that very much.

She brought him back into the room and began a serious discussion.

“It appears that Doyle here is suffering from a bout of depression,” she says casually.

“What? Are you serious?” I ask in a rather surprised fashion.

“I would say it may be due to stress, but you have said there is nothing really stressful going on in your home. How has he been behaving lately?”

“Well, he has been spending a lot of time in closet, all by himself, in the dark.”

“Oh, see? Anti-social behavior in felines is one of the sure signs.”

The conversation continued. Basically, my cat was a depressed messed and was taking it out on himself.

“What Doyle is doing in comparable to a human being a cutter. So if your cat was a human, he’d be a cutter.”

Was she telling me that little Doyle, had he came out of a woman’s vagina instead of a felines, would spend his days listening to The Cure and wearing tight black jeans and cutting himself? What kind of parent am I to have inspired such an awful lifestyle?

She gave me two things to treat his problem with – a topical spray to help heal the wound and a prescription for antidepressants, which I had to pick up at the nearest human pharmacy. The lady also gave him a shot for something or other.

Now Doyle seems to be doing alright. I have to hide his medicine in these weird cat treats with holes in them. Hopefully now I won’t have to worry about coming home and finding him in my tub with his wrists slit.

Doyle and the Razor Blade (4/2008)

The detective who showed me death…

I’m in this Sociology of Murder class. It’s pretty awesome, as all we talk about are weird murder cases and what not. My teacher is a captain of detectives or something in my city. The other day, he brought in one of his detectives to talk to us about some of the real life cases he’s worked on in town. I was pretty excited about the whole thing.

Funnily enough, both my teacher and the detective sported a mustache. Two walking cop clich├ęs right there in front of me. Long sleeve dress shirts, plain colored ties, tie clips, and mustaches. This new detective was pretty funny. I imagined him to be that cop who says crazy shit during interrogations. My teacher was the quiet type, the “good cop” to this guy’s “bad cop.”

Anyways, this guy walked up to the front of our classroom and said, “Okay guys, so I am going to show you some pictures. They are not for the weak of stomach or the faint of heart. If you have to leave, that’s totally fine. Your teacher will see you next week.”

I knew exactly what was going down. He was to show us people of dead people. And dead people, he showed us. Hundreds upon hundreds of pictures of dead people. Suicides by hanging, gun shots, stabs, people who jumped off buildings, strangulations, and even a guy who was shoved in a toilet. This guy has seen it all.

The best part is that this guy would joke about each picture while most of my class was horrified. Me and this other kid were the only ones laughing. Is it weird that I think dead people are funny?

Interestingly enough, was how some people killed themselves. 80% of the suicide pictures he showed us, the people got naked first. Like they didn’t want to fuck up their outfits with blood or brain particles. What about the fucking carpet?

Careful with that Rope (10/2007)

David Benioff to tackle Cobain

Cinematical reported yesterday that screenwriter David Benioff is going to pen up a story about everyone’s favorite shotgun victim, Kurt Cobain. Don’t get me wrong, I loved Nirvana when he was alive and they were still making music. Now, every time I hear them on the radio, I change the channel. I guess you could say I am a bit Nirvana’d out.


With that said though, Benioff has a penned one of Spike Lee’s best films, The 25th Hour. It was one of the first real Hollywood films to focus on a group of characters living in post-9/11 New York City. Some of the clean up footage during the film is truly harrowing.

But then Benioff wrote that Wolfgang Peterson monstrosity called Troy. Man, did that movie hurt my anus. What will this Kurt Cobain adventure bring us? Even better, who cares anymore? Guy wrote sangs, made money, fucked Courtney Love, did heroin, shot himself. Not too much of a character to tackle.

“Mind if I kill myself in front of the City Council?”

CNN Reports: Last Thursday evening, in Clarksville, TN, a man became so frustrated with a decision by the City Council who decided against re-zoning his house as a commercial land, that he decided to do something rather drastic. He walked up to the members and said, “Y’all have put me under… I’m out of here.”

And away he went, as he pulled out a gun and shot himself to death in front of an audience of 50 plus people Now, I am not arguing that this is indeed a tragic story, you have to admire the man’s courage. Most people who decide to commit suicide do it in the comfort of their own homes or some place private. This guy did it during a meeting in front a group of people. That’s what I call dedication.

This story reminded of ole’ Budd Dwyer. To summarize, he was a Republican politician involved in some scheme that earned him over $300,000. Instead of facing his woes like a man (he would have gotten up to 55 years in prison if convited), he held a live televised press conference. Right before it was to start, he passed around sealed envelopes and told everyone not to open it until it was all over. He finally took the podium, pulled out a revolver, then shot himself in the mouth… in front of all those people, on live television.


Budd Dwyer moments before he pulled the trigger in his mouth (1987 AP Photo/Gary Miller)

I’ve actually seen the Dwyer footage. It was included on one of those Faces of Death or Traces of Death videos from back in the day. I am pretty positive that a google search will provide you with a link to it, if you are so curious. A little word to the wise though, be prepared for blood. It runs out of his face like someone turned on a bath.


$300,000 Dwyer (10/2007)

A friend of mine once told me this joke, with his best Elmer Fudd impersonation. It went, “How do you dry off a gun?” I shrugged my shoulders. He responded with, “You put it in a Dwyer.” Yes, that’s a terrible joke. But today is a rather grim today, so let’s roll with that.