Suck on my Snake Eyes

Okay, so Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen sucked pretty hard. It's certain death for a film when the director scoffs that it isn't Shakespeare so cut it some slack. It's an excuse for sloppy storytelling and justifying annoying yokel robots.

Since I'm on my soapbox, G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra will probably whomp equal to or greater than Transformers. But that said, I loooove me some G.I. Joe. I'm going in blind, expecting the worst but still hoping for the best.

My hope was encouraged today by 7Eleven's cross-promotion with the Joes and Slurpees. Featuring four 3-D cups, you can tilt 'em around and see the characters in action, jumping, shooting, screaming "Co-BRAAA" with ultra violent glee.

Although I'm more of a Destro and Scarlett fan, I was stoked to see Snake Eyes, Storm Shadow, and the Baroness unabashedly endorsing sugary ice and their own mad ninja skills all at once. They also had a Duke cup but seriously, who cares about him? And just how much sugar can I ingest at once?

The real selling point for me of course was the crappy toys. With their backs strapped to the straw, each character is posed in "I'm gonna fuck you UP" poses. Snake Eyes is my fave, mostly because he looks so bad ass with his Arashikage Clan sword and a gun. Storm Shadow's okay if you picture him on a trampoline, yelling "Wheee!" while the Baroness looks eerily like an Asian gal I used to work with. The resemblance is uncanny and I can't help but have her make out with the other two.

All in all, me likey and despite being easily satiated by plastic toys and sugar rushes, I'm saving my final verdict for the Joes' first foray into film. In the meantime, I've got crappy plastic toys to keep me busy.

Yo JOE!

Who's gayer?

It's that time again... another installment of Who's Gayer?


This time around is the same person but it's a case of the battle of alter egos.

It's prissy, pedantic, pink vest-loving Prince Adam versus the tanorexic, 'roid monkey in leather straps He-Man!

YOU decide!

Maybe redheads have more fun...

Anyone ever notice that the Smurfs' terrorizing tomboy Sassette has the same coloring as the X-Men's shapeshifting seductress Mystique?

Of course not, that's why you're here reading this.

Lil' Sassette, like her older counterpart Smurfette, was born of magic clay and quickly became the Smurf Village's resident hellraiser.

This is understandable of course since her sole role model was a vapid tramp amidst a sausage factory. Poor gal needed a change, needed to leave her humble beginnings, needed an outlet to channel her rage.

And hence a supervillain was born. Now all grown up, filled out, and harnessing her clay-inspired shapeshifting abilities, she goes by Mystique and is a killing machine!

But why would a simple small town gal go ballistic and become one of the X-Men's greatest villains? If you were a gal who just liked to have fun but was put down by your Communist-esque all-male society that was under constant attack by Gargamel, Hagatha, and threatened by that wooden damn bursting every time it rained, you'd be pretty screwed up in the head too. I'm not justifying bloodbaths but when you grow up to be that hot, I can turn the other cheek.

Girly Toy Body Dysmorphia

Everything old is new again. By that logic, if He-Man, Ninja Turtles, and Transformers can experience new heights of popularity by updating their looks, then you can bet you sweet bippy that toy companies have followed suit with girl toys too. But to what end and to whose expense?

Young girls have always been fed negative body images courtesy of Barbie (I mean, purple eyeshadow? Hooker, please!) but this new trend of revamps and re-imaginings have made America's favorite teenager look like Sarah Plain-and-Tall.

The first culprit is none other than Strawberry Shortcake. Originally, she was a plump gal who hid her obesity with large, cupcake-shaped hats and frumpy dresses. But could you blame her? If you lived in a land of desserts and ate so much that you practically smelled of their corresponding flavor, you'd be one fat ass yourself.

However, when Strawberry Shortcake was redesigned, she kept the hat but shed the weight. Sure, let's aim for healthy lifestyles, I'm all for it. But again, when you consider the gal eats nothing but pies, you have to wonder if she might have a case of bulimia... Oh, and she's a cutter. No question.

Speaking of mad weight loss, the Care Bears were the next targets of Paris-Hilton-izing girl toys.

Back in the day, the Care Bears were jolly, colorful bears who just really, really cared. A lot. Unhealthy doses maybe but hey, they tried. And in the 80's, they were easily the only ones who did.

Anyhoo, being bears, they weren't ascribed to body stereotypes. They had the pot bellies out and proud, even going as far as to brandish their one-note character trait on 'em. Fat never looked so jolly.

Fast forward a few years and Hallmark decided it was time to re-brand the Care Bears. Only this time they were decidedly more Anime-esque and shed a lot of weight... just not in their heads.

I mean, look at 'em! Can you say coke fiends?!

They're so malnourished they look like lollipops with legs. And don't think I didn't notice the vacant looks in their eyes. That's a cry for help and a stint in rehab, Lindsay Lohan style.

Last up is My Little Pony. My recent love of My Little Pony is no secret. Between our shiny, shiny hair and magnetized hooves, we have so much in common!

Here's an example of classic Pony-ness. This mare's got BACK, baby! Some sweet meat on her bones. You could tap that ass and the cotton candy tattoo that sits on it. Not only could she roll in rose petals and frolic in the meadow all day, she could easily carry her own weight in grain.

So what the hell happened to this broad?! Girl looks like she can barely lift her head up. Thinning hair, angry star tattoos to upset daddy, all the signs are there. Eat an apple and stop shooting crack into your eye, love.

And there you have it. Even toy companies are conspiring to create legions of anorexic skanks for a new generation with careful manipulation and normalizing unhealthy attitudes.

Oh, and lots and lots of glitter! Tee-hee!

The Rich Bitch or the Cutesy Pushover?

There are some debates that strike into our hearts and shake our steadfast beliefs. The existence of God. Abortion. Gay marriage.

Not me. To me, there's only been one question, one single raging debate that threatens to tear my very soul to shreds with the implications:

Should Archie end up with Betty? Or Veronica?

The love triangle has been the stuff of legends for over sixty-five years but it was announced on Archie's own site that this September's landmark Archie #600 will answer the age-old question with "The Proposal."

Blasphemy! Fie! you bellow into the night. How can this be? Well, this issue allows Archie to finally leave highschool and grow up five years (and hopefully lose the acne too). After graduation, the eternal ginger player will finally pop the question. But to who? WHO?!

Clearly, this isn't a beauty contest. Both girls have the exact same body. Pretty much the same face. The hair's different but let's look past the purely petty.

I know everyone loooooves Betty and she's so sweet and the girl-next-door and is a natural blond and blah, blah, blah. She's a pushover. A worrier. Archie will cheat on her with a transvestite hooker after one year, mark my words.

Now I've made it no secret that I'm a Veronica supporter. The raven-haired temptress has gusto, craftiness, and a two-storey shoe closet. Archie would be too scared to cheat and too comfortable to threaten losing it.

At the end of the day and by the time Archie says I do, however, the results are obvious. Part of Veronica's attraction to Archie is her rivalry with Betty and keeping her from him. Archie will clue in, marry Betty, Veronica and Reggie will have angry hate sex, and Jughead will make hamburger jokes. Maybe Moose will say something stupid.

And it's this predictability that squashes my romanticism. It's this tried-and-true course that has me gunning for the underdog, the misunderstood bitch, the one who might have a few cards left up her designer sleeve.

Fingers crossed you get that rock on your finger, Veronica!

Paper Cats Watch You Do Naughty Things

Anyone familiar with lolcatz knows that the most infamous and nefarious lolcat is Ceiling Cat.

The omnipresent Ceiling Cat watches you masturbate with silent judgement and quiet giggles.

Now not everyone who lives in condos can have a cat that watches you wank so some fellow disturbing minds have created a template that lets you experience every awkward moment as if a real cat was poking through a hole in the ceiling... watching you... with its big, dead eyes...


The instructions are easy enough:

a) foldz n glue
b) stiks
c) I iz finished

Naturally, be it my coffee-induced shakes or over complicating the painfully simple, this was no easy feat. So I started with hardstock paper, painstakingly cut out the lil' dude, then scored all the edges I was meant to fold. Yeah, I used to work in a print shop, I know all the trikz.

With superglue, tape, and some nerdy dedication, I pieced him together and he's truly, truly awesome. Not only that but I can take him in my room, the bathroom at work, the Y, anywhere I happen to masturbate on any given day and he can watch me 'til I'm done! Yay!


Also available is the banister-hugging Monorail Cat who can chill on any flat surface and sit like a furry (albeit paper in this case) blob of cat.

You can find the templates here and here.

I can haz lube now?

A Fist Full o' Fun!

In an effort to capitalize on the success of the Optimus Prime voice changer or smashing Hulk hands, Playmates has dipped into the role playing toy market for their new license, Terminator: Salvation.

My reservations about hawking an R-rated, Bale-out movie to kids aside, there are some pretty bad ass gizmos like the Voice n' Vision Skull or Endoskeleton Patches. But the real clincher (or clencher) is the Deluxe T-600 Power Fist*.

Yes, now you too can have a mighty metal fist made famous by Governor Schwarzenegger! Simply slide your hand into the fist and marvel at the sounds it emits!

Feel your fist needs more punch? With a push of a button, it also vibrates! As the box promises, "feel the force of the Terminator" as you fist your friends with vindictive glee.

But wait kids, there's more! Aside from vibrating (powerfully one would assume), the fist also fires right from your arm! So, assuming you've got a lot of room where your fist happens to be, you can launch the fist even further for that real deep impact.

Yes, this toy has all your adventures in fisting in one handy (albeit coldly metal) package. I give this product two thumbs up, as well as any other fingers I can fit.

*Consult parents, physician, priest, or rabbi before fisting yourself or friends.

Love 'im or hate 'im

So this lil' beaut has been all over the interweb but I couldn't help but post it here as well.

This is a classic example of marketing mentality and quality control dropping the ball collectively. It's also ridiculously awesome.

So this Christmas, for the geeky, closet case gay basher in your life, get him the Wolverine punching bag. He can get his curious fix with a good blow up, then beat the crap out of him later for his sins.

A Public Service Announcement

Public Service Announcements (or PSAs) were rampant in the 80's and 90's. If He-Man wasn't telling you about the bad touch, G.I. Joe troops were explaining why it's a bad idea to play in rusted old refrigerators. But as the decades wore on, the messages took a darker tone beating kids over the head with anti-drug lobbying thinly disguised as fun cartoons. Basically, putting a pleasant and colorful face on things your lazy parents should be telling you.

Today we're going to look at two of both my favorites and most irritatingly annoying that taught me about not jumping on band saws and oral hygiene.

First up is everyone's favorite boybot from the Planet Danger, ASTAR!

This golden daredevil was created by the War Amps as their spokesbot for the PLAYSAFE program.

Basically, the War Amps were caving to the Darwinism theory while growing tired of outfitting stupid kids with plastic limbs.

The solution? Make a commercial that looked like C-3PO was performing acrobats around the set of Blade Runner.

I never really understood this part. Is he jumping through light beams? Toxic gas? Shiiiiit dude, try walking around a club with lasers and smoke and five vodka Redbulls running through your veins. THEN tell me this was some great and daring leap.

Ps, nice arse.

The climax of the plot came when ASTAR jumped upside down in the buzz saw room and got his arm lopped off. As would be expected under such circumstances.

In the end, ASTAR finds his messed up arm and reattaches it with blue light. He then exclaims those glorious and infamous words:

I am ASTAR, a robot. I can put my arm back on. You can't. So play
safe!

I dunno about you, but even as a pretty dumb kid, I was far more prone to play with a wheat thresher or that tractor that'd tip over at the slightest breeze instead of in a room full of spinning blades or exposed wires. That's just kinky shit.

Did I get the metaphors? Sure. Did it stop me? Hells no. It just gave me a cool line to say while I was jumping out of trees onto lawn mowers.

Next up was a commercial that was just annoying when I was a kid but took on a whooole other nasty connotation as I became a perverted cartoon-obsessed shut in.

"Don't You Put it in Your Mouth" was a simple concept about two blue monsters with turrets syndrome playing the ukulele and breaking into song about ingesting poisons as a cast of reject Muppets joins them in song. Marketing genius!

Upon looking at it again, however, I only now understand why my big brother had to leave the room in tears every time it came on. Think I'm sick? Let's examine the lyrics:

Don't you put it in your mouth;
don't stuff it in your face;
though it might look good to eat;
and it might look good to taste.

You could get sick!
Ick!
Real quick!
Ick!
Real sick, real...
ick!

Don't you put it in you mouth.
Nu-uh!
'Til you ask someone you love.
That's right, sis!
If its okay to eat;
Like a muffin or a beet!

If you don't know just what it is
(Remember boys and girls)
Don't puuuut it innnn your mouth

Yup. If I had any class, I'd leave it at that. But here we are.

Here we see a lovely red mound you shouldn't eat. Obviously the muff(in) they were talking about before screaming 'ick... which, of course, rhymes wiiith...

And correct me if I'm wrong but if I had to ask someone I loved if I could put something in my mouth, I'd get smacked upside the head. Then again, if I put something in my mouth by someone I didn't love, I could get sick... real quick even. And need freaky antibiotics.

This is really common sense kinda stuff here and I refuse to give these two monsters with body twitches any credit in my clean streak.

So what did I learn from these commercials as a young'un? Childless studio heads and barren marketing whores have no idea how to approach "issues" with kids. I knew it then and hot damn it's even more obvious now.

The Ginger StepBat

A Scottish co-worker with a heart as black as my own recently reminded me of the term "red-headed stepchild."

Having been the tall, dark (and brunette) adopted son of a ginger family, this term confused me until I remembered they have no soul.

Flash forward to tonight where I just re-watched The Dark Knight on DVD and I noticed one interesting cameo that few others lacking the keen geekiness of yours truly. As Commissioner Gordon was bargaining with Two Face over the fate of his family, almost no regard went towards the little girl, only his wife and son. That little girl was, of course, Barbara Gordon who would grow up to become the Dark Damsel, Batgirl.

For those not in the know, Barbara Gordon was the niece of James Gordon who he adopted when his brother died. She can be seen briefly in The Dark Knight as a very little girl/Harvey Dent's target practice.

Poor Babs lacked Batman's resources, riches, skill, style... pretty much everything frankly. But Lordy knows we loved her for her spunky attitude.

But what of her tough-as-nails stepdad who headed Gotham's police force and was in cahoots with Batman? Any self-respecting father could discern the difference between his teenaged daughter going out drinking at Teen Sex Cove or fighting crime dressed as a spandex bat.

The proof's in the pudding. Since Barbara was a red-headed stepchild, he didn't give a damn if the Penguin was shooting at her with his umbrella or Catwoman slashed up her pretty freckled face. Because she had no soul. Duh.

Things got worse for the Commish when Joker shot Batgirl in the spine back in 1988's The Killing Joke, crippling her from the waist-down.

Not only was she a ginger nuisance, but now she was a wheelchair-bound crip. Karma's a bitch, huh?

So what have we learned? No matter how well-intentioned or crafty with a batarang they are, red-headed step children have NO place in society and should be sent to nunneries or Scotland or other such isolating places where they can pray for souls and acceptance from normmies.