He's Making A List, He's Lazy As Shit (To the Tune of Santa's Coming to Town)

In this stupid terrible time of the Internet, as attention spans grow shorter and our capacity for exchanging ideas through words becomes nigh obsolete, there is a growing phenomenon that I have come to hate more than any other Internet phenomena: the list article. The list is trite and uninformative. The list is lazy. The list isn't capable of conveying any real ideas. And it isn't interested in supporting or backing up its opinions. The list exists for one purpose: generating page views.

Truly, any asshole can make a list and put it on the internet. You don't even need to qualify your list, "Given x, y, and z, and coming strictly from a point of view of [insert point of view here], the absolute 10 best/worst [thing] of [time period] are: [list].

Along with each item in the list, you insert a giant picture and one trite sentence backing up what you're trying to say. If you're really an asshole, the list is a slideshow, so you the reader are exposed to 10 times as many ads, because you have to make 10 clicks! The writer doesn't even need to know basic html to number or bullet the lists. There are CMS's like WordPress out there doing that lifting for them.

I hate lists. People who put them together for the internet, and organizations that publish them as though they are novel are assholes. They should all die and go to Hell.

Now...

Having said that, here is a list of the 10 most overrated movies I've ever seen:

1. Forrest Gump

Wow! Retarded people are innocent! Also, nostalgia? Who knew?!

2. American Beauty

Oh my God! Homophobic murderers' anger may stem from their being repressed homosexuals! That's not cliched at all!

3. The English Patient

Hey, describe a plum some more! Also, she isn't that attractive. In fact, she's kind of funny looking.

4. The Descendants

It's George Clooney and he's really a sincere and nice guy in real life, so his boring movie that isn't funny, touching, moving, or thought-provoking in any way is sincere, nice, and good as well!

5. The Sixth Sense

Oh my shit! He was dead all along!? If this movie had been released at any point in M. Night Shymalan's career other than first, everyone would think the first movie was brilliant and this one was a gimmicky piece of shit.

6. Goodfellas

10% of Goodfellas fans say, "No, it doesn't glorify violence! And the characters are interesting and compelling! It's based on a true story too!" 

90% of Goodfellas fans say, "It's so awesome and violent! Joe Pesci is a badass!"

7. Pulp Fiction

Super cool movie! For 19 year olds.

8. Full Metal Jacket

Hey asshole, pick a movie. Make it.

9. All Movies with Precocious Young People

Fucking Juno.

10. Raising Arizona

I don't really have strong hatred towards this movie. I just really like the Coen brothers and this one is highly rated, and I own it, and have watched it many times. But it's kind of long and boring, and I don't have the energy to write anything more thoughtful.

Disagree with my top 10? Tell me your top 10 in the comments!

Trojan Horses

A funny thing happens when you have a baby: You stop having sex. I know that's a hacky truism, but that's not where I'm going. The joke? You get married/have babies and you don't have sex anymore. And it's always the wife's fault: the implication being that women only have sex with you to get you to marry them, or give them babies. That is NOT my implication.

To be honest, since marriage, the ratio of sexual encounters to days alive has skyrocketed. It use to be like 3 times every 25 years. We're waaaaay past that now. Wink-wink, nudge-nudge, say no more. (My wife is never going to let me post this.) Post-marriage sex has by and large been great and frequent and I would never complain about any of it. And I'm not complaining now. The reason the sex stopped isn't because we're "too tired" and "the baby" blah blah blah. It's because babies do terrible things to women's organs.

Exactly two hours after our son was born, our midwife tells us, "Now you can't put anything in there for at least a month." I found her subtlety pretty amusing. You can't put "anything" in "there"? We'd just spent 10 hours talking about vaginas and staring at one together. 10 hours of to-the-point bluntness, "Now, you're going to feel something kind of cold. That's going to be my finger." But when it's time to talk about what brought us to the delivery room in the first place, everybody's a prude!

The point was clear though, we literally couldn't have sex. Doctor's orders. Okay, not literally. We could have. But it wouldn't have been a good idea. And it was an interesting six weeks.

Two things happened: My wife and I became teenagers. The hormones would just build and build and build until we couldn't take it anymore! And then inevitable disappointment. Wah wah wah. (Sad trombone, not baby crying.)

The second thing was that I began masturbating much more frequently. A day or two before my son was born, I was out with some friends remarking that I don't really masturbate anymore. Well, that apparently wasn't so much self-control and not being a degenerate as not having to. Once the well dried up (or perhaps more aptly, once the well needed stitches? [oh man, she's never going to let me publish this]), my fountain overfloweth.

And that was okay for a while, but we both (I think) had been looking forward to the day when this would end. Make-out sessions are a lot of fun when you're 15. They end with a wag of the finger, and a, "let's do something else." Later on, I go back to my house and engage in a furious auto-erotic session, imagining that 'something else' involved my penis.

Make-out sessions are ridiculous by the way. It's like two people baking a cake together, taking it out of the oven, and throwing it away. Later both parties go their separate ways and eat a tube of icing.

For six weeks after having a baby, you get to be 15 again. Icing and all. My wife's appointment with the midwife was circled on the calendar. The day of her appointment, I clicked refresh on my gmail account every 10 minutes, anticipating an update.

Finally, it arrived! "Lou. Buy condoms! Bow-chicka-wow-wow!" Elation! And yet... disappointment? (Sidenote: that really was the email she sent. I love my wife.)

Yes, disappointment. Condoms. I forgot about condoms. "Right," I thought. "Because we don't want two of these things right now." Condoms. It's been years since we've used condoms. It's been years since I've bought condoms. And really, more than the using of condoms bothers me, I detest the buying.

I realize that may seem strange given that I'm disclosing all of this information about my sex life to you. But this is somewhat anonymous. At no point during this exchange of me writing this and you reading it will I walk up to you and give you money so I can have sex with my wife. But that's what happens at Walgreens, isn't it?

"Hello. A fine day to you," I tip my hat. "Here's $15, I will be having sex with my wife tonight, thank you very much."

The cashier takes my money and gives me a receipt for the sex I'm going to have. It's weird.

Also, if you've read this, you've probably read other things I've put up here. And if you've read more than one thing and keep reading things, I have at least some understanding of the type of person you are. On some level, I know you. We're the same, you and I. On some level. And you know me.

The person working the register at Walgreens is a stranger. She's 17. Does she have sex? I don't know. I don't want to know. And she doesn't want to know that I have sex. Neither of us wants any part of each others' sex lives. But the cashier is involved in mine. She's the gatekeeper to my wife's vagina!

And I want to have sex and not have a baby. So condoms it is. I go to the Walgreens. I find the condoms. I look at them. And I giggle. It dawns on me that not only the cashier knows I'll be having sex, but anyone and everyone who is in the store does too. Because I'm not in and out of that aisle. It's been years since I've bought these things. I don't know what's out there. It's a major decision.

I feel no brand loyalty. I have to do some reading. You can't just buy a product you haven't bought in a decade without reading the description. What if I just breeze down the aisle, pick up the first pack and later discover that it explodes at the end or something? That might exist, I don't know. Or what if I grab a pack of smalls? Even if I am a small, I'm not going to buy smalls. It would be embarrassing.

(Interestingly, there are no smalls. There's just regular condoms and then big ones with ridiculous names: "MAGNUM"! "KYNG"! It makes me wonder if diaphragms come in regular and "SUPER TIGHT"! But something tells me women aren't as insecure and weird as men.)

So I camp out in the condom section to do my research. While reading about "Fire and Ice", it occurs to me that I am a ridiculous human being. Well, first it occurs to me that humanity is ridiculous for creating the equivalent of Bengay contraception. But then it occurs to me that I've been reading condom boxes for 10 minutes in a crowded store. I feel a little like a pervert, but I remain unphased. I am buying condoms for perfectly respectable reasons, and I will not be bullied by society to make an uniformed decision!

I put back the Fire and Ice, and my eyes catch the pack, "Ribbed, for her pleasure." "That seems like the gentleman's choice. I'll do that." But it's right next to "Sensations for Her." Both Trojan products, by the way. Interestingly, I am a Trojan man. Both condoms are ribbed and contoured specifically for a woman's pleasure. What's the difference? Now I've got to pick up both packs and read the back. Trojan, there's no discernible difference. What the fuck?

At this point, I'd like to point out that I am a great guy. Because there are condoms specifically for HIM! And I passed that shit right up. Didn't even cross my mind. Okay, it crossed my mind. But you can't do that, can you? I don't really understand how these products exist. What man, knowing full well that he's going to have a "good time," is going to enhance his own "good time" before thinking of raising the odds that the woman is going to have a "good time" at all?

I can't in good conscience get something for ME and bring it to a STRANGER, "Yes, I will be having sex tonight. And I'm going to have a GREAT time."

"I see you didn't go with ribbed? For her pleasure? They're the same price you know."

"Oh, I know. I just don't care if she has pleasure!"

What? No. You can't do that. And now I'm giggling again that I'm having all of these thoughts while people are walking past me to get their prescriptions filled, shooting me glances out of the corner of their eyes, "Hmmm... he's gonna have sex... grrr." I don't know why people are thinking that in my head, but they are. They're mad about my sex.

Her pleasure or extra ribbed? I get a pack of each, because "Let's test!" As I'm walking from the condom aisle to the checkout, a question pops into my head. Why "Trojan"? That doesn't seem right, does it? How is the biggest condom brand in the world "Trojan"? I'm not commenting on the product here. I'm sure it's a fine product (Editor's Note: The wife is not pregnant. Fine product.). I'm commenting on the name.

Trojan. What does "Trojan" bring to mind? If you said, "The most famous sneak attack of all times!" you'd be spot on! What the fuck Trojan brand?

"Trojan Brand Condoms! You'll never see it coming!" It's a wooden horse, and hours after it's delivered, while you're sleeping, hundreds of soldiers pop out and sack the city? I don't get it. Weird connotation.

Unless they're going for a parallel with the 300 story. Armies of millions can't get through a narrow passage because it's blocked by 300 Trojans? That's not what comes to mind though. Trojan Horse is what comes to mind. Pillaging and ravaging a vagina near you. Weird.

I just imagine a couple who had a fight about having children. The man really wants them, the woman doesn't. Tempers flare. Ugly things are said. Old scars and wounds are reopened by both sides. After hours of silent treatment, someone farts and breaks the ice. Both people giggle, and there's a little friendly banter.

The wife makes a wisecrack, "God bless you."

The husband, "I told you I liked your meatloaf."

One thing leads to another and they're on the verge of the makeup sex. "But wait... I really don't want kids John."

"Don't worry Deborah, I'll wear a Trojan." And with that, they're back at each other's throats.

"Nice try motherfucker. I read about that horse. Sure it seems like a nice present, but once you let it in, all Hell breaks loose. You can't trust a Trojan."

This thought wraps up as my palms begin sweating and I casually place the condoms on the counter in front of a 17 year old girl working evenings at Walgreens. I place the condoms as far away from her as possible, as though that will somehow make her not need to see what they are. But she does.

She sees them. She hides her own embarrassment by making this the fastest transaction I have ever partaken in. Within three seconds they're scanned and in a bag. No words are exchanged. No eye contact is exchanged either. She swipes the credit card. Gives me my receipt, "You have paid for your sex." And I leave. Phew.

Then I went home and promptly discussed all of my thoughts on condoms with my wife. "It's like a Trojan Horse I tell ya!" We laughed. Then we had sex. With our son in the room. Which is a story for next time, things I would have to drink to now that I have a child if I were playing "I've never."

"I've never had sex with a third person in the room." Lou takes a drink.

Sarah Palin's Not Even A Footnote

Life can be funny sometimes, can't it? I spent four years in college avoiding making any commitment to, or even thinking about the possibility of, a career path. I was a history major. I loved History. I also majored in Political Science. I spent 75% of the hours I was supposed to be reading assigned texts not related to those two subjects (and sometimes related to those subjects) reading Kurt Vonnegut books and Adbusters instead.

As my college friends and roommates could attest, my free time was pretty evenly divided between sleeping, drinking, recreational drugs, video games, music, and movies. Often times, some combination of the above was involved.

My favorite college activity was playing Age of Empires II at 4 AM while listening to The GC5 stoned and drunk. Once a semester, I would execute my end-of-class ritual for classes I didn't care about. That ritual: spend two days reading all assigned readings in preparation for a final, take the final, forget everything I had read in the previous two days, and cross my fingers that my grade wouldn't end up being something my parents would be pissed about.

During one of those rituals, I actually threw up my hands in boredom, smoked a bong, and watched the Scooby Doo movie. I vividly remember the movie ending, me thinking, "That was terrible. And I still need to finish studying." Then going back to my room and studying, still high, and not going to sleep because the final was at 9 AM, and I knew I wouldn't wake up for it if I slept. I left the house as the Sun came up and walked from 142 N. Hancock to State Street, and thought about how ridiculous I was.

I watched the panhandlers on State Street calling it a night/morning, as the city awoke and the streets were getting cleaned. Me, emerging from my dark room, where I'd been huddled over some textbook I didn't care about, feeling resentful that I had to demonstrate knowledge in a subject area like Microeconomics, hungry and desperate for coffee at 6:40 AM.

What am I doing with my life? I'm a mess. I need to take my life more seriously.

I stopped at Memorial Union that morning for the Madison version of a bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit, and finished off my cram session. I went to take a final exam, convinced that none of it mattered. Microeconomics. Logic. Intro to State Government. All I cared about was History (specifically American), Political Science (specifically Political Theory (aka Philosophy)), Kurt Vonnegut, and Adbusters.

For those of you who don't know what Adbusters is, it's a magazine that grossly oversimplifies things and holds marketing and advertising in complete and total contempt. If I knew then that as I write this, some 8 years later, I would be working for a marketing company, I would think I was high as shit.

When I started this job, a well meaning coworker remarked that my background in History and Political Science was esoteric. He meant absolutely nothing by it, but that it was quirky. I responded, "Not just Political Science. Political Theory! Meaning I did nothing but think and write about what 'Justice' meant!" We laughed.

I get it. Believe me, I do. These aren't career-making fields of study! Political Theory?! This is me at a job interview:

Interviewer: Tell me how you would evaluate the profitability of investing in emerging technologies. (That's a ridiculous interview question I realize, but I'm struggling here to make a point.)

Me: I'll do you one better. I'll tell you how I would evaluate the pros and cons of positive conceptions of Justice, as displayed in Shakespeare's The Merchant of Venice! (That's not actually ridiculous. I wrote a paper on that topic and received an A in a 400-level class because of it. (Well, it's kind of ridiculous, it was basically just 5 pages of me bullshitting. (BUT... it was bullshit I meant.)))

Do I regret my choices? No. And here's the point I'm building up to. The thesis of this blogpost.

If for no other reason, my four years of studying History and Political Science (Theory) has convinced me. CONVINCED me. That when I see things like this...

http://gawker.com/msnbc-host-wants-someone-to-shit-in-sarah-palins-mouth-1466847681

...I can confidently say that the Sarah Palins have already been relegated to a punchline. In 5 years, she will be relegated to a bar joke told to a smattering of, "Who?"'s. In 25 years, she'll be an answer in Trivial Pursuit. In 100 years, no one will know who the fuck she is at all.

When I see stories about "selfies" and I feel old for not knowing what they are or that they're a meme, I can confidently say that no one will use the term "selfie" in 10 years except for in the modern/future equivalent of what VH1's "I love the 80s" from the 90s is/will be now/in 10 years.

"Remember selfies?" Some asshole who'll be forgotten three days subsequently, if ever known (is it Daniel Tosh right now? Probably, I think), will say. "[insert obvious joke for the times here]."

Perhaps best of all, though, my course of study has given me the wherewithal to understand that in 50 years, Barack Obama may very well be a trivia answer as well. He may only ever be remembered for having been the first black (or perhaps minority) President.

But for the duration of the United States, George W. Bush will always be known as one of the worst Presidents in our history.

With that foresight and knowledge, the frustrations of these modern times wash over me. I breathe deep. I reflect upon that May morning on State Street. The scent of the previous night's debauchery. My own pot hangover. The cigarettes on my breath. And I'm glad things have gone as they have.

I just wish that Scooby Doo movie didn't suck so much.