Facebook Games

I, like most poor souls suffering from a desperate need to fool people into thinking they have more friends than they actually do, am on Facebook.
Frightening territory, I know. Facebook is like that creepy playground from your childhood that was within walking distance of your house. Gee willickers, those monkey bars sure looked fun, but it was always way too busy and there were those weird kids randomly saying the strangest things to nobody in particular.

Although I admittedly don't use it for what it was intended for, which I assume is to keep people informed of my breakfasts, bowel movements and/or how many times I visit Starbucks on any and every given hour of the day. Yes, I admit I post some odd things from time to time, if at all.
I have to keep up appearances. I have to do my daily sweep of randomly 'liking' posts so people know I'm alive and not splayed out all over the kitchen floor with bacon-flavored caramel sauce oozing out my orifices.
I consider it my civil duty.

Sure I like your video of the hang-gliding camel. Of course I like that you're vacationing in the Bahamas.... without me. Oh, I certainly must like your photo album of that amazing party I was never invited to. You and all my 'friends' sure look like you had a GREAT TIME!!! :D
But it's all good. I've got my bacon-flavored caramel sauce.

All that nonsense is just a front so I can peruse Facebook for other purposes.
No, you pervert. I play one(1) game on there with my family, and that's it.
ONE GAME

And the real issue I have with Facebook is that it thinks that somehow I'm unsatisfied with the one game I play. It keeps trying to lure me away to something wholly other.
Because if I like "Words With Friends" so much, why wouldn't I want to play "Super Canker Sore Saga 5"???

Beats me. Beats me with a stick. I'm sure somewhere in the fine print of Facebook's user agreement is some clause stating I must be actively playing at least 500 Facebook games at any given moment of my life. And these games don't even look as if the game designers themselves have played them.
Poor chaps. Facebook probably has them chained to the desk pumping them out one after the other.

I mean, LOOK:

I'm not even making this up. Not even the detailed clarification of the game's primary objective. There really is a game out there wherein the sole focus is the construction of a fudge brownie. Which I will point out (in case you aren't up to speed on this matter) can not be consumed in any physical shape or form.
Just another friendly heads up. Because according to Facebook, 8,200 gullible people have already fallen for this trickery.

But seriously, what on this sad little planet would possess me to invest my time in such a game as this? What possessed somebody to design a game like this? Or any of the other games they keep trying to distract me with?
I mean, how many stack-and-clear games do we really need?

I think I'll stick to Tetris, but thanks anyway.

And what about this one:

Whoa now! 10,000 suckers players?!?!?! Wow. How did they know I had an inner fashionista?
And that it needed to be freed?! Brilliant!! This revelation has awoken something in me that I've never known was there!!! My inner fashionista must be freed!!!!!!!

Okay, in all honesty I really don't think I'd need to play this game to accomplish my fashion dreams.
Just take a look at this incredible work of designer art I spent 2 weeks on:

With a little help from my pal and expert runway model, Christopher Walken, I AM a fashion star!!!
Watch out, fashion world, there's a new cat butt in town!!!!!

Yay me. :\

And then there are those games that try to tap into some assumed competitive gene of mine in an attempt to trick me into playing. They usually ask me if I can manage to reach some stupid goal in the game, hoping to trigger my inward desire to prove myself to....myself.
What they want me to say is, "Of course I can!!! I'm so awesome and I'll prove it to you right now!!!"
And then clicky clicky I get sucked into said game and before I know it I've lost 20 years of my life and nobody likes me anymore because somewhere down the line I forgot how to bathe.

Unfortunately in reality the actual result of the virtual goading looks a bit more like this:

Yeah. Great work, Facebook.
Now I'll have to go make another appointment with Dr. Kittywillow before I do something drastic like try to super glue my feet to the ceiling fan.

Again.

I don't understand how these game developers still have their jobs. Or better yet, how they got these jobs in the first place. Did they have to prove they were on drugs during the interview process?

I mean, what sort of degree do I need to produce THIS:

Penguin Diner? WOW! What a clever name! This game must've been 10 years in the making. No matter how hard I try (and believe me I'm snapping some serious muscles here) I just can NOT contain my excitement and intrigue over such a fascinating game. My life isn't crazy enough without the welcome addition of pretending to be a frenetic do-rag-wearing panic-driven penguin clearly on the verge of a midlife crisis and/or multiple homicides.
Sounds like a real hoot in a boot. Somebody hold me back.

Bottom line: I'm fine with my one(1) game on Facebook. It's fine. Really.
I don't have any desire to play Monkey Bread Madness or Tom Selleck: Poop Detective or PlantainVille or Repo Princesses or even Magic Glue Factory 3.

Seriously, Facebook, if you wouldn't mind, I'd rather not be forced into developing any more neurosis from here on out.
Thanks. :D

Back Like Kotter

So a lot of one person has recently informed me that it's been a long time since I've posted
anything on this "blog" of mine, and you can bet your grandmother's hand-wash-only Christmas tree thigh-high wool socks that I've considered all manner of preposterous reasons why this would be the case.
This line of thought comes naturally to you, that one person in Sweden who has unintentionally stumbled across this travesty of psychotic human swill while attempting to google "how can i save time brushing my hamsters".
It's okay. I'm risking my vague sense of integrity to be completely honest here, so I open my heart to welcome your brutal honesty as well.
We're all human here. Well, I am. You're just that guy in Sweden with poor googling skills.
Or you have huge thumbs.
Don't hide them; they're probably what separates you from being mistaken for a walrus. Be proud!

Okay, I digress from my original point, which was this: I could write some crazy make-believe story that could chance a grin or two daringly escaping between those huge tusks of yours, but that wouldn't be honest. No.
And again, my integrity would be completely broken. Shattered beyond recognition.
I wouldn't want that, and neither should you. Shame on you, you sick Swedish walrus man.
Your hamsters are not impressed.

Here's the story. Nothing exaggerated, elaborated, inebriated or overextended.
The whole truth and nothing but the truth. If you think you can handle the truth.

Soooo.....
I've spent the past 2 years in the most secluded part of Asia quietly learning how to fight evil and other less popular badness under the careful training of Liam Neeson. He started me out making little pipe cleaner froggies. You know, the ones with cute little googly eyes and they wrap around your toothbrush and let your bowel-happy dinner guests know you have incurable social problems without having to verbally spell it out for them.
Because nobody wants that awkwardness.
I have made 63 toothbrush froggies, so I should have no problem getting my point across.

Then we moved on to harder things.

Okay, so despite my best efforts that particular lesson didn't go over very well. The only thing Liam Neeson taught me that day was that he can get a major case of the cranky bugs. Oh, and he's also very good with a whip.

Surprisingly, things actually got even worse the next day. Liam's brother, Noel, stopped by and was like "We're getting Oasis back together again! Drop the pipe cleaners and get in the van."
Which, I must interject, is not something you hear every day. Well, not in Asia, anyway.
Liam Neeson looked at me, looked at his brother, looked at the little pipe cleaner froggy he was so masterfully cradling in his hands, and shrugged.
Then I watched in utter horror as he dropped it onto the floor, in slow-mo no less, and told me he was going to leave me in the hands of some other guy named Al Ghul.

At least, that's what I thought he'd said. Turns out he said Al Gore.
My bad.

Yeah, you're probably thinking what I was thinking at the time: more pipe cleaner toothbrush froggies. Turns out it was even worse. The most unimaginable horror I'd ever faced in my entire life.
I'm trying not to cry as I write this. Please bear with me here.
My memories will forever be scarred by this horrific chapter of my life.

He had me filling those little plastic toy capsules you get out of the toy machines.

So what began as simple yet deadly pipe cleaner art quickly morphed into a never ending rotation of cheap plastic toys. It was like a complete reversal of one of my favorite childhood pastimes. I felt my mind degrading to the point of insanity with each capsule that I filled.

There were always at least three boxes I had to work with at any given time. They would constantly rotate throughout the week, yet after a few weeks I became all too familiar with the varieties of cheap plastic I was forced to work with.
Party Ninjas, Lil' Thugs, Magix Brand Komby Katz, Transformies, Ghetto Alienz, One Direction Locker Buddies and a bizarre assortment of tie-dye erasers shaped like Amish farm tools.
I remember one month I randomly got a box of The Hobbit mini figures, although I suspected they were pirated knock-offs because Bilbo looked more like Morgan Freeman than Martin Freeman.

And then there was that one night when I managed to sneak away to the television, when and where
this Oasis concert was being broadcast live:

It was obvious the fame was completely going straight to Liam's head. Or it was encephalitis.
Either way I rationalized that I'd never escape this poorly executed menagerie of grammatically incorrect plastic trinkets if I couldn't find a way to get him back here to continue my stealthy magical martial arts training. So I began to sneak rescue messages into the capsules:

Which by now I must apologize because obviously I eventually made it out alive.
Sorry kids and/or Swedish walrus man. I only did about 5,000 of them that way, so hopefully it won't have too much of a negative impact.

So....just how did I escape from Al Gore, you're surely not asking at this point? I know I'M not asking that, mostly because I already know. That would be kind of weird for me to ask myself something I already know. But I'm sure you don't care so I'll tell you anyway.

One dark and snowy night while Al Gore was trying to build some internets I managed to sneak up behind him and knock him out utilizing the same martial arts moves Liam Neeson had taught me between his toilet waxing lessons.
Well, okay, I never actually passed any of his ninja tests...therefor I had to resort to my basic resources instead. Which unfortunately boiled down to me throwing two handfuls of Komby Katz at his head.
Surprisingly the irresistibly soft yet combable nylon rainbow fur formed a knotted web of plastic death in mid-air, subduing him into unconsciousness.
Turns out....are you sitting down?

SIT DOWN SWEDISH WALRUS MAN!!!!
And stop eating your hamsters.

Al Gore is a robot. Close your mouth.

Once he was unconscious, I turned him over and found this panel:

It was very confusing but after several failed attempts at mashing the Spicy Chicken Curry button I finally took a gamble and tried the "POWER" button.
Yes, I didn't think it would work either. But it did. To my utmost surprise Al Gore completely shut down.
Don't say you ever walked away from this blog without learning something new!

So once this was all accomplished I paused to consider my next move.
You see, I was free to escape but I had absolutely no clue whatsoever how I would do it.
That's when I suddenly noticed this sign on the wall nearby:

I felt SO stupid that I didn't notice this throughout the entire 2 years I'd been locked away in this secluded Asian mansion.
Yeah, I really wasted a lot of time, and I guess some people might suggest it really wasn't necessary to deactivate Al Gore or even try to break up Oasis. But I think those people are nuts.
I mean, you're automatically nuts just for getting this far down this blog post.
Bravo, your hamsters are still unimpressed.

So yeah, I promptly called Christopher Walken on the emergency Walken-Talkie phone, and he immediately brought me back home in a flying '63 Chevelle.
Man, that guy's got some great stories. And he knows where all the Krispy Kremes are.
I really have to get one of those phones installed in my house.

So kids, here's what I learned from this somber experience:
Being stuck for 2 years on a snowy Asian mountain alone with Al Gore will do things to you. Unforgettable things. Scary things. The kind of things you don't tell grandma.
Kids, you don't have to go to Asia to be cool.
They sell pipe cleaners in other countries too.

Now I'm back like Kotter and ready to fight some crime! Or wax toilets.
Whichever comes first.

Applesauce Cup

I was finishing up at work the other day, when, as I stood up to leave my desk my eyes happened to hover over my waste basket. And I saw, to my utter horror, an empty applesauce cup.
How do I know it was a cup that once contained applesauce?
Well, firstly, I happened to notice a little neglected bit lining the bottom of the cup. Secondly, the moment I glanced down I was pummeled by this exchange:

Yes, not only did the applesauce cup talk, it was also fairly agitated. This agitation may or may not have been a direct reaction to the look I most certainly had on my face at that moment.
I've never before spoken to an applesauce cup, let alone an agitated one at that. I decided to take a firm stance on this unexpected conundrum and thus spoke firmly to the cup, "Who was eating applesauce at my desk?"
To which I immediately received this rather shirty reply:

Admittedly I felt off my trolley engaging in this cockamamie exchange. I'd been to several parties in my lifetime although truth be told I'd never been invited to an applesauce party. Nor was I even aware of the existence of such an event. This may be due to the fact that I'd never been invited to one.
Either there was some truth in the statement of this plucky little cup, or it was merely trying to blow hot air up my trousers. Its steely, soul-gazing eyes and triangle mouth were so difficult to discern it led me to think that if I were ever to be caught playing poker with an applesauce cup I'd be dreadfully sure to lose my estate and then some.
And so I, continuing to stare down into the rubbish, foolishly replied, "Look, I just want to know who was eating applesauce at my desk. I think that's kind of weird."
The conversation was thus volleyed back in a deserved fashion:

  

At this moment I'd been dumbfounded by the concrete logic of this applesauce cup. My only excuse for my apparent idiocy was that it'd been a rather long day and I was mentally taxed.
Nevertheless I knew this cup had a very strong point indeed, and I'd never in my life thought
there would come a day when I would be logically overturned by an empty applesauce cup.
My pride had been bruised. I decided to try to change the subject, hoping to regain whatever balance I'd started out with.
Glancing about the rubbish I noticed a lack of cutlery. My many travels abroad and much time spent needlessly dawdling in the utensil aisles in various shops had given me the educational advantage to understand that when most people consume edibles packed in plastic cups they generally are accustomed to utilizing plastic cutlery, as opposed to the stainless steel variety. As plastic is more commonly and frequently disposed of than stainless steel it seemed to make perfect sense to assume that a plastic spoon should be present with this highly ornery yet also very much plastic cup.
So, using this hypothesis I casually said, "Hey, I don't see a spoon. Where's the spoon they used to eat the applesauce?"
This was an unfortunate tactic on my behalf as it neither soothed nor alleviated the situation:

Oh I must admit this cup was a clever one indeed. Its eternal supply of abusive quips were ready like bullets in a revolver. A revolver that was aimed and firing at me with extreme apple-induced prejudice.

I must stop here and explain a few things before we continue. First I'd like to establish that I don't eat applesauce at my work desk. I don't eat anything there really. My desk is for working, not eating. There are better places to shove food
down my throat than the place I work. Such as... other places. Besides my desk.
Another thing I'd like to clear up is that I don't even like applesauce. I don't. It makes me think of all the times I've had teeth pulled.
And if there were ever to be a zombie apocalypse and all I had to eat was applesauce, I'd probably
be doing some fasting for a good long while.
So not only was I dealing with something that I associate with teeth-pulling and zombies, but this cheeky little object was now also verbally abusing the dickens out of me.

Yes, it was the end of the day and I'd spent the whole lot of it being verbally abused by the common folk, and now I'd begun receiving the same nonsensical rigmarole by something that, up until this dandy point in my life, had remained properly inanimate.
I wasn't going to spend much more time dilly-dallying with this insolent applesauce cup, as I was totally knackered and feeling rather peckish and not in the mood to go at it with such a silly little thing. So I decided to try a different angle. "What's your problem anyway?" I said, hoping to steer the unexpected conversation back on topic. "I just wanted to know what you're doing in my trashcan."

  

I realised at that moment that the applesauce cup was in a state of utter rejection and was merely venting its frustration on me. Which of course if the janitor had taken care of this fine mess the previous night I'd be safe as houses by now. But now I was stuck being verbally assailed by an empty plastic applesauce cup, and I wasn't sure in the slightest how I was to further approach the matter, if indeed that was the best route to take. One doesn't naturally come into this world
prepared to have a heated argument with an
applesauce cup.
So, trying to avoid looking anymore blinkered I decided to try some words of wisdom.
"Hey, cheer up. You've managed to successfully fulfill your one and only purpose on this earth.
You've done exactly what you were made to do. There are a lot of people out there who waste their whole lives seeking purpose without ever managing to find it. That should make you feel good."

At this point I'd really had enough of this frivolous backtalk. It was late. I wanted to go home and have my supper and allow my eyes to collapse into my skull.
I grabbed my things, looked back into the waste basket, and said quite frankly, "You know what I just realised? Applesauce is for chumps."

And with that said I went home, never to hear from this snarky little thing again.

Pocket Medications

Has anybody else noticed how most medications have absolutely bizarre names?
Seriously, just think about some of them for a moment. No, not later. Right now. This post will be irrelevant(or more irrelevant) if you think about
them later.
Don't screw this up for me! I didn't waste a good chunk of my time writing this so you could just
glance at it and openly defy my instructions.
This isn't pick and choose, pal. Just play along and everything will be cool.

Okay, let's put aside your irritating lack of obedience and start over before I declare this post ruined by your selfish little desires...

Medication names.
The more I think about them the more it feels as if everyone in the medication naming department is given a bag of Scrabble tiles and asked to come up with something before Sonic's happy hour expires. And when I say 'something', I mean 'anything'.
Sudafed, Lyrica, Prevacid, Yoplait... the list goes on and on.
More often than not it seems most medications are given names that almost sound like the names of, oh, for lack of anything better let's use the word 'creatures'.
You know, the kind of creatures that can be caught in the wild and be trained to fight in fantastic tournaments and befriend stuck-up
children with delusions of grandeur, all while making millions through an endless plethora of nauseatingly-cute merchandise.

Yes, those kind of creatures.

These hypothetical creatures might even be suited to appear on various entertainment platforms.
There could be video games, card games and maybe even a television show!
Hmmm...I wonder what a show like that would look like...

But of course, due to bad ratings, overall lack of excitement, and children with short attention spans, something like this would have to happen:

But I'm getting ahead of myself here. There'd first need to be a video game to precede such hypothetical nonsense. The kind of video game that could easily draw hapless children into a friendly and magical world involving plagues, viruses, diseases, second opinions, exciting unexpected side effects, never-ending lines at pharmacies, and the intense OCD desire to "Catch it all!". 'Cause that's what you gotta do. Catch it all. Or contract it all. Depending on how you play.
There could even be an incredible game
soundtrack filled with all your favorite "your call is important to us" hold music. Looped over and over and over again until your ears bleed.
WOW. Sign. Me. Up.

Just using my imagination I pulled from my left armpit these exciting screenshots from a Pokémeds game:

 

Oh yes. The fun doesn't stop there. Just imagine all the super coolbean monsters you'll get to collect and trade all year round. There'd be like, I dunno, 500 something creatures with all sorts of amazing side effects that will blow your mind!

Okay, some of them might literally blow your mind, but that's what insurance and that chained box in Grandma's sock drawer is for.
You'll get to experience so much fun and you'll never be afraid of cake ever again! You won't know what hit your deductible until that
refrigerator box starts calling out to you like it thinks you're Antonio Banderas.

See, children, the truth is, sometimes when people come up with too many kinds of medicine, the people whose job it is to NAME the medicines get really bored and start coming up with really idiotic names. Most likely because they aren't even the slightest bit aware of the kind of
power they've been employed/promoted into.
Also because they probably majored in art or political science.

And this is when we have to stop and consider the chain of command one has to climb to somehow access a job like this.
I mean, I'm no political art scientist but I know I could do this job.
How hard could it be?

BAM! How easy was that? It was easier than
eating soup with the wrong end of a spoon.
With my help you'd have no more stupid medicinal names.
No Pokémeds games. No Pokémeds show.
No collectible plushies or playing cards.

No, I didn't forget the cards. The Pokémeds cards would probably look something like this:

But at the end of the day perhaps people really don't mind all these stupid names. Maybe people enjoy waking up in the morning and shouting out stupidities such as "Chantix, I choose YOU!"
or "I think my socks taste like almond pancakes!"
I dunno. I think people are weird enough without some crazy phenomenon like "Pokémeds" disrupting the natural flow of society.
Conversations like this would eventually become commonplace amongst the youth of today:

Oh well. I type in vain, for I know that despite my complaints and/or wise warnings the world will continue to spit out silly med commercials and I will forever be haunted by travesties such as
animated Twinkies, depressed umbrellas, and people who take their pet elephants to the fair.
It's sad but true.

And before I go eat my almond-flavored socks, I'd like to end with a helpful word from our sponsor:

Splitsy

Me and my family have been watching "Under the Dome", which, as you might have figured out by now, is based on a book about a sleepy little town that gets unexpectedly(!) caught....under the dome.
Not a dome, but THE dome. The ultimate dome, unlike all those other domes that came before it.
Those were just preparatory domes. This is the real deal. The dome to put all other domes to shame. It's here to show us what domedom really looks like.

But that's not what I'm here to talk about. I'm here to talk about the fact that during every episode me and my family are treated to THIS:

My beautiful wife jokedly named it Splitsy. Splitsy the cow.
Say hi to Splitsy. Splitsy would say moo but unfortunately Splitsy is a bit chopped in half at the moment.

Okay, so the thing is, this was a nice special effects shot which was featured in the pilot episode. It's there to tell us that the network gave the show an above-average special effects budget and we are to be impressed and intrigued and filled with a desire to return to this show to watch similar budgetized special effects.
Or, in the case of this particular program, more Splitsy.
So every episode we get treated to more Splitsy. Let me demonstrate.

Whoa, check that out again. Remember that? That was from the pilot episode! This show totally has an amazingly HUGE budget that they can pull off a crazy thing like THAT.
Yes, that's almost as nasty as the first seven times I saw it.

Poor Splitsy. She can never catch a break.

Actually what the network is telling us is that they could only afford one decent special effects shot and this is it. So they're going to squeeze the most out of their money by inserting this clip in the beginning of each and every episode.
What clip? You know, the one where Splitsy gets chopped in half by the dome:

Yeah. It's that shot again. Are you getting tired of Splitsy yet? Because Splitsy ain't tired of being chopped in half for your viewing pleasure.
Splitsy don't mind. It's all 'bout the ratings, yo.

She knew what she was getting into when she signed the contract...

But in all undue seriousness, the awe and majesty of Splitsy is almost wearing thin.
Not only do they have her in the opening of every episode, they even show her and her split personality during the commercials for the "Under the Dome" DVD collection. You know, the one that doesn't include a Splitsy plush.

I demand a Splitsy plush. >:C (<- this is not to be confused for a DOS command)

I would love to have a nice little Splitsy plush to hold and admire while I watch The Splitsy Show, I mean, Under the Dome every Monday night.

Hmm. Maybe Splitsy should have her own show.

The kiddies will just LOVE it! Half of all their favorite pets, together at last for 30 minutes of fun and adventure. And pools of blood.
I'd watch it.

Once.

But anyhoo, so how do you feel about this picture?

What are your thoughts? Does it blow your mind?
Does it bring out your internal desire to stick your head inside a heated waffle iron? Are you fascinated by the image? Are you impressed by my ability to spell 'fascinated' without spellcheck?
Honestly, it's not as great as a Splitsy plush but for now it's as close as we're going to get.

It makes me wonder what was going on in the network meetings for this show.
"Look, Steve, people need to have a reason to come back to this time-waster week after week. Dome shnome; nobody is gonna care about these people trapped under this stupid thing. All these poorly written scripts, bad acting and unoriginal plot structures are gonna wear real thin unless we pump in what the demographic really wants to see."
"And what would that be?"
 *curtain is pulled to reveal...*

Yes, somebody somewhere in networkland decided that viewers would be drawn in every week if the above image were inserted every chance they got within that 1 hour timeslot.

And it's working, apparently. According to Wikipedia, "Under the Dome" has drawn in 17.76 million viewers so far.
You know what that means? That means that 17.76 million viewers have tuned in to be subjected to this:

Ah, good ol' Splitsy. Ain't she a beaut? Those 17.76 million viewers have repeatedly tuned in to witness the splendor that is a cow being chopped in half. Over and over and over again.
No, they don't tune in to watch a poorly developed show based on a Stephen King novel; they tune in so they can catch that shot of the cow getting split in two by the dome.
They keep coming back for more Splitsy. Splitsy's almost like a crack cow. One taste of Splitsy and you're hooked like a phonic.™

I mean, without Splitsy the show would lose all purpose. It would cease to be engaging by any standard of the imagination. The ratings would plummet and we'd be left with a show that didn't leave us with the satisfaction that can only be obtained by watching a cow get chopped in half.
I could probably do a better job recreating the frantic action and drama of this program by taking my wife's salad bowl and flipping it over an ant hill.
*insert maniacal laughter*
But Splitsy? No, I think I'd get a bit frowned upon if I tried to recreate Splitsy.

Okay, I'd get frowned upon if I used my wife's salad bowl to cover ant hills. But this is beside the point. The point is, they could've just left Splitsy in the pilot episode, never to show her again.
But then nobody would watch Under the Dome. Obviously it's Splitsy that draws in the viewers. Obviously it's Splitsy that strikes up conversations around the water cooler at work.

It's sad but true. Somewhere out there some poor sap is starting up a Splitsy fan club. Why? No, not because nobody remembers Elf Quest anymore.
Nor is it because they were raised on nothing but Tang and Vienna sausages. It's because nobody can hold back the popularity of Splitsy. NOBODY! The entire show is dependent on her to keep it afloat. And somebody out there will hold a torch for her until the day they die. Or the day their mom comes downstairs into the basement and tells them to stop playing with the gas lighter.
In the world of today it's expected that
somebody somewhere at any given point in time is doing something very very stupid.

Some day somebody in networkland will pause between sips of their triple mocha potato
espresso latte turnip smoothie and decide to finally stop showing Splitsy's big scene.
And on that day I will cry. I'll cry a little tear of relief, because seriously, that was just nasty.

Good riddance to that stupid one-trick cow.
That's good eats right there.

Scott Pelley

You might have noticed, by chance, that this post is titled "Scott Pelley". Did you notice that?
If not, please take the time to glance up a few inches.
It's okay, I'll wait...

See? I was telling the truth, by golly!
But seriously, do you know who Scott Pelley is?
Would you like to know? Do you even care? No? Great!! I'll calm your quiver of anticipation by explaining something you will try very hard later on to delete from your brain.

Well, for one thing, Scott Pelley is not to be
confused with Pelly the postal pelican from Nintendo's "Animal Crossing" video game:

Nor is Scott Pelley to ever be mistaken for the fantastical Exeter from that great classic "This Island Earth":

Gee willickers, I bet poor Scott gets that mix up ALL the time.
No, children, I'm talking about this man:

Yes, the Scott Pelley. You might've seen him on CBS Evening News and/or 60 Minutes.
He's the news anchor who's best known for methodically eating his glasses while interviewing people.

That's right, he puts the stems of his glasses in his mouth. On national television.
For everyone and their obese grandmother to witness.

Personally if he were interviewing me and he started doing that I'd have to fight the urge to smack it out of his mouth. I'm not much of a fighter so his glasses would be on the floor faster than you can say "Now that's better.".

You could be thinking "Why in the WORLD does he do that?". I'm not thinking that but I'm sure you are, so I'll humor your seemingly odd sensibilities by explaining some possibilities behind this bizarre behavior of this puffy cheeked man. Hopefully the information given will calm your soul and bring endless peace into that giant void in your life that's filled with the gnawing sense that something is seriously wrong with society.
And maybe it will also encourage you to burn your Snuggie.

I know you have one. Don't lie; I didn't. Remember? With the title thing? Yeah. We'll see about you...

So, why oh why does Mr. Pelley stick the stems of his glasses in his mouth? I don't even recall seeing him wear glasses on either CBS Evening News or 60 Minutes. And scratch the idea of reading glasses because I don't recall him using them to read anything either.
Honestly I have no proof the man can read. I've never witnessed any documented evidence  suggesting he's mastered the secret art of Hooked on Phonics.

So... if he doesn't wear them, and he doesn't use them, why does he have them on his person?
Or in his mouth??
Perhaps, in an attempt to feed his superiority complex, he's trying to imitate some of the influential stem-suckers of the past.
Famous people such as Woody Allen, Caesar Augustus, Gumby, Mr. Peabody, Captain Planet, Flava Flav, Austin Powers... the list goes on and on.
The fact is, Mr Pelley, sticking the stems of your glasses in your mouth does NOT make you look smarter than the person you're interviewing.
Quite the opposite. It makes you look like a hungry zombie, and last time I checked hungry zombies don't interview people. They eat them.
Scott Pelley, if you're reading this, please don't eat your interviewees. It's just not polite.
(by the way 'interviewees' is a very stupid-looking real word, which is also very stupid)

Speaking of eating and stupidity, there's also a very good possibility that these glasses of his aren't actually for seeing.

Yes, that's right. Consumable glasses. Maybe the stems of his glasses come in a variety of flavors:

As of this writing, I'm not currently aware of any company that would produce such novelties, but it would certainly explain why Mr. Pelley habitually inserts his glasses into his mouth every time he interviews somebody.
Knowing him, which I don't, he must have some connection with a Swedish underground eyeglass producer where he has them specially made.
Just for him.

Because he's just that cool. Too cool for school.
Just check out Captain Obvious here:

"I'm so cool I get my Schnapps for free."

Okay, maybe not that cool. He's almost veering over the edge into Shatnerdom there.
Which reminds me, has anyone else noticed the set design for CBS Evening News?
It's curiously similar to a certain classic TV show from the sixties...

But I really shouldn't be so harsh on the man.
Scott Pelley has had a lot of experience in his field. Gosh diddly he's been asking people retarded questions since he was a kid:

Okay, I really can't back that up. At least he wears pants now.

Okay, I can't back that up either. They always shoot him from the waist up.
By 'shoot' I mean with a camera. Not with a gun.
He's not a zombie. Yet.

Anyhoo, those are just a couple of theories as to his maddening oral fixation. Another theory you might consider (which I find to be more scientific in its grounding) is that he's just a plain ol' weirdo. Not quite Gonzo, but certainly up there.
Personally, I'd love to get paid to suck on my glasses while harassing hapless folks with condescending questions.

The worst part of all this is that while I was doing my usual detective work and researching this secret flavored eyeglass stem company I just so happened to stumble upon his new product endorsement:

Yep.  Apparently this should be available for purchase sometime later this year.
Or not. The suspense will keep you up all night I'm sure.

So, children, what have we learned today about this wild man Scott Pelley?

1) he is not(yet) a zombie
2) he's got Swedish connections
3) yellow turtlenecks look awful on him
4) maybe he wears pants
5) Mr. Owl is his archnemesis

You may now try to delete all this from your brain. Thank you.

Bane

I recently watched The Dark Knight Rises, which is an excellent movie for people who don't get caught up on questions such as "How does Bane enjoy the delicious flavor of Goldfish crackers?".

Which, I might add, is a great question. Throughout the film there seemed little evidence to suggest Bane could simply remove that fancy allergy mask of his and chow down on a Big Mac whenever he got the case of the munchies.
This is clearly a serious weakness of his, and I'm absolutely flabbergasted that the writers didn't
consider using this ploy to bring him down. Although perhaps they did, but Pepperidge Farm refused to cooperate.

Shame on you Pepperidge Farm!

You see, the complete lack of Goldfish crackers in his diet could be viewed as a serious source of tension in his life, and all Batman had to do to send him into a downward spiral of suicidal depression was to simply offer some to him.

I think I see a tear.

Seriously, over the past few days I've done massive amounts of extensive research on this subject and I've compiled all the information into a highly detailed diagram featuring all the data that I've managed to discover so far.
Enjoy:

See? What more proof do you need? This fatal flaw in Bane's apparatus clearly has the potential to completely confound this supposedly unstoppable villian.  
And you might be thinking this sounds absolutely absurd because we both know that when Bane pushes his cart through Walmart he purposely skips past the cracker aisle, thus preventing him from encountering the vast array of Goldfish flavors this wonderful world has to offer.
This is why, after some deep thinking, I've come up with a much more plausible scenario: Bane at a baby shower.

Okay, maybe Bane tones it down at baby showers. Perhaps he has a soft spot for the fresh scent of Huggies. Certainly somewhere beneath his steroid physique and Abercrombie obsession he possesses a gentlemanly manner akin to what some might refer to as a bona fide Louisiana shoe salesman.
Or an ambiguous TJ Maxx employee.

So I'll rewind and update the scenario to include this hypothesis:

Now clearly these sort of situations must enter into Bane's life from time to time. There are plenty of people in the world to offer tasty morsels to people incapable of enjoying them. And by 'them' I'm referring to the tasty morsels, not the people. I'm not talking about cannibalism here.
What I'm talking about is the fact that Bane's life, much like my own, must be filled with situations that inevitably end with some form of torment. Most of which involve Goldfish crackers.

I'm sure Bane in all his ingenuity has looked into ways to soothe his agony. Maybe he jogs in the morning to relieve the stress. Maybe he has a tiny little bonsai garden which he prunes each day. Or he has a cat. Or a Sea-Monkey farm.
Or maybe he found a good self-help book.

Or maybe he found a good therapist.

Or maybe he takes out his frustrations by terrorizing cities, like, oh, let's say Gotham City.
Director Christopher Nolan might've had a hidden Goldfish cracker plot point underlying the story and it got cut from the film. If this is truly the case(and I'm betting it is) it has thrown the movie into a completely different direction, ultimately leaving us all to wonder what the heck Bane's problem is.

But, you see, he's not all that bad. He's just misunderstood. He'll bring cupcakes to your baby shower. He'll walk your dog. He's waiting patiently on Facebook, hoping to friend you so he can help you level up in Farmville. C'mon, give the poor guy a chance.
It's not his fault he's allergic to sunflower seeds. Or whatever.

So....anyway, as I said in the beginning of this post, The Dark Knight Rises is an excellent movie for people who don't get caught up on questions such as "How does Bane enjoy the delicious flavor of Goldfish crackers?".
Fortunately for everyone involved I'm not that kind of a person, and I enjoyed the film very much.
Goldfish crackers or not.