Blog: Cinema Head Cheese

Cinema Head Cheese is a great little review site that is continually gaining traction. I am a co-founder of the site along with David Hayes and Jeff Dolniak. We also record a monthly podcast that includes reviews, interviews and various segments. I write reviews, editorials, and articles such as Versus, a comparison of similar movies or characters.

Read my articles and reviews on Cinema Head Cheese

Knock It Off, Spike Lee

I often look toward Hollywood and wonder how certain people are allowed to continue working. It has nothing to do with the quality of your films. I refuse to see any of them. I'm sure you'll call me a racist for that, because that's what you do, but your race has (shocking!) nothing to do with it. I refuse to support the career of someone who is such an obnoxious dickbag. You have crossed that line one too many times, and now it's time to put a stop to you.

Let's put aside the time you tried to sue the Spike channel for stealing your name. That's just stupid. If Warner Bros. was smart, they'd sue you for stealing the name of their cartoon dog. You don't own your name, asshole. They called it Spike, not Spike Lee. It's an innocuous old-timey tough guy name that they used for a guys' channel. It's irony that your name is one that's usually attributed to tough guys, considering the fact that you whine more than a baby with a booboo.

You are one of the most prolific race baiters of the last century. As much as you claim that you want an end to racism, you do a damn good job of keeping it alive. I know you're upset about Trayvon Martin. So am I. So are a lot of people. I think George Zimmerman took things to a horrible level, and he should be punished. As great as the idea of vigilante justice sounds, it's never really going to be a good idea. It's like owning a pit bull. Proponents say it's all in how you train them. The problem with it is that only morons own pit bulls, and these are the same that will participate in taking the law into their own hands. Zimmerman is one of those morons, and so are you.

You somehow thought it was a great idea to post George Zimmerman's address on Twitter. Of course, genius that you are, you didn't do any research. You posted the address to the wrong George Zimmerman. The house you posted belongs to an elderly couple in poor health. You didn't even have the balls or brains to apologize. Go on with your stupid life while others suffer due to your asshole mistake. If I were them, I'd have a lawyer building a case against you.

You need to slink back into the shadows where you came from. Nobody wants to hear from you. You only cause trouble. Considering the money your films don't pull in, nobody wants to be entertained by you, either. Do all of us a favor and disappear. Don't worry, nobody will even notice.

Knock It Off, Tweakers

You are loud, crass and obviously dumb. You look like you haven't showered in months. There are two of you in that apartment, and I don't like either of you. I don't care how cordial you are to me. I refuse to like you. Why? Because you're fuck-ups of the worst kind. I'm all for making drugs legal. That's not my issue. It's your body, and if you're stupid enough to fill it with chemicals, that's your business. That doesn't mean I have to talk to you. In fact, I'm done talking to you. I'm now ready to explain you to the readers.

He reminds me of that guy in the Adam Sandler movie who can't remember that he introduced himself to you. Every time is see this guy, whether it's in the laundry room or by the parking area, he can't seem to remember that he met me. He insists over and over that we never met, and then he holds his hand up in that stupid downward swooping overhanded handshake that I only ever see coming from an idiot. He tried to help another neighbor with his car by telling him that aluminum foil was a great way to wrap a splice. This fucktard has children. Of course he does. You already expected that.



She looks slightly worse than Margot Kidder did when she was found in someone's bushes. She's frail and gaunt looking. Imagine a normal person. Now imagine what that person would look like after you poked a straw into her head and sucked out all the juice. She's somewhere between a Killer Klowns from Outer Space victim and a spent Capri Sun container. Her mouth looks like she chews on whole walnuts filled with squid ink for fun.

These two are ridiculous. Just before I started writing this, they were arguing, and I couldn't tell which was saying what, because they both have that smoker's voice that sounds like Danny Bonaduce gargling razor blades. One of them started to call the other nigger whore. They're both white, which I'm sure I didn't need to say. Meth is a fairly white drug. I count the days until I get to leave this hellhole. I will say farewell to these assholes and their shit, and I hope these morons and their poor kids forget me like so many introductions.

Knock It Off, Oscars

Every year, Hollywood jerks itself off. From the expensive clothing to the ridiculous red carpet walks, it's a huge dick yanking to self. Here's the deal, Oscar, you don't win at art. It's not a competition. Art is meant to entertain. It's not a sport. It's there for interpretation. You can't decide who was most arty. That's just stupid.

Most of what hits theaters is shit these days. In the last year, I've only been compelled to see one movie in theaters. I find so much more on the independent front. By independent, I don't mean it's made by some celebrity that used twenty million dollars out of his own pocket. I mean real independent movies made for little money by true outsiders. Movies you refuse to acknowledge



I'm going to tell you something that might shock you. Meryl Streep is not that great. Like most actors, she's pretty much the same in every movie. I know you love her, but the fact is that she's no better than most.
I can't trust what you tell me is good. You once gave an original screenplay award to Lost in Translation. That movie was one of the worst pieces of shit I've ever seen. Your relevance went out the window at that point. You can tell me I don't get it, but you're lying, and I don't know why.

When you start acknowledging real indies and movies that deserve recognition, I'll start giving a shit about what you have to say. You give awards to movies you wished people would like, but half the time they're no good. Start including everyone, or stop existing. That's all that I can say.

Knock It Off, Disney and Marvel Comics

Back in August, I got to meet a comic book creator who is very special to me. His name is Gary Friedrich, and he created the only comic book I ever really read. He's the man responsible for Ghost Rider. I interviewed him for Cinema Head Cheese, and thanks to a giant t-shirt booth, the audio is no good. I will say, however, that he was a very pleasant guy who took pride in his creation. HIS creation. That's something that you, Marvel Comics, and your new owner, Disney, seem to have forgotten.

A few years ago, Friedrich sued you over copyrights for Ghost Rider. Apparently, he wasn't given his share from the movie. You argued the issue, but you really have no place to do so. See, when you originally printed the character in an anthology called Marvel Spotlight #5, you credited Friedrich as the creator of Ghost Rider, and you never copyrighted the character. Therefore, Friedrich has always and still does retain the copyright. Unfortunately, you and a judge that I can only assume is in your corporate pocket seem to disagree.

You counter-sued Friedrich, and a horrible settlement offer was put out there. The man who gave you a character that you've made millions from in books, toys and a movie now has to pay you $17,000, and he can't say he's the creator of Ghost Rider to make money. Isn't that a little extreme? Technically, you use your resume to try to make money, so can he even put it there? You have to be insane. Do you know how bad you look, especially with a second movie coming out?

You stole from the man, and now you have the courts helping you steal more. Thanks to your selfish and greedy actions, I will now boycott Marvel, Disney, your affiliates and anything connected to you. This means ABC, ESPN, any of your radio and television stations. Who else have you screwed over?

I like the fact that other comic creators have come together to support Gary in this terrible time. Steve Niles, creator of 30 Days of Night, even set up a donation page on his website. I'm happy to share that and support the cause. You need to realize that without creators, you have nothing. This is why I'm glad to see so many people work independently. Soon enough, people will bail on corporations like you, and we'll all be out there putting out our work for fans who want it. It'll be nice top work without your filter, and you won't be able to rob those who feed your gluttony.

To donate to Gary Friedrich, head over to http://www.steveniles.com/gary.html.

It's About Time

I love writing about my daughter. It's interesting for me to analyze what she does. I get to study her while I raise her. It's a nice set of goggles to see the world through sometimes. Other times, I think too much about the horrible things that might happen. That's not all bad, considering the fact that I'll be prepared to deal with anything that comes my or her way. What I do realize through all of this is that time is flying by, and I need to hang on to every second that I can.

The day I write this is my dad's sixtieth birthday. I left him a message, and I'm sure I'll talk to him in a day or two. That's a big number in some respects, but it's still young in the grand scheme of things. I'll be thirty-six this year. It'll be ten years since I hit panic mode and decided to do something that I always wanted to do. In the past ten years, I have written comic books, blogs and most of a screenplay. I have acted in a dozen movies. I have published a book, recorded a stand-up comedy CD and made music for a movie. I helped to create a popular movie review website and podcast network. I have taken time seriously. I need to continue that trend in other aspects of my life.



Casey will be four this year, and that's amazing to me. She's a wonderful little monkey, and I enjoy the time I have with her. It's funny, but I thought I needed to document as much of her life as I could. It turns out that this is detrimental. I bought a camera before she was born. I sold it awhile ago. Why? Beside the fact that I bought a better video camera, I realized that I'd rather live with her than record her living. I prefer to be a participant than an observer.

As much as I love doing this, it's time to move on to living it. I have plenty to do, and this won't be the end of my work. This is the continuation of what I love to do most. I am a dad. I love being a dad. I don't care about showing someone what we did at a certain time. I just want to do that thing. Looking at life through a camera lens is no good. Living life with Casey is the best. Sometimes we need to put down the camera and grab onto a little hand. Photos, cameras and hard drives can all fade, and yeah, so can memories, but I'll enjoy it now while I can. Life doesn't give you forever, so I'll take what I can get right now. I hope you do the same.

Knock It Off, Rodney Harrison

I understand that it's tough to watch your former team lose the Super Bowl. I'm sure it's especially rough when they lose to the Giants for the second time, especially since you were on the team the first time. What you shouldn't do is shit on the way another player deals with that loss. You criticized Rob Gronkowski for dancing at a club after his team's Super Bowl loss, and you really have no place. You weren't half the player he is.

I know you were good at what you did, but this is a guy that's coming off of two NFL records in his sophomore year in the league. Do you know what award you won twice? Dirtiest player in the league. You were highly regarded as a scumbag, and now you only extend that legacy of douchebaggery. You are a dick, and you should shut your stupid mouth. I'll bet you don't know why, but I'll happily tell you.

First off, Gronk is a monster. The kid's going into the Hall of Fame. Sure, you might be as well, but at least people will be happy to see him go in. You were a dick on the field, and now you're a dick on television. You're part of the worst commentary team on the air. You and Tony Dungy are beyond boring, and you keep me from watching the pregame show on Sunday nights. If it were up to me, you'd be fired... out of a cannon... into a brick wall. Anything to save us from another season of your bland so-called insight.

Worst of all, you sit back and shit on a great player for what he did after the Super Bowl while you were on the wrong side of the greatest catch in Super Bowl history. That's right. Right behind David Tyree and his amazing helmet catch is good old number 37. You fucked up, shithead, and now you're throwing blame on someone else. It's not Gronk's fault that you got posterized. Own up to your own bullshit and leave the kid alone. People will only remember you as that shitty guy on NBC while they're still singing his praises. Grow up and let the guy have a good time. After all, it's a kids' game.

Knock It Off, David Cross

This one pains me. It really does. I love comedy, and I'm a fan of yours. I like your stand-up. I own your albums. I like Arrested Development, The Incredibly Long Show Title That Ends in Todd Margaret and Mr. Show. Run, Ronnie, Run is under-appreciated. I think you have a great comedic voice that needs to be heard. That being said, your recent complaints about working on the latest Chipmunks movie make you look like a ridiculous fool.

I heard it on a podcast, then on another, and then on a talk show. You began to tell the tale of how you were made to work in a scene on a cruise ship, and you wore a mascot suit for your scenes. You talked about it as though your captors were shoving bamboo under your fingernails while gang raping your girlfriend in front of you. The big complaint was that your face wasn't visible, so the asshole producers could have hired a stand-in to do your scenes. They could have, but they were already paying you.

I seem to remember you being a person who would make fun of people like you. You used to shit on conventional Hollywood, and now you're turning into what you despise. Think about your complaint for a minute. You're upset because you had to do your job. You are angry that you had to fill the role of your character. You believe that the producers are scum for not letting you sit at home while someone who makes a fraction of what you make does the work that you deem to be horrific. Am I missing anything?

As an actor, you have the easiest job in the world. You play pretend, and you get a hefty paycheck to do so. In the scenes on the ship, you didn't even have to remember lines. Can it get any easier? I don't even begrudge you making shitty movies. I get it. Everyone needs to get paid. I'd do it too. What I wouldn't do is cry over something as simple as having to do the job I was hired to do. Stop the whining and appreciate the life you have. Not everyone gets to fuck off for a living.

Hand Me Downs

I saw a picture today that made me think. It was a picture of my brother-in-law holding up a skateboard covered in Hello Kitty stickers. It's my niece's first skateboard, and he couldn't look happier in the picture. My niece is only two and a half, but he's ready to get her started. I know they'll both enjoy every second of it. It made me think about what I might hand down to Casey. Even as I write this, I'm not entirely sure.

I'm not even talking about genetic stuff. She has a sense of humor, and she's already an asshole, so I've passed that down. I'm thinking more in the realm of things we can do together. I never had that with my parents, but I have friends who have baseball with their dads, or crocheting with their moms. My girlfriend is in a roller derby league, and she wants to teach Casey how to skate. I finally gave in, and we should see the result of that soon.

I feel like my hand me down will be observation. I study things and people. We play a game in the car. I find something, and I ask if she can see it. If we're driving, she asks if we can play. Observation seems like a broad thing to share, but it's a huge part of who I am. Observation helps me write. It gives me ideas and subjects to focus on, and it helps me to break down those ideas and find the nuances that lead me to many discoveries. Observation helps me on my podcasts. It gives me insight into what I'm talking about, and it lets me express myself in detailed thoughts.

Observation makes me a better thinker. It makes movie watching more exciting. I notice small details that may come up later or lead me to what the outcome might be. It makes comedy more exciting. I watch a stand-up like a coach watches game film. I see ticks and movements. I notice little pauses and inflections that make the delivery of a joke brilliant. Without observation, we wouldn't have George Carlin, Louis C.K., Richard Lewis, Kevin Hart or any of the brilliant comedians we've seen over the past few decades.

Observation lets you know what another person is going to do or say before they do or say it. It helps in sales, comedy, acting, customer service, management or any avenue you can take in life. I plan to make her a thinker. I'll teach her how to study anything, and to trust her instincts. I think it's going to be a fun thing for us to share. I hope she enjoys that as much as I do.

Knock It Off, Jay-Z

Congratulations on having a kid. In fact, congratulations on being the first guy on the planet to ever have a kid. Oh, wait. You aren't the first? Well, shit. By the way you've been acting, it seems that you think you are the first dad on the planet. In fact, you seem to think you're the only dad on the planet, you inconsiderate fuck.

Some people might think that I should include your wife, Beyonce, in this post, but I disagree. I know I shouldn't dismiss her for this behavior, but it wouldn't surprise me to see this from a woman. Women are crazy, and pregnant women are the ninth circle of insane. If she shit up a playground slide while juggling dead hamsters, I wouldn't be that shocked. You, however, are a grown man. You really deserve a punch in the face for the way you're acting.

It's one thing to rent a wing of a hospital for the birth of your child, but to prevent other fathers from seeing their kids is absolute bullshit. Your shitheel security blocked a dad from seeing his newborn who happened to be hanging on to life by a thread. If I were that dad, I'd have two options. I could be rational and just call the cops to let me in. I could also do what would probably be more along the lines of what would be realistic for me and start swinging scalpels. You don't keep another dad from his kid. That's just asshole behavior.

Now, you say you're retiring the word bitch. You can't retire a word, bitch. You can stop using it yourself, bitch, but you have to remember, bitch, that bitch is in the chorus of one of your most famous songs, bitch. You see, bitch, just because you, the almighty Jay-Bitch, have a daughter, doesn't mean the word bitch can't exist anymore, bitch. Your daughter isn't that precious, bitch, and with as spoiled as your newborn daughter already is, bitch, she's bound to be a bitch.

You need to calm down. I have a daughter, too. What you're doing is trying to create a perfect world for her. There is no such thing. She's going to bump her head, shit her pants and fail at things. You can't prevent that. You can try, but you will fail. It's life. The more you keep her in a bubble, the worse off she'll be. She won't know how to deal with people in any way other than to boss them around. If you create a princess, you'll have a queen bitch. That's the way it works. Just live like a normal human being. Let her fall down once in awhile. If you don't, she'll never learn to pick herself up.

Knock It Off, Model/Actress

I see people doing weird things all the time. You might be the strangest of the bunch. It's funny, but most people don't run around proclaiming to have a job that they don't really have. You, however, live your life telling everyone that you are this thing that you really aren't. In fact, you tell them you're something that you really shouldn't tell them you are. I'm not talking to legitimate models or actresses, I'm talking to the wannabes.

I don't mind you having a dream. That's fine. Many of us have dreams. What I do mind is you spending more time trying to convince me and the rest of the world that you're living it than actually living it. Here's a great example. If you look at my Facebook profile, it has my name on it. It doesn't say "Kevin Moyers Mailman." That's not my name. Your profile, however, says "Shirley Shithead Actress." If you have to tell me you're an actress, you're probably not doing that great of a job.

Also, you have the job description. "Model/Actress at Self Employed." That's a big lie. You don't model or act for yourself. Yes, I know my profile says that I work for Abnormal Entertainment. Well, I do. I co-own it, and I helped build what we have here. On top of that, I do work on it every single day. Every single day. That's not a joke. Not a day goes by that I'm not blogging, reviewing a movie, editing someone else's movie review, recording, editing or posting a podcast or trying to find ways to get our work attention. I truly work at Abnormal Entertainment.

I also want to clarify this whole model thing. Acting is easy to define. If you filmed some shit half-assed movie with your friends (guilty), then you've acted. I get that. I've done that, though I would never call myself an actor. That is my personal choice. Modeling, however, requires you to model for something. Doing a so-called photo shoot in your underwear in some guy's garage for no purpose other than to take pictures does not make you a model. It makes you a dummy. You are now spank material for some guy who was just smart enough to tug at your ego.

Here's another thing. You think that somehow you're going to make a living off of your looks. I hate to say this, but many of you will never be able to do that. I know that automatically makes me a jerk guy to most of you, but I'm being honest. Adorable as I am, I can't cash in on my face. I'm honest with myself. You might want to consider doing the same thing. It's not just about that, though. I would think that if you had any kind of real self-esteem, you'd want to be known for something more than just being that girl who put fifty pictures of herself almost naked up on her Tumblr account. I have a daughter, and no matter how pretty she someday is, I will always make sure she aims higher than trying to use her looks to make a buck. I want her to be a person of substance. I'd like to see her educate herself and let her looks be a nice bonus to the fact that she's a success at something meaningful. I'd like to see you all do the same. Aim a little higher or try a little harder. Let your accomplishments convince that you are a success, not your Facebook profile.

It's All SpongeBob's Fault

There was a recent report that blamed SpongeBob Squarepants for a rise in ADHD cases because the colors and images flash by too fast. I've been watching the show with Casey in marathon chunks, and I have to say that this theory is entirely bullshit. The problem isn't SpongeBob. It's what's going on around SpongeBob.

While we watch, Casey eats, plays board games, plays with her LeapPad, plays with her toys and really takes multitasking to a new level. It has nothing to do with SpongeBob. He just happened to show up at the right time. Look at the cartoons I grew up with. Woody Woodpecker was all over the place. Nobody blamed him for anything, yet I have ADHD, apparently, and so does my entire generation.



We can't blame cartoons for a kid's condition.  Yes, behaviors can be learned, but if they're taken in the right way, cartoons can be seen as pure fantasy. I watched Tom and Jerry, Popeye and Bluto, Wile E. Coyote and the Roadrunner, and they all beat the shit out of each other. I don't run around dropping anvils on people's heads. I knew it was all for fun. It's like saying that someone who watches Tony Soprano is going to run out and start a crime syndicate. It just doesn't happen.

When Columbine happened many years ago, people tried to blame the video games and music the two killers enjoyed. Nobody thought to attack the negligence of the parents who didn't happen to notice the armory forming in the garage. Marilyn Manson didn't stockpile an arsenal. In the same way, it's a parent's responsibility to make sure a kid isn't overwhelmed. Focus is key, and kids just can't do it anymore.

In the future, I'll try to get Casey to focus on one thing at a time. It's hard for her. She even wants to read two books at once sometimes. It's crazy. I know it's tough to get a kid to focus when we can hardly focus on our own things. I have three tabs open in my browser as I write this. My goal is to set that straight and get her mind on one thing at a time. As for me, I don't know if that will ever happen, but we'll take it one spaz at a time.

Knock It Off, Kristy McNichol

First off, I'm happy for you, I think. Maybe this secret explains why you've had some odd behavior over the last few years. Face it, you left a hit sitcom for no understandable reason, and then you went to work the sales floor at Sears. Does that make any sense at all? Not to most. however, if you were hiding something this big about your life, I can understand how it would frazzle you to the point of insanity.

That being said, I think you're full of shit. Not about being gay, but about wanting to come out so that young women can see that it's okay. In case you had no idea, there isn't a living soul under thirty who knows who you are. You haven't been on television in over two decades. You vanished from the planet. My guess is that you really came out years ago, but nobody cared. Now you did it through a publicist so you could have something you've been missing for so long: attention.

Look, I feel for anyone who feels the need to hide who they are. It's not right. You should be able to do whatever you want. I don't care if it's sex, a career, a hobby or a fucking television show you watch. You should be able to be honest about your interests and proclivities. What you should also be honest about is your motive.

I'm glad that in today's society, it's a little easier to be out and proud. You haven't jumped over every hurdle just yet, but you're getting there. I just don't need the public display of anyone's love life. I don't care who Jennifer Aniston is going to marry, I don't care who George Clooney is fucking this week, and I don't care that you are coming out of the closet. Remember the whole thing about your bedroom being private? You and all of the other celebrities out there should remember that next time you open your stupid yaps.

Second-Hand Boogers

The second I said the name of this blog out loud, I knew I had to use it for something. It's an odd title, but I really love it. It truly symbolizes what it is to be a parent. It shows the sacrifice you make in becoming secondary in your own life. It depicts the grossness you deal with as a parent. It's a testament to how many foreign bodily fluids will end up on you at one point or another. It is beautiful, no matter how disgusting it is. Just like your kids.

I was driving one day, and Casey sneezed. It wasn't bad, and she didn't have any danglers, which was nice. She picked her nose. She always picks her nose. I wish I knew where she gets that. I wish that last sentence couldn't be answered by looking in a mirror. Anyway, some of the time, she does it and eats it in front of me, just because it grosses me out. She gets a kick out of that. This time, she just yelled for me. She didn't know what to do with this golden nugget she just excavated from her nostril, and without thinking, I reached back and told her to give it to me. She wiped it right on my finger. That's when I said it.



"This is my life. Second-hand boogers."

The light bulb went off, and I knew that I'd have to remember that phrase. The booger? It ended up in the graveyard under my seat. Where else would I put it? I really don't know why I opted to reach back and get it. It's not the only time I did something like that. One day, on the way to see the great grandparents, Casey got car sick, and she told me. "I'm sick, Daddy." I looked at her, and I knew she was going to lose it. What did I do? I reached back and cupped my hand, as though I could catch the entire spew. I still have no idea what possessed me to do that, but I did it.

Of course, what she expelled was more than I could handle, and I was left with a handful of puke. I held it out over the passenger seat, where it dripped until I flung it out of my window. When I got to my grandparents' house, I changed Casey's clothes, and she promptly rested in Great Grandma's lap. I spent some time cleaning my car and her car seat. She slept it off, and all was well again.

The puke doesn't bother me like I thought it would. The first time she did it, she was sick, and I was feeding her mashed potatoes. She sprayed me like Reagan from The Exorcist. It hit my shoulder at full force, and all I could do was laugh. The only bad part is that I ate off the same spoon, and I got sick a few days later. Again, I don't know what possessed me, but I did it to entice her to eat.

The thing is that the poop, puke, pee and snot are all a part of the job. I feel sometimes like I'm the lead shit shoveler at the zoo, but it's my zoo, and I get to have fun with the animals. That makes it all worthwhile.

Knock It Off, Shitty Neighbors

I haven't lived next to you idiots for too long, but it only took me about four seconds to know you were assholes. I'm a good judge of character, and I could have spotted you from an airplane flying thousands of feet overhead. I do blame the landlord for renting to you. That jackoff cares about money, not the building. That's how you fuckers end up next to me. Great.

You do some really dumb things. For some reason, you keep some of your kids' toys outside along the walkway. It's a place to walk, not a storage area. My favorite is the time you were spraying the makeshift sides of your pickup truck with black spray paint. You were protecting the paint job of your twenty-year-old banged up shit heap, but you failed to realize that it was one of the windiest days all year, and your paint will travel with the wind and get on other people's cars. Nice work, fucktard.



Then we get to the worst part. You fight constantly. Not only that, you fight loudly. Not only is it loud, but you feel the need to do it outside and in front of your kids. That's horrible for everyone. Am I the only person that hears your kid bawling every time you get into this? I know you don't hear it, or you don't care. Do you think that's a good way to live?

No kid should see that, especially not five days a week. You're doing horrible things to each other in front of your children. You call each other mother fuckers and whores and insult each other in various ways. This is what they hear, and this is what every one of your neighbors hear. Have a little dignity and self respect, and do that shit inside, or better yet, don't do it at all. I'm tired of the childish nonsense.

Twas the Night Before the Night Before Christmas

...And all through this dump
If you couldn't enjoy this, you must be a chump
The kid's eyes were glued to old Spongebob Squarepants
As dreams of Dos Equis in my head would dance

My girlfriend was nestled up snug on the couch
And I in my chair with my usual slouch
As I scratched my head under my brand new Bears cap
I looked at the gifts and said, "Let's open this crap."

Then Casey said, "Hey, what's that thing over there?"
And opened it to find a pink beanbag chair
Off went the wrappings in small shredded sheets
To find board games, a watch and a Fijit, which beeps

As I charged up the batteries to her brand new LeapPad
I realized this is why it's great to be Dad
The smile on her face with each unopened gift
Is exactly the thing that I need for a lift

But this fun is not over, we have two more nights
Of opening gifts while we look at the lights
And a Christmas Day dinner we spend with the Greats
And five helpings of mashed potatoes on Casey's plate

So I say to you all that my Christmas was good
And I took the week off from this blog, as I should
So with poetry, this week I'm finally here
Merry Holidays to all, and a Happy New Year!

Knock It Off, Time

What are you doing to me? I'm a day late here, and it's all your fault. You move too fast. I know I attacked one of your minions last week, but this is when I need to go for the big guns. You're messing with me constantly, and I don't like it. I don't like it at all.

I had Monday off this week because of Christmas, so yesterday seemed like Tuesday, even though it was that prick Wednesday. I lost track, and thus this post is a day late. Whose to blame here? Some would say my mind or my memory, but that's really you. You do this to me. Because of you, I age, and I become forgetful.



I'm not enjoying what you're doing to my mind or body. Let's start with the physical. First off, there's the hair thing. My scalp is becoming more visible with every passing day. Sure, I like the fact that I no longer have to shampoo or comb it, and haircuts are as easy as a set of clippers across my dome, but I used to have nice long hair. I washed it. I brushed it. I thrashed it at metal shows. It was glorious, and you took it away from me. Heredity is only one part. You make it worse. Then there's the rest of the hair. The new stuff. Please, tell me why I should have to patrol my ears for rogue dark wiry hairs. That's just fucked up. Add my nostrils and left shoulder to the mix, and I look like an insane caveman.

I shouldn't be grunting with every move I make. Maybe I don't take care of myself so well, but that's because I'm tired all the time from that aging thing you force me to do. What is that shit? Is that necessary? I also never had a great memory, but you make that worse than any other ailment you cause. I half remember my own name most days. My potential dimentia is your fault, not to mention the cancer I'll probably have to beat one day. Fuck you, time. Are you going to pay my hospital bills? I thought not.

Here's the deal. I can't avoid you, but maybe you can avoid me just a little. It would be nice if you gave it a rest once in awhile. Maybe lay off the ear hair, or let me remember where my own ass is. That would be nice. If you do that, I'll forgive you for that stupid "Tick Tock" Ke$ha song. I'm sure that's your fault, too.

Knock It Off, Wednesday

Jesus, man. You do this to me every single week. You sneak up on me, and I completely forget what day you are. Wednesday again? Yep. I have work to do. Here I am, trying to sit and figure out who the hell to complain about this week, and you're staring at me, ticking away like a son of a bitch. You just don't stop. Then, a week later, you start this shit all over again. Well, I've had enough.

I'm dying thanks to my own schedule. It's true, I choose to do the work, and I chose what tasks happen on what days, and Wednesday is my day to find a douchebag, but do you really have to sneak up on me? Nothing happens on Wednesdays, so it's no surprise that you have the ability to do this. There's nothing special about you. You don't have a show that I watch. You don't have an event. Now that I work the same route every day, I might even forget that you exist.



It's true. Nobody cares about Wednesday. Sure, there was a TV character named for you, but that was a long time ago. You don't hear Rebecca Black singing about you. Ice Cube didn't write a movie about you. Jason Voorhees doesn't kill on Wednesday. That's just stupid.

Maybe that's why I'm here. Maybe it's my job to bring you notoriety. Doubtful, but you never know. Someone somewhere could be saying, "Hey, that complaining guy just posted something online. It must be Wednesday!" Dare to dream. If your fate is reliant on my fame, consider yourself dead.

Alright, I'll do my best. After all, you do serve a purpose for me. I get work done on your day. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll continue to do what I do, and from now on, just give me a little warning. Let me know you're here and ready to go. That;ll be enough for me. Now, I have to go talk to that Thursday asshole.

The Bug

There's something that I've wondered about for some time. I've been curious to know whether or not Casey would ever want to be an entertainer. It's not something I'd ever push her to do. In fact, I'd me more inclined to discourage it, but I wouldn't really do that either. I just wish I knew if she had that bug. Today was her first live performance in front of an audience, and I think I may have gotten my answer.

Her school put on a small Christmas show. Kids from three age groups learned several carols and even learned sign language for one of them. Casey sang one of the songs for me earlier in the week, but it was a little under her breath. There's no doubt that she has stage fright. I did at one point, but the difference between her and me is that once I'm on stage, I open up. She completely shut down today.



It took only a second to know this wasn't going to work. Once the class walked out to the stage area, she came out with a bad look on her face. She eventually saw me, but my wave didn't help. She immediately started bawling. At first, it was just her. I immediately claimed her as I recorded video on the whole thing. As time went on, two other kids joined in the tearfest. It was glorious.

I didn't mind it, and I was somewhat relieved. This is a troublesome life. I don't want her to feel like she constantly needs attention from strangers. It's fun sometimes, but it's very odd. She was dying to get out of her costume and clean herself up. This kid was ready to run for the hills, and she did.

When it's the two of us, we can sing and dance and make up songs. That's the best time you could ask for. Casey's not a big fan of strangers, and it carries to every end of her personality. I'm good with that. I think she'll be fine working quietly in a lab on the cure for cancer.

Knock It Off, Jim Harbaugh and Tim Tebow

I love football. It's the only sport I watch religiously anymore. Baseball is boring, and basketball is full of whiny kids. I like hockey, but there are too many teams to follow and too many guys without vowels in their names. Soccer is for assholes, and I know I'm an asshole, but not that kind of asshole. It takes a special grade of stupid to enjoy dickheads in little shorts playing glorified kickball. I hold football up on a pedestal above the others, and you two douchebags are ruining it for me.

I will admit that you are both very different kinds of douchebags. One is a well-meaning douche who just can't help but blather on like a retard, and the other is a maniacal douche who needs a huge kick in the nuts. I'll let you guess which is which. No, fuck that. I'm going to break it down for you two nutbags, or you'll never figure it out.

First off, I grew up in Chicago, and though I share my football allegiance with the Arizona Cardinals, I am and will always be a Bears fan. Don't get mad over the Cards. We both started in Chicago and ended up in Phoenix, and neither of us seem to be able to win the big prize. We're kindred spirits. Anyway, when I started watching the Bears, it was just after Superbowl XX. I was nine when that happened, and though I remember the Superbowl Shuffle and commercials with William Perry, I wasn't watching anything but the Cubs at that time, and barely even that.

I was watching in the early days of Mike Tomczak and Jim Harbaugh. I felt bad for you, Jim. You were constantly in a back and forth with T-zak over the starting job, and then there was the famous facemask yank from Mike Ditka. That was embarrassing. Of course, you were never that great with the Bears. In fact, you made the words "shovel pass" and "holy fuck, not again" go hand in hand. Somehow, I still rooted for you. Hell, even when you went to Indy and almost took the pre-Manning Colts to the Superbowl, I rooted for Captain Comeback. I thought it was great to see your big brother as a head coach. He's classy, loyal and strong in his position. I expected the same from you. Shovel pass.

You have an ego beyond belief. I'll give you credit for winning with a shit team, but you also have a weak schedule in a shit division. When you face a real challenge, you go right in the toilet. How about the Har-bowl? As a big brother myself, I knew John would give you the kick in the cock you deserve. I know Jim Schwartz overreacted, but when you beat the Lions, you had no right to celebrate in his face. I know John's Ravens are heading to the Superbowl this year, and I predict Green Bay will beat them, but I would love to see you squeak your way there just to have big brother wipe the field with you in front of the world. You need to calm the fuck down and show a little class.

Speaking of comebacks, let's get onto you, Tebow. Here's the deal, when Kurt the pious Warner says you talk too much about Jesus, it's really time to shut the fuck up. He yammered on about his faith constantly, and the one good thing about you is that you might have shown him what a douche he was. You seem like a nice enough guy with your in tact virginity and your doe eyes. I want you to do two things. The first was already mentioned, and the second would be to thank the people who are really winning these games for your team. I'm not just talking about Willis McGahee and your defense. I want you to extend a hearty thank you to Marion Barber. Without his sloppy fumble, you never would have beaten the Bears.

I just don't need your holy ass fucking up my Sundays. I watch football INSTEAD of going to church. I don't need the two combined. I am an Atheist, and all you do by spreading your mythology is make me a bigger Atheist. You don't convert people by annoying them. You convert people by showing them that your way is better. Don't talk, stupid. Do. Go out and win a Superbowl, then tell everyone how Jesus helped you. That's what happened to Warner, although Jesus let him lose two Superbowls. He also let Reggie White, one of his biggest cheerleaders, die at a young age. You know, I'm starting to think that your magical savior doesn't give a shit about football. How can I support a god who doesn't like football?

Here's my biggest prediction for you two. You meet in the Superbowl, and at the end of Madonna's halftime show, a giant sinkhole opens up in Indiana, swallowing you two, and hell, let's throw Madonna's fake-British ass in with you. That would be the Superest of bowls, and one in which everyone comes out a winner.