"Alligators Can Climb Trees" -- A Poem

"Alligators Can Climb Trees"

You agonize over your clothing

And trips to the grocery store

You've got tendonitis

And maybe arthritis

And fear that there isn't a cure

You fret over taxes, faxes, and emails

You worry your dog may have fleas

You fear that your houses

Will soon be your spouse's

Once you are declared divorcees

But I do not worry about any of these

Because alligators can climb trees

You spend hours daily on makeup

And fixing your eyebrows and hair

You're often made restless

By your many investments

And the state of your Microsoft shares

You fear that some day you'll all be put away

In retired folks' nursing facilities

Your children won't write you

Or even invite you

To your grandchildren's birthday parties

But I do not worry about any of these

Because alligators can climb trees

Alligators can climb trees!

Alligators can climb trees!

Just when you thought it was safe to go out

Alligators can climb trees!

We've got spiders and tigers and black bears

Wasps and echidnas and bees

Vipers and adders

But none of that matters

The gators are up in the trees!

You thought you were safe because you were watching 

The area down by your feet

They'll drop from above you

They'll certainly love you

Because you're delicious to eat

They've mouths full of teeth

And clawed feet beneath

They can swim through the water with flair

But now that they've taken

Arboreal stations

I can't help but think that's not fair

I steer clear of swamps, of marshes and lakes

I avoid all the rivers and seas

Just to be sure

I don't go near the sewer

But holy shit, now they climb trees?

I thought I could venture outdoors

With my body remaining intact

Don't go for a hike!

Don't go ride your bike!

They'll leap from the trees and attack!

There's nowhere that's safe from this terror

There's nothing left for you to do

No shelter for miles

Because crocodiles

Are climbing up into trees too

ALLIGATORS CAN CLIMB TREES!

ALLIGATORS CAN CLIMB TREES!

Just when you thought you were safe on dry land

Alligators can climb trees!

TV Series Review -- "Powerless"

Vanessa Hudgens as Emily (source)

Every superhero movie has at least one big climactic fight scene where the hero and the villain fly through the city beating the crap out of each other. They smash through windows, topple buildings, crush cars, and leave a vast swath of destruction in their wake. While most people are contentedly shouting encouragement at their favorite caped crusader, I'm usually sitting there thinking "Jesus Christ, who's going to clean this up?"

These movies rarely mention the faceless millions who have to deal with this sort of thing. How much must car insurance cost when there's a decent chance Superman will use your car to bash in the brains of whatever enemy happened to show up that day? How hard must it be to rent someone an apartment in a high-rise building when Batman might throw smoke bombs through the window at any moment to chase out Random Villain No. 5?

This slightly distracting line of thought is the exact premise of Powerless.

The story takes place in Charm City (basically the New Jersey to Gotham City's New York), where superhero battles are an everyday occurrence. Traffic reports usually include some sort of disaster caused by either a villain or the hero aiming to corral them. Random acts of evil and destruction are so common they're greeted with annoyance and frustration rather than the terror we're accustomed to being shown.

Emily, played by Vanessa Hudgens, is hired to lead a team of researchers whose job is to come up with inventions to protect people from these hazards--umbrellas to repel falling rubble and antidotes to the Joker's laughing gas are the sort of things they're expected to churn out.

In addition to these unusual tasks, Emily has to survive her underlings' contempt for her and a boss (played by Alan Tudyk of Firefly fame) who wants to be anywhere but where he is.

The show's biggest strength is its premise. We've been absolutely inundated with superhero movies of late, and it's nice to see a different spin on the genre. Instead of being a show about superheroes, it's a show where they happen to exist but are mostly seen off in the distance or on TV. Another plus is that Powerless is DC Comics-affiliated, so they can actually come right out and say Superman, Batman, and similar characters' names without having to dance around with made-up generic knockoff versions that would cheapen the story lines and annoy viewers.

Unfortunately, the show delivers a mixed bag when it comes to the quality of its characters. Vanessa Hudgens (in addition to being a pleasure to look at) does well as the naive out-of-towner optimist who serves as a contrast to the jaded, annoyed curmudgeons around her who don't share her enthusiasm for their work. Alan Tudyk similarly is well cast as their boss--an outcast of the Wayne (as in Bruce) family--and his assistant plays the foil to his shenanigans nicely.

Aside from those few, we don't get much to shout about. Pretty much everyone--including those I mentioned--is extremely eccentric, to put it nicely. To put it less nicely, they're all batshit crazy. This show painfully lacks a "straight man," the character who takes things seriously and acts serious even when nothing is serious. Think Graham Chapman in Life of Brian or Bud Abbot of Abbot and Costello. Tudyk's assistant attempts to fill this void but comes across more like Kif from Futurama, portraying comedic disgust for her boss rather than actual loathing for the horde of lunatics that surround her.

A little bit of zany is expected in a comedy, but when everyone's zany it's just too much. There's a fine line between funny and stupid, and there's a fine line between being eccentric and being an unrealistic caricature. The characters of Powerless too often find themselves on the wrong side of these lines. It's not just that they're unlikable either. Unlikable characters can work; these lack believability. Poor Vanessa Hudgens is greeted by eye rolls and groans every time she enters a room despite constant efforts to socialize with her coworkers. In reality, she'd have received marriage proposals from half the city in her first week on the job. Are we to believe that every man in her company is gay and every woman is straight? It's an annoying trope that lost all credibility long ago--the attractive, friendly, likeable character that no one finds attractive, wants to be friends with, or likes.

Additionally, it's probably not politically correct to say this (like I've ever cared about that), but when you have a cast of only six people and two of them have a lisp... It just seems like someone didn't think thith... er... this... out properly.

If asked whether I'd recommend this show to someone, you'd probably expect a resounding "NO!" given the thrashing I've dealt out to the characters, but I'm not sure. The premise is just so damn good. This show took my half-joking musings from watching superhero movies and made an entire series out of them. How can I not watch?
That said, a house made of newspapers and cow shit will fall over in a stiff breeze even if it's built on a sturdy foundation. If something isn't done to tone down the goofiness factor, this show will get stale quickly.

You've got my viewership for now, Powerless, but can you keep it?

Barry Bonds is a Hero ("What If" Vol. I)

Source

Anyone who follows baseball at all knows that Barry Bonds holds the records for most home runs in a single season and most home runs in a career.
They probably also know him as a steroid cheat.
For the uneducated, let's start with some back story.
Barry was a good--perhaps great would be a better word--player from 1986 to 1999. Then he suddenly embiggened himself and started thumping the shit out of the ball, hitting 49 homers in 2000 and a record-setting 73 in 2001. That he did it with help from steroids is for most people an obvious conclusion, as players don't suddenly have the best years of their career after playing for 13 years. That's when decline starts, not sudden improvement.
A perplexing question for many is why Barry turned to steroids. He would have been a potential Hall of Fame candidate if he'd retired in 2000 instead of ballooning into a gigantic home run monster. Continuing his career for a few more years with his usual .300ish average, 30 home runs per season, etc. would have made it a lock. So if he's on pace for a Hall of Fame career and has already made enough money to be rich as all hell, why bother with the steroids?

I propose the following "what if" scenario:

What if Barry Bonds is actually a hero who sacrificed his own legacy to put an end to the steroid era?

It's 1999, and Barry has just seen Mark McGwire break the single season home run record. McGwire, Sammy Sosa, Brady freaking Anderson of all people, and countless others are jacking 50, 60, 65 homers per season now like it's nothing. Barry looks at his 13 years of being a consistent hitter with decent power, base-stealing skill, and respectable fielding. 
He sees that no one cares. All they care about is home runs. 
Now, Barry hits plenty of home runs. As I've mentioned, his 30 or so per year were enough to qualify him before the steroid era as a viable home run threat. But that's not enough. He's one of the best players in the game but he's being ignored in favor of one-trick ponies whose only skill is injecting themselves with Gila monster venom and smashing home runs halfway to Australia. 
He sees the way the game is going and realizes that, if unchecked, the game he loves will turn into a crapfest and stay that way forever. Something must be done.
"I'm one of the most skilled hitters there are," he thinks. "Give me some of that muscle juice and I'll not only be a better contact hitter but a better home run hitter than every single player in the game. I'm good enough already that with the proper pharmaceutical assistance, I can fuck up the record books so bad that people will have no choice but to pull the blinders from their eyes that have allowed them to pretend they don't know what's happening to baseball.
"For a while, people will love me. I'll be a hero in my hometown, I'll sign a mega-millions contract, and I'll have my name in all the record books. But it'll come with a cost. In time, I'll be vilified. I'll be hated. My already tense relationship with the press will develop into full-on hatred. Next to my name in those record books will be a big fat asterisk implying that my accomplishments were bogus. My Hall of Fame ticket will be torn up and flushed. The word 'steroids' will be synonymous with my legacy. But by God, it'll be worth it!
"Yes," says Barry. "I will free baseball from the bonds (tee hee) of steroids!"
And oh my, did he. 
Barry did just as my hypothetical scenario laid it out and fucked up the record books big time.
Everyone came to their senses, baseball (mostly) cleaned itself up, and once again a "power hitter" is someone who hits 30 homers in a season--probably not 50, not 60, and definitely not 70.
Is this really what happened? Did Barry Bonds turn himself into a cautionary tale simply to save baseball from its steroid problem?
Probably not.
But what if he did?

Comparing Soccer to Other Sports

"I am not the hero that Gotham deserves"

It appears a soccer stadium could be in our future.
This of course is perfectly fine with everyone despite the fact that talk of building a football stadium caused waves of outrage and rivers of tears that threatened to drown us all in righteous indignation, you great lot of hypocrites.
Anyway, to better educate everyone on the sport that may soon be coming to our fine city, today I'd like to talk about one of the most maligned aspects of soccer.
Call it "diving," "flopping," or "being an obnoxious little pansy," but whatever you choose to call it, players taking hyperbolic falls to try and draw fouls against the other team have given soccer a bad name. To put everything in perspective and restore a more realistic view of soccer, let's compare players' acting habits in other sports to those of soccer. 

Baseball:
A pitch whizzes by the arm of the batter. It is unclear whether or not the ball hit him.
The player clutches his elbow and exclaims "I say! I've just been struck by a baseball! I had better go to first base now, hadn't I?"
The umpire agrees that he was in fact hit and sends him off to first base.

Football:
A wide receiver is bumped slightly by the opposing cornerback while running his route. He throws his hands into the air and falls to the ground, shouting "Egad! I do believe my opponent has committed the illegal act of pass interference! Certainly the officials will assess a penalty for this infraction!"
The referee does so.

Hockey:
A player is bumped slightly by his opponent. He throws himself to the ice, perhaps bouncing his head lightly off the boards for effect and exclaims "Oh, hey! That must've been a cross-check there, eh? Aboot time you sent that hoser off to the penalty box, eh, ref?"
The referee does so.

Soccer:
A player is bumped slightly by his opponent. He flings himself to the ground, clutching his eye with one hand and his ankle with the other while conjecturing that he has likely sustained a lacerated spleen as well, not to mention he's just caught a nasty cold.
He writhes in agony on the ground while one of his teammates insists that the medical staff be summoned to examine him. The medics diligently inspect his various maladies and determine that a stretcher is needed. They gingerly place him upon it, being extra careful to immobilize his head and neck due to the potential spinal trauma he may have sustained.
The player is rushed to the hospital, the ambulance weaving in and out of rush hour traffic and causing three fender-benders along the way. The roadways are jammed for hours thereafter.
Upon arrival, the player informs the doctors that they need not bother treating him as he has in fact just died.
He is taken back to the stadium and all present are informed that it was his dying wish to be buried on the sidelines by his mates so that he may forever remain a part of the game he loved so dearly.
As the casket is being lowered, the referee delivers the eulogy, says a brief prayer, gives a final blessing, and assesses a yellow card to the opposing team's player.
Next of kin are notified, lawyers are summoned to read the player's will, and obituaries are typed up for tomorrow's papers. 
The television cameras show his widow grieving silently in the stands, consoling herself in the knowledge that at least her dear husband died doing what he enjoyed most. She gently dabs at her tears to prevent her mascara running and tries not to think of the years of loneliness and solitude that lay in front of her now that the love of her life has perished so tragically and at such a young age.
A few minutes later the player decides that he feels all right after all, digs himself up, and rejoins the game no worse for wear and having missed only three minutes of playing time.
This happens eleven more times before the half ends.

Soccer is stupid.

Images:
Diver stolen from arsenalarsenal.net, finger kid poached from knowyourmeme.com.

What Instrument Should I Play?

Being the altruistic person I am, I've decided to put my years of having slogged my way through various bands to good use.
The following is a guide to selecting what instrument you should play if you've decided you want to be in a band (and let's face it, who doesn't want to be in a band?).

Bass Guitar:

Kotoyuki doesn't like the bass, but the bass likes him.

The vast majority of bassists are fat guys or hot chicks, so if you fit either of those descriptions you've found your calling right here.
Bass is also a good place to hide whichever member of your band is least musically competent. While no instrument is easily mastered, anyone with the proper number of phalanges can semi-coherently bang out a tune on bass after a week or two of practice. Besides, the sound guy will have you so buried in the mix that no one will be able to hear how badly you're fucking up the songs.

Drums:

Do you hate money? Do you speak mostly in grunts and smell like a yak? If so, drums are for you.
Your instrument is the most expensive of the lot and you'll consistently smash it to bits and have to replace parts of it. It's an endless loop of poverty.
You will, however, have the shortest commute to band practice as it'll most likely be held at your place by virtue of your instrument being a pain in the ass to move. Of course, you're so broke that "your place" is more accurately described as "your parents' basement" so it really isn't worth it.

Guitar:

Guitar's upside down, dude.

Second in prestige to the singer, you're playing a "cool" instrument. Despite this, no one gives a shit that you play guitar because they all play guitar too and think they're better at it than you are.
Guitarists are a dime a dozen, even though 11 of that dozen can't play worth a damn. Most of your time will be spent listening to people tell you that their cousin Frank plays guitar too and he's really good and you should let him in your band. In the rare case that you choose to act on this information, you'll find that the only instrument Frank owns is a kid-sized acoustic guitar in his closet that's missing two strings. He hasn't played it in three years, and only got as far as learning how to play a clumsy rendition of "Smells Like Teen Spirit."
He would, however, be interested in joining your band if there's still a spot open.

Vocals:

Bobcat Goldthwait?

The holy grail of band membership.
90% of the audience will notice you and only you. Your fans will tell you how much they love those songs you wrote while your guitarist (who is actually the one who wrote them) gnashes his teeth in rage.
As long as you're moderately attractive you can have pretty much any man or woman you want, regardless of your gender or sexual orientation. Dodging thrown panties while on stage will quickly become one of your many talents.
Your instrument is part of your body and thus doesn't cost you a cent unless you buy your own microphone, and even that costs a pittance compared to what the rest of your band spends. Be sure to complain about it anyway.
Your greatest struggle will be coming up with excuses not to help your bandmates load their equipment into the club.

Keyboards:

No one knows why you exist. All of their favorite bands use keyboards in the music, but they can't be bothered to pay a live keyboardist and just play with the keys on a backing tape. Thus, you are considered by the masses to be odd and superfluous. You'll be known as "the weird one" and on the rare occasion someone notices you they'll expect you to do something eccentric. Might as well embrace it and paint yourself green or something.

Any Other Instrument:

Don't bother. You'll join the keyboardist as "the weird one" unless you're a good-looking female, in which case it really doesn't matter what you're playing. You could stand on the stage hitting a trash can with a sledgehammer (Warning: this technically qualifies you as a drummer) and you'd still have people telling you how great you are.



Hope this was helpful to everyone. By now, you should have your instrument picked out. The next step is to commit yourself to a lifetime of disappointment and a yearly salary of $20. Enjoy.


Photo thievery sources:
Caveman: leanandmuscular.org 
Singer: 123rf.com
Kotoyuki: Getty Images
Jimi: outsidethebeltway.com
Xylophonist: leftlion.co.uk
Alien keyboardist: popartdecoration.com

What Brock Lesnar's Official Statement Should Be

Weellllll, Brock Lesnar got popped for PEDs. 
As tends to be the case with athletes who fail drug tests, he's not admitting anything. He hasn't said much yet, but he'll probably release a statement blaming tainted supplements or bad walrus meat or some crap. For once, I'd like an athlete to just be honest. Here's what his official statement should be:

"Yeah, this is all natural."

[arrives at podium]

Thank you everyone for being here today. Before we begin, I'd like you all to look at me. As you can see, I've arrived shirtless to make this demonstration a little easier.

Just look at me for a second, ok? I'm big. No, let's not use that word. Big doesn't even begin to cut it. I'm huge. Enormous. I'm an absolute fucking monster. A freakishly large massive leviathan of a human being, agreed?

Now let's consider a few facts.

I've barely got a scrap of fat on my body and I had to cut water weight to make 265 lbs for my fight against Mark Hunt. Two hundred and sixty five pounds. Hunt made that weight with a cheeseburger in his hand, not to mention sixty more hanging down over his belt. I had to sweat it out in a sauna for a week to make heavyweight. Think of that for a second. When guys struggle to make the heavyweight limit, they're usually fat as shit, right? Not me. I'm freaking beefy.

I'm bigger than most of your cars and probably about half of your houses.

I'm a professional wrestler in the WWE, which is known for being a bunch of dudes who are--like me--huge as fuck. Nobody's pretending they didn't all get that way by using steroids.

My head measures five feet in circumference.

Did I mention I came from the WWE, whose anti-steroid policy consists of the bosses saying "don't use steroids" while winking and handing me a great big box full of steroids with the words "DEFINITELY NOT STEROIDS" scrawled on the outside with a Sharpie?

Seriously people, why are we even discussing this? Yes, obviously I'm on steroids. I'm more roided-out than an unregulated South American Angus steer! My body is a goddamned pharmaceutical experiment of the most conspicuous kind.

What's that? I'm supposed to apologize? Fuck you. I'm sorry they tested me and I got caught I guess. Whatever. I'd have to be an idiot to think that I could go into this fight looking like goddamn Hercules' older brother and not get popped for something. What do I care? I made 2.5 million for that fight. The fine will be maybe 50k.

And oh yeah, I'm supposed to say what a mistake this was and I'll never do it again. Sorry folks, but as soon as I'm done with this round of estrogen blockers it's back to the ol' needle for me. I'm pushing 40 years old. No one wants to see a bunch of saggy-gut, droopy-man-boob sons-o-bitches parading around in the ring. Wrestling's fake. It's all about appearances.

Oh, I'm suspended from the UFC now? Psh. Again, 2.5 million bucks. Put that on top of what WWE pays me and I think I'll manage to get by, thanks.

Jesus. I can't believe I had to leave the gym for this.

[eats microphone, tears Dana White in half, storms off stage]

Things That Make Me Happy Vol II: Bears

Some animals just aren't naturally funny.  
Toads, lobsters, goats, prawns, eagles--they can be made funny (example) but they just aren't naturally funny.
Other animals are hilarious. Cows. Hippos. Those lizards that run on water. 
And, of course, bears.
Here for your enjoyment are some of my favorites, stolen from various places on the Internet.

Ok, so this one's kind of a cheat...

Looks fake, but isn't.

Bear is happy.

Damn, it feels good to be a bear.

Hello. I am a bear.