Can I talk to you for five minutes about traffic?  Far as I can tell, traffic jams are pretty much the worst thing happening in the world.  I watch the news, I listen to podcasts, I occasionally read one of the free USA Todays at Chick-Fil-A.  I know what’s going on out there.  Nature is warming itself.  There are gunfights raging in some of the dustier parts of the globe.  There’s the whole “Africa” situation.  The world’s got problems, no doubt.  But for the life of me I can’t think of a single place on the planet less enjoyable than the eastbound 210 Freeway at 5:30pm on a Wednesday.

Okay, so maybe that’s a little extreme.  Obviously there are worse places in the world than an American freeway at rush hour.  (The back seat on a Greyhound bus comes to mind.)  Can we at least agree that traffic is the most annoying thing in the world?  And yes, I’m putting it above Wanda Sykes, rainy weekends, and middle schoolers in a movie theater.

To say traffic is one of my pet peeves would be like saying that civil liberties were one of Stalin’s pet peeves or that George W. Bush “annoyed” some political science professors.  I hate traffic.  It makes me crazy.  No matter how much I brace for it or plan my trip to account for it, I always end up losing my freaking mind.  I gesture and curse, I rant and rave, I call down fire from heaven.  I go nuts.

I don’t like feeling this way.  The occasional longwinded rant notwithstanding, I consider myself a fairly even-tempered guy.  I’m not prone to fits of rage and I don’t often ponder the ways my temperament might be improved by an automatic weapon.  Traffic makes me do these things.  But why?  Why have six short months in Los Angeles (aka The Julliard School for traffic jams of promise) transformed me from Jeffrey Lebowski into a ball of rage who is perhaps only days away from (a) some serious stomach ulcers and/or (b) pleading guilty to vehicular homicide?  I have some theories. Read the full story

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Can I talk to you for five minutes about a recent trend in television advertising?  I don’t know about you, but I’ve been feeling downright neglected by my TV lately.  It’s like it doesn’t even recognize my existence anymore.  Granted, it’s never been the most attentive appliance, but it at least used to stop what it was doing every ten minutes or so and talk to me about shampoo, HD TVs, acne medication, or whatever else was on its mind.  Not anymore.  My commercials, those bright nuggets of affirmation and opportunity, have been stripped of their intimacy by a disturbing trend in marketing known among business professionals as “Mine’s Bigger Advertising.”

You know what I’m talking about.  Mine’s Bigger Advertising is the kind of commercial that feels less like an intimate conversation between your wallet and your favorite fast food chain and more like a domestic dispute between two corporate rivals.  No longer content to settle their beef in the privacy of their own boardrooms or trading floors, advertisers have brought the bickering into the living room and we can do nothing but sit awkwardly on the couch, listening to the name-calling and the ugliness, wondering if it’s our fault that mom and dad are always fighting.

This is the modern television commercial. Read the full story

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This is not the article I wanted to write.  When I set out to write a review of MTV’s controversial new reality show Jersey Shore, I had a pretty good idea of how it was going to go.  I was going to write my standard (dare I say “trademark?”), long-winded rant which would combine obscure references, big words, and level one swears to express my deep displeasure with the show’s public displays of douchebaggery.

It seemed pretty straightforward. The show is a vocal proponent of self-ascribed nicknames, the state of New Jersey, and Italian-Americans engaging in non-mob activities. I had (and have) no interest in any of those things, and was confident in my ability to heap scorn on Jersey Whore.

But that was before I watched my first episode.

Fifteen minutes into “researching” my article, a strange thing began happening to me.  It’s the same thing that happened to John Smith in Pocahontas.  And the main character in Avatar.  And Secretary of State Hillary Clinton.  I fell in love with that which I set out to destroy. Read the full story

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Being a member of a youth group at Church will teach you a lot of things. You may (hopefully) learn about the Christian faith. You may learn about friendship, romance, or conflict resolution. Maybe you’ll even witness for the first time that yes, farts can indeed be ignited into flames (and it’s the funniest thing I’ve ever seen).

What you’ll definitely witness and likely take part in, however, is the time-honored practice of the Christian Knock-Off. You see, we Christians don’t like to be original. We’re rip-off Jews, what are we supposed to do?

We take what the “secular” world produces, and we say “Hey, that’s super rad! But since it’s secular it’s probably going to hell along with everyone at MSNBC and Stephanie Meyer. We should make our own version of it so that we can make sure it goes to heaven too!” From music to movies to t-shirts, if you make it, we’ll take it, throw it in the washer a bunch of times so it shrinks and fades, draw a cross on it with a Sharpie, and sell it at LifeWay. Read the full story

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Dear Dumbass,

You’re not a morning person. I get that. Do you think I enjoy mornings? Newsflash moron, I really don’t. Every single night you think you’re going to climb Mount Everest and you set your alarm for 6:15 when you don’t have to leave for work until 8am. You’re gonna read the paper, right? And then have a big breakfast? Some eggs, sausage, or some French toast. Maybe do some push ups, or finally start that blog about your office culture “which would be like The Office, but way funnier because it’s like, real!” Yeah. I know.

Each morning, though, you flap over from the other side of the bed like a stoned walrus and slap the hell out of me until I shut up. And you yell at me too,”shut the hell up you annoying piece of crap!” you’ll say, or “nooooo! I hate you! be quiet!” you’ll scream at me. I’m just doing my damn job, sir. You set me, and I go off. I can’t even help it. There I am, snoozing away all night, having sexy dreams of the new GE Blender you got when BAM! I get this electrical zap you-know-where and I just start screaming uncontrollably. Try connecting your nether-regions to a car battery and see how quiet you can be. Read the full story

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I’m a 24 year old bachelor. I have a girlfriend, but because we’re both God-fearing Bible-beaters and because we’re both still afraid of our parents (mostly me being afraid of her father) we don’t live together. So since my woman isn’t around to do what women were born to do, I have to “cook” for myself.

If you’ve ever had a bachelor like myself or Kent cook a meal for you, this article is going to resonate with you like Snoop Dogg resonates in the hearts of suburban white kids. Understand, though, that I mean real bachelors, not one of these Food-Network-watching yuppie bastards that took a cooking class and can cook you anything that has “a la carte” or “flambé” in the name. If he’s not a professional chef and he can cook you anything that has any kind of French in it, he’s a douche and I want to fight him. End of story.

Anyway, real bachelors like us cook… creatively. For instance, breakfast for me is frequently a Pepperoni Pizza Pocket and a Dr. Pepper. If I have juice – and that “if” is very functional – I’ll drink that, because I guess it’s healthy or something. Kent has, on a few occasions, poured excessive amounts of sugar into his cereal in order to cover up the taste of expired milk. Lunch is almost 100% fast food, unless I decide to buy some bologna and cheese for sandwiches. That’s usually complimented with a side of chips (the legit kind, none of that liberal “baked” crap) or popcorn or candy or french fries that have been under my desk since last Tuesday, but who’s counting? Not me, and not my stomach either. Read the full story

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Can I talk to you for five minutes about female fashion?  Now most of you are probably thinking, “Come on Kent, if you’re talking about anything pertaining to women it’ll take a lot less than five minutes to say everything you know.”  And that makes me think, “That’s hurtful and slanderous and, frankly, I resent the unflattering implications.” Which of course makes you think, “Well, if the shoe fits…” To which I in return think, “Touché my friend, touché.”  It’s true, I know very little about the primary female-centric issues: handbags, toenail hygiene, and feelings.  But the great thing about female fashion is that it is not actually a female issue, it’s a male issue.  And as with all male issues, I am the final word and keynote speaker.

I say female fashion is a male issue because the only reason women buy clothing not made out of sweat pants is to attract the attention of men.   This is ironic when you consider that the only reason men pay attention to women is because they want to take their clothes off.  It’s all very circular and self-defeating. (Note: I am generalizing here.  In truth, it’s not all men who are interested solely in seeing girls naked, just the ones who have been to prom, college, or R-rated movies.)  Girls use their clothing to let men know that they are “cute,” “classy,” “interested in promiscuous sex,” and dozens of other noteworthy traits which would otherwise take hours (sometimes as many as 3 or 4) to ascertain.

This is why it is so important that female fashion be truthful and transparent. (Note: wink.)  Since clothing constitutes roughly 90% of all non-verbal, inter-gender communication, it is essential that it not distort the communication process.  For example, there’s nothing more frustrating than talking to a girl whose pants declare her to be “Juicy” only to find out that she is…well, actually I guess I don’t really know what to expect from a “juicy” girl, but you get the point.  When I see a girl walking around with “naughty” written across her butt, she darn well better be naughty!  If we ever hope to understand each other, we must have truth in clothing!  This is why we must do away with the biggest liar in the women’s fashion industry: gigantic-ass sunglasses. Read the full story

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TTM Readers: This is an article that I wrote for www.gapersblock.com As our readerbase doesn’t really overlap very well, they allowed me the opportunity to post it on TTM as well. You can see the original article with all its comments here, on Gaper’s Block.

Hey there Chicagoans. Go ahead and pause all your Kazaa, Limewire, and BitTorrent downloads for a second. I want the page to load quickly as this is something you’re going to want to read.

If you haven’t heard yet, it’s “illegal” to download music online without “paying” for it. It’s hard to believe, but being a fan isn’t accepted as legal payment anymore. They call it “piracy,” and the consequences for it can be very, very dire. Therefore, I’ve compiled a list of other crimes that I suggest you look into before you decide to download “Sweet Child of Mine” or “Poker Face.”

First, let’s look at the fines in the only two music piracy trials that have taken place to date. The first is the case of Jammie Thomas, a single mother of four from Minnesota. She downloaded 24 songs off of Kazaa. A jury of her peers decided that she owed the RIAA (Recording Industry Association of America) almost $2 million for her crimes, a ruling which the Obama Administration recently told a federal judge was constitutionally sound. The second is the case of Joel Tenenbaum, a young grad student at Boston University. He downloaded 30 songs and was slapped with a fine of $675,000. If the verdicts stand both will file for bankruptcy. Read the full story

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Do you shop at Whole Foods? Do you have a friend that shops at Whole Foods? If you do, they likely make sure that you know that they shop at Whole Foods. Also, they are likely not paying with their welfare check, as prices for organics over non-organics are generally 10-40% higher than “conventionally” grown foods. As with most hip trends, I kind of hate the whole “organic” thing. It’s elitist, it’s snoody, and it is price-exclusive. “Oh, you don’t eat organic… Hmmm” says the Whole Foods shopper as they begin to see you as a low-life, cancer-ridden sack of digested pesticide residues. You can practically hear the liquidy slosh of their eyes as they roll a full 360 degrees. They tout organics as more healthy, but they are so much more expensive that the poor will never have access to them. So keep the rich healthy, and damn the poor to eating those awful pesticides and ALDI hotdogs that are murdering babies and puppies every single day. Also they’re ruining small farmers and local economies. And your dreams. Those are dead too.

Where Would Jesus Shop?

Here’s the problem I have with this whole “organic” movement: most of it is a total crock. Is it more nutritious? Depends on who you’re asking. If you ask the organic organizations, they’ll say “hell yes, buy organic or die,” and then they’ll hand you a pitchfork and a torch and point you in the direction of the dark castle, lightning stricken castle where they produce non-organic foods. If you ask unbiased researchers such as the Brits who recently published a study in the American Journal of Clinical Nutrition, they’ll say “there is no evidence of a difference” between organics and non-organics when it comes to nutrients. Unlike your American Spirit cigarettes, which are like, totally more health-green-eco-peace-socio-orphan-conscious than Camels. Except they’re owned by RJ Reynolds who – damn! – owns Camel.

Read the full story

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