Tagged: making things sound worse than they really are for comedic purposes

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Hi. Welcome to this thing right here. My name isn’t important, but I also don’t want you people knowing it, because you’ll end up stealing my credit card or whatever. If you’re here, I’m guessing you’re either my wife, my mom, a Brazilian search engine optimizing robot, or someone looking for Google-searched images that got tricked into coming here because I inserted the words “naked boobs One Direction torrent Nikki Bella download zombie butts Bieber nipple incest Kardashian” just now and fucked up your search results. Hi, though. While you’re here, you might as well stick around fur a minute and read some words about stuff. I am a nice fellow, and it gets lonely here sometimes. So very lonely.

healthy_snacksIf it helps, I can get some nutritious snacks for us.

But if you’re still here, you should know about me, and you should know about my sickness. I occasionally watch the American Football, as perpetrated by the National Football League, which is terrible, and when I do, I watch the Chicago Bears, which is somehow even worse. And on occasion, I will write a thing or two about them, which should be bad, but all things considered, is probably necessary. Because the world of football OPINIONZ 4 U on the World Wide Web is a terrible place, and it’s only getting worse, because the Internets themselves are getting worse.

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Instead of the utopian vision of the late 90s, where this thing would expose us all to a whole new world of new voices and newer and more exciting OPINIONZ, it’s instead closed smooth the fuck down to just a few big time, big money blog portals and news feed aggregator shits, all saying the same things and serving the same masters. Never piss off the sponsors, and A.B.C. – Always Be Contentin’. Keep a steady stream of crap flowing, even if it is truly crap, and the internet world is one of “there’s no new info, so just throw up a ‘Twitter Reacts to _______’ article, because #CONTENT.” There was this one site called Kissing Suzy Kolber, and it was pretty much the best paid and professionalized football site around, until they said the wrong things about Bud Light, the parent company took it down, and all the main dudes peaced out. Now, it’s still there, but it’s seemingly back sliding into more of a generic “Epic Twitter Reactions to Who John Oliver Force-fed Broken Glass This Time, and You’ll Be AMAZED by the Results!” clickbaity bullshit zombie shadow of its former self. Sacrificed at the altar of Almighty Content, just like that fake fetus that those two fake Jesus freaks fake miscarried for their fake YouTube bullshit the other day. And that’s how you know there’s no God right there, because no one was consumed in a fireball of unknown origin as soon as they hit Twitter to brag about how many page views their totally not made-up dead child got. Or just fire-consumed whoever came up with the term “vlog” in the first place. Fuckin’ internet, man. Hail Satan forever. But what was I talking about? Oh yeah.

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There was another website bloggity thing that existed for a few years, but you didn’t know about it. It was called Armchair Linebacker, and it was pretty much the NFL OPINIONZ site that the world needed, but neither wanted nor deserved. A bunch of dudes who rooted for different (mostly bad) teams came together to share the pain of NFL addiction, resulting in things like the advent of Pro Football Metaphysics, the true story of Donovan McNabb offering a young fan some special sausage, and earliest written records of the tales of The Great Willie Young. It was wild and free and you never knew when a serious analysis of a team’s third string H-back might veer off into a frank discussion of how primal psychic energies might be affected by codeine cough syrup or some such shit. It was NFL fandom of the most noble and horrible kind, where the normal AM sports talk radio/Pro Football Talk bullshit, all the yelling of team-trademarked slogans in a non-mocking manner, all the “this year is gonna be our year,” all the “(white wide receiver that has no chance of making the team because his only discernible trait is his whiteness) is a BEAST,” that kinda bullshit, was mostly sloughed away, and we tried real hard to avoid dry-ass EXPERT SERIOUS ANALYSIS~! of minute details that are ultimately meaningless, although admittedly, I kinda failed on that point quite a bit. But in the place of the usual crap was a huge ball of horror, a giant, twisted, cancerous mass of sadness that is the result of people having their hearts and guts forcibly ripped from their souls by the modern NFL and a handful of its most hopeless teams. (Well, except that one Patriots guy, who I’m pretty sure didn’t even like football, and was just throwing up dry-ass, quarter-by-quarter breakdowns of games, until the adults ran him off. Apparently, he’s like a modestly big deal in the hip hop internet OPINIONZ 4 U scene now, which, judging by that guy alone, must be in even worse shape than the football side of things. One.) And it was mostly Raven and Neil being awesome (Which can continue to happen, for the low, low price of only $4.20. Seriously, you guys, it is a damn thing, and you’d just spend that money on bullshit anyway.) while a bunch of us stood in the background and grinned real big, but it was a helluva ride. I’m pretty sure I meant to do some big eulogy for the site here, but never got around to it, and probably had more than this to say at the time, but hell, it’s been over three years. There are people alive today that weren’t even born yet in 2012.

ap-bears-lions-football-4_3_r536_c534It was a simpler time; and a time of Jason Campbell.

But anyway, it is in the Armchair Linebacker spirit of oddly hopeful blistering negativity that football is probably gonna take over here for a minute, at least until the Bears finally crush my spirit, which I’m guessing will be around the fifth Green Bay touchdown in week one. And it’s like, yeah, I know football played in the American Corporate Style is bullshit, and it’s bad for you. I know the NFL is a shady, brutal, ruthless purveyor of a blood-soaked death-sport, and the Chicago Bears merely one of its hateful tentacles. It’s a game where destitute twenty-year-olds achieve their dreams of being thirty year old millionaires, only to become addle-brained, penniless cripples by forty, and rarely seem to make it to fifty. And I know that in the grand scheme of things, it’s all just a big waste of time. But goddammit, I need this, and we all do, or at least something like it. Because the world is a horrible place, and it’s not getting any better, and we need silly crap like football or video games or Judge Dredd comics or going on social media to tell people that Voivod records are good and that you should buy them. Without distractions like football, I’d take a look at the world we live in, and I’d try to make a meaningful change, but the problem is that the only way to make any change that would actually change anything would be to rise the fuck up and storm the seats of power – not the government, but the mansions, corporate boardrooms, and exclusive, high-priced Southeast Asian child sex dungeons where the REAL shit goes down, and where governments get their marching orders – to storm them sumbitches with anger and furious violence, and put them and their children under the blade, so that all of us street people could just have jobs and be chill. But the thing is, I don’t like hurting people, even bad people, and even if I did like hurting folks, I’d probably suck at it. Not to mention that most people are convinced that the problems come from single moms and poor immigrants or whatever, so I’d probably be the only one rising up to storm shit and cut people, and it would end in hilarious tragedy. There would be a little blurb in the “Weird World” section of the newspapers no one reads, that would be something like “Insane Oklahoma man killed by savage attack dogs today while prowling the grounds of David Koch’s stately pleasure dome, wielding a rusty bayonet attached to a mop handle, and yelling something unintelligible about future former Chicago Bear, Willie Young.” Hell, I’d probably end up being made an honorary Florida Man. And so on it goes, that we will continue wandering the cursed, smoldering Earth as mindless, hopeless cogs in a Reaganomically-devastated economy, and we will spend our lives as listless schlubs taking orders from egomaniacal failures, and we’ll never be able to retire, because no one can afford that anymore, and we’ll work and work and work until we get old, until our bodies break down and just finally reject themselves completely. And when that happens, blood will spray from our eyes and our bowels, and we’ll scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and die, and there is no escape. So with that in mind?

Chicago's Matt Forte celebrates a touchdown run against the Cincinnati Bengals at Soldier Field on September 8, 2013 in Chicago, Illinois. The Bears defeated the Bengals 24-21. (Photo by Jonathan Daniel/Getty Images)FUUUUUUUCK YEEEEAAAAAAH, FOOOOTBAWWWWWWWWWWW

Anyway, the preseason just started like 15 minutes ago, and I still gotta make dinner. The 2015 Bears season preview, broken up by positions and whatnot, should start dropping soon. Let’s make 2015 a great season, you guys!

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them's hard timesSo I was thinking about Christmas specials the other day, because apparently I’ve become trapped in some bizarre time warp that keeps me perpetually three weeks in the past, and a thing occurred to me. And that thing is that to the best of my knowledge regarding television Christmas specials for the children, Emmett Otter’s Jug Band Christmas is the grittiest Christmas special, ever. Seriously, I mean it’s not like some sort of gripping blood bath or anything, because after all, it IS a Christmas special, but as far as those things go, that thing gets raw and stays that way.

Like right from the beginning, it’s all about how Emmett and his mom are up to their necks in hard times, all having to work shitty jobs just to barely scrape by, the the point where the only good thing in their lives is that there aren’t any holes in their wash tub. Their wash tub, in a time and place that’s like the late 70s or early 80s in a world where the Prairie Home Companion is more southern and filled with Muppet animals, where an electric washing machine is a thing that has existed for several decades. Their fucking wash tub. And why is this? Because Emmett’s father – a freaking snake oil salesman, for the record – is dead. And they don’t even let you down easy in that cartoon-for-the-children way, where they’re all like, “oh, I wish your father was still here,” and letting you mentally fill in the blanks. No, they straight up say the dude is deceased, gone, buried, six feet under, and he can’t feed his family, because all he’s feeding right now is worms. Mr. Otter is an ex-otter, and his family is screwed, because all he left them was alone. That is some some ill shit for a children’s special, you know?

Anyway, the harsh lessons about the brutality of life don’t stop there, and to encapsulate the middle of the thing in a sentence, Emmett and his mom both want awesome presents for Christmas, but they’re both dirt-ass-poor and can’t afford anything, so Ma Otter hawks Emmet’s toolbox and Emmett punches a hole in the fucking washtub to make a gutbucket, thereby destroying the family’s last remaining sources of income, so they can both try to win the local talent show and win a bunch of money, each without the other’s knowledge. So the ending seems at least semi-apparent, I suppose. Somehow, either Emmett’s jug-band or Ma’s solo act win, or they both win somehow, because they know the true meaning of love and friendship and Christmas and Jesus and Freedom, and everyone goes home happy. Oh wait, no, once the talent show/battle of the bands thing starts, absolutely none of that happens.

So yeah, Ma Otter’s song goes over huge, and so does Emmett’s band, even though the thing they played sounded more like hippie folk music than actual folk music. (Seriously, it sounded like something that should have been playing while Lava lamp looking stuff was projected behind them and a chick with a tie-dyed dress  and a creepily blank stare just danced around, not actually contributing musically. I mean, yeah, there’s already enough heaviness going on where you can’t have them drop some high lonesome shit about dying in a coal mine or whatever, but they could have at least saved that song about barbecue for this part, you know?) But then, these dudes show up who had been hassling the dude who runs the music store in town earlier, and even though they showed up late and technically shouldn’t have been allowed to participate, they get to anyway, because life isn’t fair for anyone, especially Emmett Otter and his mom. And here’s the thing: after all the country and folk and hippie jug bands that have been playing that were all appropriate to the local area, these guys are a rock band. And you know what happens from there? Do they lose, because cheaters never win and good old fashioned music from the heart is better than big-city devil-rock? Is it a tie that comes down to a final showdown, where Emmett and his Mom join forces to show everyone the true meaning of love and friendship and Christmas and Jesus and Freedom? Oh hell no, people, the River Bottom Nightmare Band busts out some crazy song that sounds like the unholy offspring of Deep Purple and Venom, and they blow the good guys smooth the hell off the stage:

So after the big talent show, Emmett and Ma are left with absolutely goddamn nothing, no tool box, no wash tub, and no money for Christmas Presents. Their lives are ruined, and what’s worst, they’ve been ruined by their own mutual betrayal. I mean yeah, there’s eventually a happy ending and all, but when you watch it, you can’t help but think that it got tacked on at the last moment, like Jim Henson realized that mentally destroying whatever percentage of a generation of children had access to HBO at the time wasn’t worth preserving his artistic integrity. But even then, there’s that loose thread out there that the Nightmare dudes were all a bunch of sociopathic borderline criminals who still got to win the talent show and as an ass-kicking rock machine, probably have a brighter future than any mom-and-son jug band that plays the local tavern could ever have. Thirty years later, Emmett probably still lives with his mom, and The Nightmare are sitting in mansions right now, looking at their platinum records and supermodel wives. If anything, the lesson on this show was less about the power of love and family and happiness and more that assholes always finish first, the world is a cruel and terrible place, and no matter how much from the heart your song is, no one will give three-fifths of a damn about it if you don’t have flashing lights and killer riffs.

HAIL SATANHail Satan, kids. Hail Satan.

(For the full joke, just imagine this with a big rasta-colored lightning bolt hitting it)

 So, several months later than originally planned, in a new town, in a new (well, new to me) house, and with a new job, (with the same company) I make my triumphant return to an Internet that probably forgot I existed somewhere around mid-2001. In future times, I’ll actually make substantial updates to this site again, with a bunch of ideas that popped into my head at various times when I was either too busy moving or too disconnected from the internet to act on any of them, and eventually, I’ll make a complete return to normalcy, where I completely ignore this site I pay actual money that I need for and just talk about how much I hate Mike Martz on Armchair Linebacker. But for now, I’ll give you a quick rundown (or one that was intended to be quick until I actually started typing) of some of the ins, outs, and arounds of the first new job I’ve had since late 2003.

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