The Magic of Twitter

Last night I was stuck to the couch watching the National Spelling Bee. Normally, this would be the perfect event to stoke the man period fires and ruminate about all the has gone wrong in life.

Instead, I was too consumed with rage. Aside from my boy Kennyi (first televised speller in history to not be a social moron) ousted early in the Championship Round on the word Palatschinken, third place finisher Aishwarya Pastapur was such a moronic robot, if I could have found the remote, I would have thrown it through the TV.

Spelling Bee Dude: The word is Guayabera.

Aishwarya: May I have the definition?

Spelling Bee Dude: Guayabera is a men's shirt popular in Latin America.

Aishwarya: May I have the part of speech please?

Spelling Bee Dude: It's a noun.

Of course it's a noun you stupid ninny! Spelling Bee Dude just said it was a shirt. C'mon, you're in the Championship Round of the National Spelling Bee and you're asking if a shirt is a noun? For shame.

While I couldn't find the remote, I was able to fish my phone out from between the couch cushions and fired off this angry missive to Twitter.

Thinking it'd be sweet if Ogre busted into the National Spelling Bee and said "No. C-A-T really spells dog" and started tossing nerds.

Take that world!

Cut to this morning and I've got a message from Dreidel Hustler telling me to check out an awesome interview with Donald "Ogre" Gibb.

This is the third time now I've made some dumb reference on Twitter and have it pay off in some magical way.

The interview with Mr. Gibb is nothing short of amazing. Donald could really give those kids a run for their money in a who knows more big words contest but this quote has already made my day and I haven't even put on pants.

I had Jean-Claude Van Damme kicking my ass between takes naked just so he could maintain his hard-on while he was doing groupies in his trailer.

Next time life is getting you down, just take a step back and be thankful you've never had to be JCVD's fluffer.

Left field vortex

On October 15th, 2008 I sat in left field at Dodger Stadium and watched as the Philadelphia Phillies put Los Dodgers in a hurt locker en route to a spot in the World Series.

The guy sat in front of me.

I snapped his picture because he just had to be the long lost brother of a friend of mine. The similarity was spooky so I just had to snap a pic.

Cut to last Saturday- May 23rd, 2009. Dodgers vs. Angels. Sitting in pretty much the same spot as that ill fated playoff game and who's there to join in the fun of a Dodger's victory?

The same guy from that ill fated playoff game.

He was a few seats over this time around but it was him seven months later still looking exactly like my buddy Ed.

Weird.

Across the aisle though we were treated to some nice dance moves courtesy of a girl who's either warming up for Burning Man or an audition for Pipi Longstocking Eats a House and Becomes a Stripper.

Sweetest. Shirt. Ever.

Been a little swamped ever since I received an email a couple days ago that pointed me in the general direction of this shirt.

Aside from the link, the other nugget of information in said email was the very simple instruction to read the customer reviews.

Well, I just finished reading all 304 reviews and I highly suggest you do the same.

My only hope is that when my example of the Sweetest. Shirt. Ever. arrives in the mail, I will be invited to a Vision Quest the next time I'm in New Mexico.

Our boy Chess is back on the scene.

Stumbled out of a bar after the Lakers' blowout the other night (that would be game 6 in which they were at the wrong end of the score) and I came across a new ad from our boy Chess.

This time around Chess doesn't want a date or people to help with stuff. He's offering jobs, which is this economic climate is no small feat.

The only catch is you need to have four or more planets in Pisces in order to eligible for a whopping $8 an hour. Last time I checked the ability to breathe was the only requirement to pull down 1.6 Five Dollar Footlongs an hour before taxes.

Oh well, at least Chess' phone number is unchanged from last week.

Sweet, delicious, YouTube, is there anything you don't have?

Going on week three of post T-Cell life the pangs of withdrawal have set in. Late at night I've found myself scouring Ebay and checking out the action at Tercelonline.com but it really wasn't a substitute for the real thing.

Then I tempted fate and typed Toyota Tercel into the YouTube and hit search. In about 2.2 seconds, I realized I hit the mother lode.

Oh my stars. Where should we even begin?

Well, how 'bout here with the first Tercel commercial to ever air in America way back in 1979.



Then let's jump ahead to 1984 (Como esta George Orwell?) and check out the generation of which my T-Cell was a member.

Gotta say this commercial doesn't make a whole lotta sense but it does foreshadow the off road capabilities of the venreable Tercel.



Next, we look at proof to the theory that if someone wanted to make the greatest show in the history of television, all they would have to do is give a couple of bored teenagers who live out in the sticks a video camera, a piece of shit car and perhaps an assortment of fireworks if there's room left in the budget.

Super Jump Tercel? Please, don't be so modest with the title.



This next clip, uh, yeah, my T-Cell had been there and done that but not on purpose.



This next video was made by a guy who I can say without hesitation is a brother from another mother. Ira Glass better watch his step.



Finally, for any of you haters out there who might think Tercel worship is strictly an Amercian obsession, here's a tear jerking clip direct from Sweden.

What I want is lunch. Not a riddle.

Ngoma Restaurant on Wilshire Blvd serves "Food from Obama's Father's Home." It's been a few years since I took the ACT Exam but let's see if I can figure this out.

Obama = President

Father = Guy who was into white chicks.

Home = Hawaii? No wait, Kenya! So this place serves Kenyan food? Good thing there's a Subway across the street.

Still, my absolute favorite part of the banner is the Website descriptor before the NgomaRestaurant.Com as if there's still someone left out in the 2009 who would drive by and be confused by the .com.

Let's help this guy find a date!

A few weeks ago, my good buddy Sally was in town and while I was showing him the various sights Los Angeles has to offer, we stumbled across this flier taped to a lamp post.

From what we were able to gather, the LL Cool J looking fellow is goes by the name Chess and could use some help with things. He doesn't exactly specify what things he needs help with but I suppose that gives interested parties a reason to call 323. 761.6481.

Cut to last night.

I'm running some errands at the Beverly Center's orphaned twin the Beverly Connection and come across this flier.

OK, in three week's time Chess has changed his number to 323.540.0962 and has narrowed his focus to exactly what he's looking for- ladies. White, Asian or Latina. Apparently Chess isn't too picky as long as you're not a sister.

That's all fine and dandy, but c'mon Chess. You gotta say more about yourself than I've lived in Los Angeles for 32 years. That just leaves the reader hanging and allows them to jump to their own conclusion which for me was I've lived in Los Angeles for 32 years and am now resorting to trying to find a date with the help of a lamp post.

Sorry Chess but that's just a little too desperate for any of the ladies you're looking for. Not to mention the fact that the ones who might actually be intrigued by your ad are more than likely illiterate.

So here's my advice for your next daring personal ad- don't just tell the ladies you're at least 32-years-old. Throw caution to the wind and let the ladies know you look like LL Cool J cause if you want to be a baller, you gotta be a baller.

The Ghost of Future Michael Jackson

Saw this fella the other day. I'm pretty sure it was a guy because he was broad shouldered but I guess how can I really be sure considering his towel/shroud covered his entire head.

Even without a peep hole, this guy was able to effortlessly glide his cart down the obstacle filled sidewalks of Wilshire Blvd. with nary a misstep. Only person I've ever seen with foot work that good is Michael Jackson. Plus, the stuff jammed into his cart looks exactly like the stuff you'd assume MJ would cling to until the bitter end.

So my only question is how was he able to lose it all, yet hang onto the time machine? And why wouldn't he go back to the time when Thriller ruled supreme?

Stolen Car Fun

About 10 days ago, my beloved piece of shit was stolen. While not having a car has proven to be a hassle, life has become much more amusing so the whole debacle is pretty much a wash.

Since the LAPD has yet to ring with good news. Matters have been taken into own hands. My friend Michael hotwired a time machine, bent a couple of laws of space and time and now has his people on the case.

I took a different approach and wrote the thief a nice note explaining some of the finer features of his new automobile.

Nobody's come forward to ask for the key yet, so either he doesn't read Craigslist or he's at the very least smart enough not to turn himself in. Then again, who would really admit to stealing a Toyota Tercel?