Someday I'm Going to Leave This Womb

By An Introspective Little Fetus

Ahh, another wonderful morning! Or is it night? Or is it afternoon? I don't know, I tend to lose sense of time in here. Am I even really awake, or am I in some kind of weird half conscious state? Jeez, I can barely form a coherent thought besides "I'm hungry" or "I'm frustrated, maybe I should start violently kicking and see if that calms me down" or "Hey look, a thick, squishy pile of uterine tissue! Awesome!" and I'm already starting to get senile. Next thing you know, I'll end up like my mentally deranged Grandpa Burt and start calling the fire department every time I lose the remote. It's hard in here for a fetus.

Gosh, I miserable in here! Doesn't my mother know that we are basically sharing meals? I'm like a gigantic nine pound tapeworm in here! Doesn't she understand that every time she starts getting all "Oooh! I'm a big hungry preggo monster!" and decides that she feels like sampling every combination of beans and rice on the Taco Bell menu, that stuff goes straight to me? Is she trying to kill me of a Spicy Chicken Crunchwrap overdose? If she wanted a crack baby, she should have been a lot more direct about it and just started snorting lines twice a day instead of rolling into a drive thru in full fledged Godzilla on Tokyo hunger mode. Oh no . . .I'm sorry mother, I didn't mean that. I'm just under a lot of stress here. The time I've spent in this womb has been the best eight months of my life. Well actually, it's been the only eight months of my life, unless you count the whole "embryo" phase. But I mostly try and pretend that never happened. I thought I was so cool, just sitting there being a zygote without even being old enough to multiply by mitosis. It seems really embarrassing now.

However, the best moments I've ever had have taken place in this cozy little fertilized sack of a uterus. Who could forget when I was just 30 millimeters long with no hands, legs, feet, or brain, splashing around in amniotic fluid without a care in the world? Oh, those were the days . . .well, those were the 11 weeks, to be exact. Or how about when my eyes began opening for the first time? Oh, that was magical. Sure, there wasn't much to look at, but still, the idea behind it was exciting. And what about the time I grew my first lanugo, those tiny little hairs that kept me warm because of my lack of body fat? Oh man, and speaking of body fat, I've really ballooned up lately. Ever since the 26th week, I've been putting on pounds like Marlon Brando in 1972. If I'm not careful, I may just get so bloated that I bust out of cramped little womb early. I need to start watching what kind of nutrients I absorb from this placenta.

Yeah, it's been a great time in here, I just feel like I'm ready to move .. all, my major structures are fully formed, my brain and heart are functioning, and I'm slowly learning to express emotions through this thing called "crying." Wait, let me practice: (Crying) "WAAAH! WAAAH! WAAAH!" Oh man, this is going to be a really effective means of getting what I want once I'm out of this place.

But I'll be the first to admit, I'm kind of nervous. My bones are about as soft as Play-doh. And even though I haven't actually seen Play-doh yet, I'm probably going to be obsessed with that stuff sooner or later. What if my mom drops me on my head and I end up thinking I'm a dog or something? I can't eat dog food! You know what they put in that? And what if nobody loves me once I'm a baby? I am a pretty sexy fetus, but who knows how I'll look when I'm prancing around in a diaper with a Lego in one hand and a slobbered-on pacifier in another? Why don't I have hair? Am I balding? What if I end up looking like an alien or something, with no hair and two gigantic bug eyes? Are my toes webbed? Goodness, I think they are! Am I a mutant? If I am, I'm not even one of those cool mutants that get recruited by the X-Men Academy to battle Magneto! I'm just weird!

But I suppose I have no choice, really. I'm only in here for about two more weeks. My mom's already complaining about contractions, and I'm about to break this water myself if she doesn't just hurry up and push me out of this thing. I guess we all have to move on eventually.

Wow. I could really go for a Burrito Supreme right now. Where are obnoxious pregnant cravings when you need them? (Crying) WAHHH! WAHHH!

The Unintentional Comedy Showdown of the Century

Ladies and gentlemen, it is happening! Oh my god . . .I always knew this would happen, and now its happening! It is luck, fortune, an extensive branch of James Gleick's chaos theory, a variation the Butterfly Effect (not the "Ashton Kutcher is all grown up now with the fat guy from Boy Meets World movie, the actual entitiy itself) the workings of the steady hands of a divine force, the manipulation of intergalactical humanoids micromanaging the human population like an eight year old with an ant farm, or is it pure HAPPENstance? You must be postively brimming with the tingly sensation that curiousity (not to be confused with dental drugs) brings at this point and wondering, in a spastic fit of curiousity potent enough to kill not only one cat but the entire feline sector of the Animal Kingdom, what exactly is happening? What's happening, as signified by the yearly passage of the boom-or-bust early May superhero action extravaganza (Iron Man, by the way was a boom, on the passage of the 1 year anniversary of the bust to climactically end all busts, Spider Man 3 "How's the pie?" Really fucking terrible, actually), is that the summer movie season, aka The Time When Literally Everything We Have The Privelege Of Fixating Our Eyes Upon Is the MOVIE EVENT OF THE SUMMER, is upon us. And it feels good. Too good, maybe. I'm starting to get that funny sensation that I haven't gotten since Cloverfield came out. And I mean that in a good way, compared with the mental chlamydia that I got from seeing Transformers last year. This year, I will be avidly chronicling the summer movie phenomenon with the zest and passion of . . .a guy with absolutely nothing better to with his spare time. These chronicles will come not in the form of a talking lion and a pubescent prince, but in the form of a series of Showdowns that will determine the Ultimate Winner of the summer.
With much futher ado about nothing:
Showdown 1: The Unintentional Comedy Duel

The question is: What exactly is happening in "The Happening?"
Well, though I know that M. Night Shaymalan is a crafty guy, I think I've been able to pinpoint the happenings in this modern day horror classic to be:
-Poor career moves: Marky Mark Wahlberg . . .why? You were on a roll! You dazzled us with your Lee Harvey Oswald level sniping skills in "Shooter," you came out as king of the hill and basically killed the last living main character in "The Departed," you brought us to tears in "Invicible" . . .and now this? Really? What kind of state of mind were you in where you thought that doing anything with M. Night Shaymalan was a good idea? Are you short on cash? Did you make a bet with Bruce Willis? Do you really have three nipples? Either way, let's hope you are really good in Max Payne later this year, or a lot of embarrassment will be Happening over the next few months.
-Furrowed eyebrows: "What's going on?! You can't just leave us here!" (Furrows eyebrows) "Sir . . .we've lost connection." (Furrows eyebrows) "With who?" (Furrows eyebrows) "Everyone . . ."(Furrows eyebrows.) Apparently, in M. Night Shaymalan's alternate reality of magical movie prowess, acting=eyebrow movements. Based on this small, two minute and fifteen sample clip, at least 10,500 creased foreheads and 21,000 eyebrows will pop up during the movies super-intense scenes of distress and confusion. Which is every scene, by the way. M. Night Shaymalan never takes his foot off the gas of the Horrormobile.
-An event: As stated from the trailer, itself, "There appears to be an event happening." Well, even that's a step up from "The Village."
-Loss of speech, physical disorientation, DEATH!: Wait, is this the deadly airborne disease waging war against Marky Mark and the Eyebrows of Profound Emotion, or are these symptoms of spending more than 5 minutes watching "Lady In the Water"? I'm confused . . .(Furrowd eyebrows).
-Strange whoosing noises: Nothing says "fear, shock, abject terror!" more than amplified sounds of sweatpants flapping in the breeze.
-A twist: Would we expect anything less for old M. Night? Ever since raging success of the whole "Bruce Willis was dead all along" thing, M.'s got in his head that the formula for a classic horror movie is "Get them thinking one thing for an incredibly boring hour and a half, then bring in a space vampire in the last five minutes and all of the sudden its genius." I think I may be a step ahead this time, though. An inside source tells me (SPOILER ALERT!) . . .nah, that would just be too cruel. But I'll give you a hint: IT ISN'T WHAT YOU THINK!
-Lots of unintentional comedy: The more seriously you take yourself, M. Night, the more we laugh at you, not with you. So please, step down from your high horse in Cinematic Geniusland and just take a good hard look at yourself. You might like what you seen . . .or you might find out that YOU WERE A WEREWOLF ALL ALONG! OH CRAP!

Let's look beyond the fact that "Bangkok Dangerous" sounds like a suitable title for the single most graphic Asian gay pornography of all time (not that I would know anything about that.) That, in all likelihood, is intentional comedy. We really needn't look any further than the fact that the Wicker Man himself, Nicholas Cage, the be all and end all of unintentional comedy in the form of epic failure, is headlining this thing. Honestly, what more do we need to know other than the fact that it involves Nicholas Cage engaging in a number of unintentionally hilarious acts, such as;
1. Sniping people from rooftops
2. Speaking in a weirdly accurate Asian tongue
3. Going to Asian boxing matches and strip clubs
4. Riding a motorcycle for the first time since Ghostrider (the worst superhero movie other than Catwoman, which I think may have been written and directed by a masturbating 12 year old boy)
5. Making ominous threats such as "If I see your people again, I'll kill you."
6. Flashing that winning smile after gut-busting one liners such as "What is your work? Banking."
7. Just existing. Honestly Nicholas Cage, that is all we ask of you. It's like Gordo wrote in Lizzie's yearbook on the season finale of Lizzie McGuire circa 2002: "Never change. I mean that." Never change, Nicholas Cage. Never change.
The winner obviously, cannot yet be declared. All that be guaranteed is that at some point in this year, you will grimace, you will furrow your eyebrows, you will have your capacity to think blown to shrapnel by M. Night Shaymalan's genius, you will fear Nicholas Cage and the spooky sounds of a heavy gust of wind . . .and you will laugh.

Levels of Degradation: How to React When Reducing Someone to A Sniveling Ball of Misery

As far as old maxim's go, credibility tends to be elusive. A bird in the hand is worth two in a bush? What kind of birds are we talking about here? An "Oscar the Naked Cockatoo" in the hand is, by no grand stretch of the imagination, equivalent to two California Condors in the bush. A fool and his money are soon parted? I'm sorry, but obviously you are not familiar with the Forbes ranking of Robin Williams. However, there is evidence lent to the claim that the best things in life are free. Just consider it: Sunsets, rainbows, true love, Taiwanese prostitutes. Oh, and of course the simplest of simple pleasures: That tingling little feeling that you get inside, like a giddy little sugar rush of sadism and self-satisfaction, that comes from the delivery of a truly degrading insult. There's just something in that fluid flow of razor sharp verbiage, whether malicious or friendly, that lends the mind a kind of euphoria available only through black market means via viable sums of money. However, there is more to a great insult than simply spouting off whatever cold hearted venom seeps onto your tongue from the depths of your twisted little mind. Insults, much like the animal kingdom, must be properly labeled.

(Playtpus=Ornithorhynchus anatinus).

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Ladies and gentlemen, here lies the deceased folly of mislabeling types of degrading verbiage. Rest in peace, ignorance.

Levels of Degradation:

Level 1: The Insult

Level one is simple, straightforward, basic, probably bearing some semblance of truth but not enough to weigh on a person's psyche for more than the brief flash of semi-indignation experienced within the first 0.453 seconds of its expulsion from the mouth of the Insulter. Ultimately, you're not offended. In fact, you scoff at the very idea that such elementary school level pish-posh could possibly phase you.

Example:

Billy: You are stupid.

Bobby: Oh . . .how rude.

Level 2: The Diss

The diss is a minor step on the evolutionary chain of degradation, much like the Neanderthal was just a little better than the Cro Magnon, but it was enough to make a difference. (Well, in the end there really was no difference. They both had weirdly shaped skulls, grunted a lot, and couldn't harness fire. Homo sapiens are awesome!) The main difference between the two is that the diss, while maintaining the similarly basic properties of the insult, typically comes in the form of a comeback, therefore making the person who was an innocent victim in Level 1: The Insult become the vulnerable fool who attempted to assert his dominance and then failed miserably, like a Chihuahua attempting to mount a pitbull (Youtube, anyone?).

Example:

Bobby: Whoa there Billy, nice STAIN on your shirt!

Billy: Well, at least I'm not stupid.

Bobby: Ouch. That's embarrassing. I'm mildly perturbed by your one-upsmanship of me.

Level 3: The Burn

If the Insult is a schizophrenic, delusional hobo begging for sardines by the train tracks and the Diss is a respectable suburban man working in an accounting firm and raising two delightful children, then the Burn is one of those high-rolling corporate lawyers who sues the tobacco companies and lives in a penthouse with mirrors on the ceiling. The Burn doesn't just scratch at the surface of the weak superfluity of the Diss, and grabs itself a power drill from Home Depot and drills right on through the skin until blood is splattered all over the victim like the walls of the shower at the Bates motel. The burn doesn't just dish out an unflattering moniker, it ELABORATES, leaving the person feeling as though the contents of their fragile little heart have just been put on display and mercilessly laughed at in a public museum. These ones leave a mark on the soul for at least a few hours, lingering in the conscience like a Floridian mosquito with a craving for human sweat and blood.

Example:

Billy: Bobby, I need to tell you something.

Bobby: Yes?

Billy: You are stupid. But you're not just stupid. You are pathetically deluding yourself into thinking that you aren't stupid, when everyone thinks of you as a complete, total moron. You are basically the dumbest kid in our school.

Bobby: That isn't true! (Hides face in shame)

Level 4: The Zinger

The Zinger maintains the deeply personal, revelatory facets of the Burn, only compresses them into concise, one liner format, striking out of nowhere like the meteor from "Deep Impact," and with equal amounts of devastation. The Zinger is delivered as a joke; however its biting levels of truth leave the victim feeling as though he has just been sharply sliced by construction paper and is being bled dry of his dignity.

Example:

Bobby: Hey Billy! I've got some great news! I just a Wii!

Billy: Yeah, but the bad news is, you're still completely retarded!

Level 5: The Assassination

By the time one has reached the level of the Assassination, all semblances of jocularity have been eradicated like a colony roaches being doused in Raid. The Assassination doesn't just point out the fairly obvious flaws of a man, noticed by all, noted occasionally, but widely acknowledged as harmless. By this point, the Degrader has attacked every minute aspect of the Degradee's personality: Their hopes, dreams, ambitions, fears, any and all blackmail regarding the Degradee, every little flaws preventing the Degradee from achieving a humanely perfection that, thus far in history, has proven unattainable. The Assassination usually comes in the form of a rather long winded rant, often in the midst of an argument heated to volcanic proportions, and leaves the victim often reduced to tears and doubting everything that makes them who they are.

Example:

Bobby: Hey Billy, want to come over today?

Billy: Jeez, well I would, but then again look at you: You're stupid. Most people look at you and mistake you for a crack baby, that is if people even notice you at all. You're entire existence is completely pointless. You could vanish from the face of the Earth today and even I, your best friend, would not care. If people were actually valued in monetary terms, you would be worth absolutely nothing. Oh, and that obsession you had with that chick in your Math class was the most pathetic attempt at love I've ever seen. No women want to go near you, even the blind, deaf and dumb girl that always stumbles into you at lunch. She thinks you smell horrible. Oh, and I lied when I said you had a good singing voice. Your singing makes me want to vomit, and I think your breath smells like a rotting corpse in a trash bag.

Level 6: The Nuclear Holocaust

The only possible level of devastation higher than the Assassination, the Nuclear Holocaust takes no prisoners. Essentially, the term Nuclear Holocaust evokes an image of a colossal mushroom cloud consuming and eviscerating everything in its path. With a Nuclear Holocaust of degradation, the focus expands from the single person presently receiving the degradation to everything and everyone that person loves: Friends, family, their favorite TV shows, role models, etc. Everything and anything associated with said person is treated with equal contempt. A Nuclear Holocaust, in most cases, results in the victim being instituted in an insane asylum or committing suicide.

Example:

Bobby: Billy, you are my best friend!

Billy: Best friend? Impossible, Bobby. All of your friends are total and complete losers, much like yourself. John secretly hates you, he talks about how boring and awkward you are all of the time. He thinks your new slang words suck. "Cool dip" will never work as a catch phrase. It's stupid . . .just like you. Oh, and your mother is ridiculously ugly. Not that this came as a shock to me. The only way someone as disgustingly deformed as you could have come into the world is through an equally hideous woman. Your brother told me he wishes you were never born, which is funny because I used to think he was retarded too, until I agreed with him on that. "Three's Company" is a horrible show. It's shameful that you laugh at that crap, like I laugh at you. Oh, and I'm glad your Grandpa died. He looked like a grape that's been out in the sun too long.

In conclusion, keep this is mind next time you feel like degrading someone. Don't just toss out celebratory phrases like "Diss!" and "Burn!" without genuinely taking a moment to consider where on the Levels of Degradation it truly resides. The best things in life are free. And the best insults . . .those are priceless.

I Need to Stop Hanging Out On Planes

By A Burmese Python

That's it! I've had it with the process of being a motherfucking snake on this motherfucking plane! I mean honestly, there is no more misunderstood demographic than snakes on planes. It's not like we as elongated reptiles don't have it tough enough already. It's not like I, as a Burmese Python, don't already find myself eternally poisoned by the noxious snake-tonic of racial discrimination. I can't even drink from the same swampy badlands as my reptilian brothers, and for what reason? Oh, just my locomotion, limblessness, horny scales, and the fact that I move by muscular contraction? Do my loosely jointed and extremely flexible jaws make me any less of a member of the Reptilia kingdom? And have you heard what they do to the Black Mambas in Africa? They mutilate their hoods as a rite of passage into snakehood. And the Australian asp? I hear they skin them and wear their hides as some kind of disgusting boot-wearing ritual. And this is OFF of planes!

And what exactly is it about the presence of a particular pair of pernicious predatory pythons on planes that just causes such uproar? Why is it that I become so much more despicable when I'm flopping around on the floor of a Boeing 747 filled with Japanese tourists? There are plenty of locales in which being a Burmese python would cause even the most open minded and virtuous of FBI superagents played by Samuel L. Jackson to frown with contempt. For example: The rodent section of Petco. I'll concede, even as a respectable member of the slender slithering species of the python, that I would have a hard time resisting a hamster and mouse massacre in those circumstances. Also, at a children's picnic. I tend to become aggressive when frightened, and there is nothing that activates my reptilian bloodlust more than the high pitched screams of the young. But planes? I'm perfectly at ease flying business class of Southwest Airlines to some exotic hot spot in the Caribbean . You never hear charismatic black men condemning the presence of alligators in a waterpark, sharks on a pool deck, or Siberian Tigers in a Las Vegas magic show populated by flamboyantly gay Europeans.

There really is only one person to blame for this shocking tidal wave of hatred and anti-snake sentiment: A certain Samuel L. Jackson. I have no doubt that if Tom Cruise were jumping in the pilot's seat and yelling "I strongly disapprove of these darn snakes on this aircraft!" then all of this never would have happened. But if Mace Windu tells the American people that an anaconda can't rest peacefully in the luggage compartment, they just can't resist the hate.

A lesson to all reptiles out there, especially those of the Phylum chordata. If you ever feel the need to travel, just hitch a ride in the back of some guy's pickup. Because, or so I've heard, they've had it with snakes on planes.

Action Heroes Speak Louder Than Words

By Steven Seagal

In the Buddhist faith, we often like to take a break from all of the daily chatter and just go on down to the riverbank, and rest amongst the dandelions, daffodils, lilacs, tulips and all other kinds of pretty flowers. We don't speak, we just sit and meditate, reflecting on our day. But occasionally someone will interrupt my peaceful thoughts and say something like "Whoa there Steven Seagal, don't achieve nirvana and find refuge in the Three Jewels without me" and I'll get a little perturbed. I'll wonder why someone would choose to disrupt me when I'm trying to achieve spiritual liberation through the teachings of Siddhartha Guatama. And, for just a fleeting little second, I'll think about maybe chastising them a little bit, or offering up some harsh, yet constructive criticism. But then I remember: I'm Steven Seagal. And action heroes speak louder than words.

It's like that time I broke Sean Connery's wrist back in 1983. That was right around the time "Never Say Never Again" came out. He wanted some martial arts advice from the martial arts master himself, Steven Seagal. Yeah, that's me. So we're in the dojo, I'm demonstrating the reverse scissor kick head grab, and he tries to stop my kick with his puny little Hollywood handsies. I snapped his wrist in half like a bamboo stick in the jungles of Taiwan. He starts complaining and threatening to sue me. For a second there I thought "Dang, I really need to explain that this was all an accident to protect myself legally and financially." But then I realized: I'm Steven Freaking Seagal. So I said "Alright, Connery, you washed up British bloodhound. I'll take you to the bank . . .the BLOOD BANK" and I beat his ass to a pulp . . .shaken, not stirred.

These days, I don't really feel the need to justify anything I do with words, because a flying roundhouse kick to the face pretty much says it all. It's like this one time, when I was walking through LA in the afternoon, looking for some cheap, greasy Indian food to stuff my face with. And then I see this hobo sitting in a pile of trash bags. He looks me, Steven Seagal, right in the eyes and says "Could you spare a quarter? Maybe a can of soup, sir?" I said "No, but I got giant can of whoopass right here." Pow! Steven Seagal headbutt! Bam! Karate chop to the neck! I looked him right in the eye and said "Veni vidi vici, big boy." That'll teach anyone to ask Steven Seagal for charity.

It really is a great luxury not having to speak at all. Let's face it, when you are an action hero like Steven Seagal, your broad shoulders, toned abs and chiseled thighs speak volumes. One time, at this restaurant that I find quite delightful, I order my usual, the vegetable soup with a side of fondu. The waiter goes "Oh yeah, Steven Seagal, I forgot you are a vegetarian." I stopped for a moment and considered explaining that I find the eating of animals to be a vile and contemptible practice. But I didn't feel like wasting my breath on this punk, so I pulled a carrot out of my back pocket and shoved it in his eyeball. He starts screaming and I said "Less crying, more dying, babycakes."

Sure, I've been accused of making rash decisions. And yeah, my manager says that my lack of communication skills will hinder my professional career. But there are only two people in this world that I need to communicate with: Mr. Right and Mr. Left. Anybody out there got A carefully worded, well thought out problem with that? I didn't think so.

The Root of Taco Bell's Evil: Exposed!

"This is my dissertation,
Homie this shit is basic,
Welcome to graduation."
-Kanye West
If within the gleaming nugget of everyday life there lies a lesson to be learned, stashed into the breast pocket of a recently ironed dress shirt for later use, and then bandied about and wielded at every given opportunity to flaunt our newfound wisdom, then April 17, 2008 taught me that there is no better man to supply a countless parade of aphoristic maxims for epigraph application than the inimitable Kanye West.
However, this has nothing to do with any of that.
What you are about to find your eager, scandal-starved iris nourished by are the refreshing Visine drops of clarity. Not since Upton Sinclair made Austrian immigrants feel that their peculiar habit if urinating in steaming vats of ground beef seem justified has the fast food industry been stripped down and revealed for the sick sham that it is. While I plan on using this earth-shattering research project/exposee for my eventual Ph.D thesis paper, I feel as though the "blog reading demographic," which is actually completely identical to the "Taco Bell customer demographic" should know before it is too late.
My suspicions of tom-foolery amongst the Taco Bell marketing staff began a year ago, when, in mid April 2007, I sprinted from my sixth period classroom to the nearest Taco Bell like a giddy little schoolboy, salivating at the prospect of sampling the new 7-Layer Crunchwrap Supreme. I hadn't been this excited since August of 1998, when my neighbor told me that he would trade me one of his two Charizards for a holographic Scyther. Alas, that Charizard turned out to be a counterfeit lizard-imitator with glitter sprinkled on it. From that day onward, I vowed never to allow myself to be so vulnerable again. Until that fateful day. And, essentially, the much-hyped 7-Layer Crunchwrap, which was being hailed by critics (and the guy on the Taco Bell commercials) as the single greatest thing since oxygen itself, was also a counterfeit lizard imitator covered in glitter. Basically, it was just like the other crunchwrap, the original that we had so blissfully loaned our hearts to . . .except it had no ground beef whatsoever, and a fat surplus of sour cream, therefore it sucked.
However, from the ashes devastating tragedy rose a phoenix of revelation. From the Ground Zero of this terrorist attack rose a gigantic bump in the bumper sticker sales of motivation. Yes, these similes are outlandish, but I'm making a point here. Basically I realized, in an epiphany rivaling that of Muhammed's encounter with God in that desert cave, this: EVERY SINGLE TACO BELL ITEM IS THE EXACT SAME THING, ONLY ARRANGED IN A DIFFERENT WAY AND GIVEN SOME CRAZY SPANISH SOUNDING NAME!
Still, I new that my claims would be met with protests and outrage from the Gordita-guzzling Taco Bell sycophants of the world. So I chose to take the route of the true scientist, and break it all down mathematically.
Basically, the formula to Taco Bell's deception consists of:
These 14 ingredients: Beef, chicken, beans, rice, lettuce, tomato, sour cream, steak, tortilla, tortilla chips, thin, stringy cheese, or runny, melted cheese.
These 7 prefixes used to affix the latest combination with a name seeming authentically Mexican: gor, bur, crunch, chal, ques, nacho, taco.
These 5 suffixes used in fusion with aforementioned prefixes: ito, upa, dilla, supreme, dita.
These 5 adjectives used to make the highlight the allegedly new characteristics of the latest birth of the Taco Bell kitchen: Cheesy, crunchy, melty, grande, spicy.
Using these elements, Taco Bell continues to churn out their supposedly innovative, limited time offers for delicious, greasy substances, fooling and beguiling us into purchasing something that we believe is fresh, fantastic, and fleeting while actually just recycling the elements of the original burrito. Brilliant marketing scheme or contemptible trickery? I choose the latter.
When, you must be wondering, will the jig be up for taco bell? According to my calculations (I've always wanted to say that) not any time soon.
You see, one can calculate the possible food combinations of Taco Bell by multiplying the number of potential ingredient combinations: 14 x 13 x 12 x 11 x 10 x 9 x 8 x 7 x 6 x 5 x 4 x 3 x 2 x 1=8.71782912 x 10 to the 1oth power, or 87,178,291,200 combinations, or 87 billion possible menu items.
However, this is not entirely accurate, because Taco Bell has a finite number of ways to describe these items and maintain the illusion. There are 7 prefixes, 5 suffixes, and 5 adjectives available for them. Under these restrictions, there are 245x245 possible means of describing their latest concoctions, which equals 60, 025 different names for Taco Bell menu items, ranging from the minimalist Spicy Chaldita Supreme, which is just tortilla chips slathered in sour cream, to the eventual juggernaut "The Spicy Cheesy Crunchy Melty Grande Nachodita," which would contain beef, chicken, beans, rice, lettuce, tomato, sour cream, steak, tortilla, tortilla chips, thin, stringy cheese, and runny, melted cheese in a disgusting, water-heated orgy of decadence.
This disgusting, morally corrupt cycle of deception will rake in untold billions of dollars for Taco Bell Inc. over the next several millenia. Assuming that they release two new items a year, this despicable circus of cheesy gordita evil will continue for the next 30,012.5 years. Mankind itself isn't even expected to survive that long.
I urge you, Crunchwrapped, masses, unite and rise up against the tyrant! Free yourselves from the bounding chains of your ignorance and curse the skies for your blindness! Descend upon the Taco Bell Headquarters bearing pitchfork and torch, preparing the corporate bastards running this scheme for their ultimate damnation.
Until then, however, I'm a little hungry. I think I going to grab a Grilled Stuft Burrito. That new chicken and steak one looks delicious.

I Was Communist Before It Was Fashionable

The Ghost of Vladimir Lenin
Guest Columnist

Это - произвол! Or, as you may say in English, “this is an outrage!” There’s nothing I dislike in this cruel, conformist society more than bandwagoners, besides of course that despicable wretch of a man, Tsar Alexander III. Oh, if only my forlorn brother had been successful in his ultimately futile attempt to sever that man’s head and parade through the streets of Kokushinko with that horrific tsarist mug on a pike. But I’m not here to rant upon the ills of an evil capitalist society founded by contemptible fools and run by pigs. Frankly, I’m ashamed of my own people. These days, I can’t float around Moscow in my supernatural, undead state without seeing the Hammer and Sickle flag flying around. Being communist is basically the “охладите новую вещь,” or “cool new thing that everyone seems to be doing these days.” But the fact of the matter is, I was communist way before it was fashionable.
Look, I’m not trying to claim that I invented communism or something crazy like that. Up until my father’s untimely death of a cerebral hemorrhage in 1886, I was just as ignorant and feeble-minded as the subhuman American plebians that I would grow to despise with the strength of 1,000 Siberian wind storms. As a teenager, I could barely tell the difference between a totalitarian system of government in which a single authoritarian party controls state-owned means of production, a final stage of society in Marxist theory in which the state has withered away and economic goods are distributed equitably, and my mother’s favorite yak, Olga! But soon I familiarized myself with the teachings of Marx, turned Das Kapital into my own personal Bible, and took up my new hobby of preaching the values of communism to the oppressed working class and spreading propaganda for the Marxist party like butter on a delicious dish of Moscow Ponchiki. Meanwhile, while the подобный свинье, царь, любящий дураков, or “swine-like, tsar-loving fools” that made up my graduating class were busy immersing themselves in the pointless exercises of the incompetent like having icicle fights and pursuing luscious Russian woman, I was jotting down ideas in my notebook involving the brutal, violent overthrow of the royal family and the creation of a utopian society in which I ruled over all. Nobody believed in my except myself and several thousand violent proletariats that chose to take up arms with me.
I mean, who else has the intestinal fortitude to undergo and period of exile in Switzerland out of their sheer love for the communist party? Nobody. Just me. I was writing State and Revolution and detailing my plans for a new form of government based on workers’ councils elected and revocable at all moments by the workers while that airheaded Trotsky and his ludicrous Bolsheviks were prancing around in Petrograd like a bunch of fools. Communism was so unpopular at the time that people like Fanya Kaplan of the Socialist Revolutionary Party were trying to kill me solely for the reason that I was the head of the Soviet state!
Well, from my body’s current position in the Lenin Mausoleum in Moscow, I’ve seen a lot of supposedly loyal communists come by and visit. All of the прохладные дети, or “cool kids” are parading around in their bright red attire and worshiping Stalin like a god. There’s really nothing dangerous or controversial about that. They are just sheep, and I am the forgotten shepherd. I suppose I always was a bit of a trendsetter.

The Tides of Love

As many of you out there in the wide world of interwebs may have heard through the grapevine (a grapevine that now undoubtedly extends through most of the seven continents, to the point where penguins in the South Pole are giggling with shock and disbelief at human folly), a certain Michael D. Rex has been unjustly accused of violating the gaping orifice of a sea anemone in a lusty and contemptible manner. Presented below is the actual account of what happened, proving that it was not the story of a man's brain being lodged into his now polka-dotted, rash infested penile canal but actually a deeply moving tribute to interspecies love. This movie "The Tides of Love" essentially proves that the omnipotent forces of love are not restricted to humans, but can extend to all forms of life. I can attest: I once engaged in a steamy, sordid love affair with an amoebic cell cluster in a package of six month old cottage cheese.
The bittersweet affair, presented below in all of its unabashed, shameless beauty.