cheedogg's Xanga

"Fantastic Mr. Fox" Free Screening

Thu, 12 Nov 2009 20:25:25 GMT

1. Go here
2. Pick your city
3. Done

Video Gaming 3.0

Wed, 11 Nov 2009 05:18:50 GMT

Some might call this a gag, but I call it the first war-themed video game I'd actually drop 50 bucks to play. I mean, seriously, wouldn't this kick so much ass?

Let my daydreaming begin.

Boo

Fri, 30 Oct 2009 20:38:34 GMT

I'm not a fan of holiday-themed TV episodes. Most of them are cheap, cheesy, and made for the same kinds of people who still think "Smallville" is a good show (yes, it's still on the air).

It's been a while since I've enjoyed a good Halloween episode. The last one I can recall was The Simpsons "Treehouse of Horror III," but that was 17 years ago.

I'm here to announce that the dry spell has finally been lifted, and I couldn't be happier. See if you agree.

If you don't, enjoy Smallville and The Vampire Diaries. And see you in seventeen years.

Makes a Great Meal

Thu, 29 Oct 2009 09:07:10 GMT

Instead of Hamburger Helper they should call it Ground Beef Helper, cause that's what it is.

I once tried to make their beef stroganoff using hamburger patties instead and it ended up looking like a large animal had pooped, then stepped on it, then let it dry, and then blew diarrhea on top of everything.

Yes, it still tasted good, but it looked nothing like the picture on the box. And that, my friend, is what's called false advertising.

Somewhere Between It and Not It

Wed, 28 Oct 2009 23:11:16 GMT

Elizabeth Taylor is telling everyone to see Michael Jackson's "This Is It" documentary. LaToya Jackson, on the other hand, says don't see it.

This really sucks. So far I've lived a life free of not having to follow the bullshit, crazy advice of people like Liz Taylor or LaToya, fourth-rate celebrities who love themselves so much I'm convinced they eat their own toenails.

Now, how can I possibly do the opposite of both these losers? Do I have to end up agreeing with one? Do I have to have to say, for the first time, "Yes, I completely agree with LaToya?"

I think I do. Please take this cassette single of 1984's "Bet'cha Gonna Need My Lovin'" and fuck me.

Change in Plans

Sun, 25 Oct 2009 02:21:24 GMT

After leaving a reasonably-priced Japanese restaurant, my party of 8 had plans for a night of drinking and catching-up. Some of us came from out of town, and most hadn't seen each other in years. Everyone had planned this a month in advance. I had purposely cleared up the entire Saturday night.

The second we stepped outside in the rain, 1 person said she was not feeling well, so she and her sister (who commuted for 2 hours just to get to this dinner) headed back home.

Ten minutes later, at a frozen yogurt shop, 1 person went into the bathroom to throw up. She did this twice. She and her boyfriend then called it a night. We're now down to 4 people. No one's had a drop of alcohol yet.

While this girl was throwing up a second time, 1 person got a call from his family. His grandfather, who lives 8,000 miles away, was basically dead. He was no longer in any mood to celebrate. He and his girlfriend decided to go home to cry about it.

Down to 2.

1 person decided he really wanted to go home and watch the Angels play the Yankees at Yankee Stadium on TV. We're both holding up our umbrellas, 3 miles south of Yankee Stadium. I told him there's no way in hell they're playing tonight. I totally called the fucker out, since he still left anyways.

So less than 20 minutes after 8 people had made solid plans to hang out for one "special" night, everyone else, for lack of a better phrase, pussied out. Standing in the rain on a busy street, I looked at my watch. It was 9:25 pm on a Saturday night. Random New Yorkers were walking all around me. Everyone was dressed up, talking and laughing, ready to start their nights.

This is total bullshit.

Walking Ovation

Wed, 14 Oct 2009 23:01:07 GMT

It started with a single "Woooo!" out in the distance, but as my friend and I continue walking down 5th Avenue, more and more random women are clapping at us. This is strange, since all we're doing is looking for food.

It's easy for anyone to ignore this. New York City always overflows with loud noises, annoying people, and other distractions in every direction, so my friend doesn't even realize we're getting special attention. I, however, am very aware. I feel like Tom Brady.

Maybe this is a Candid Camera kind of thing, or something Improv Everywhere has cooked up on unsuspecting people. But as my friend continues talking about whatever the hell she's talking about, I'm busy noticing that only women in their 40s and 50s are praising my existence. I now feel like Tom... Jones.

Finally, we hit the park, and the yelling and clapping get louder. In the distance I see a makeshift pavilion, where tons of post-menopausal women are jumping up and down at our imminent arrival. I still can't believe my friend has no idea the love we're getting. It feels so fake, but oh so good.

Suddenly, a large group of old chicks surround and walk alongside us. Their matching t-shirts and hats, white with pink lettering, finally tell me what I need to know: that no one actually gives a shit about me; that I am in fact in the middle of a breast cancer walk.

When I tell my friend this, I suggest to her that we keep walking with these women. After all, we have nothing better to do than to get lunch, and I'm guessing what's in that pavilion will satisfy that need. We are the only people in the walk dressed like we don't belong, but I am reminded that it's not about what you wear at these fundraisers, it's about how much you gave and who you're walking for.

500 bucks, and for my Aunt... uh... Bibby. Done.

My friend won't have it, and wants to leave our unsexy entourage towards quieter, less estrogen-y waters. I really want to march on. I want to see what's inside that canopy full of Oprah fans. I want to cause a scene when I find out my Aunt Bibby isn't listed on the clipboard. I want to be told how beautiful my breasts are.

The decision is made when my friend shakes her head and begins walking away. Close your eyes. Soak in the adoration one last time. Return to reality.

Bird Call

Mon, 28 Sep 2009 19:50:28 GMT

If there's ever a reason to start using Twitter, it's Caprice Crane. She's a screenwriter for awful TV shows like the new 90210 and the new Melrose Place*, and has a couple of shitty chick-lit novels* under her belt, but her Twitter messages, also known as tweets, or twits, or timewastinggarbage, are fresh, witty, and freakin' funny. Do yourself a favor and check out her 140-characters-or-less observations.

You can pretty much ignore everyone else on Twitter. Yes, including LeVar Burton.

*No, I have neither seen nor read these. But, honestly, do you have to to know they blow?

Directorial Debut

Sat, 12 Sep 2009 16:52:32 GMT

Steven Speilberg is sitting right behind me, eating a ham sandwich he had obviously made himself earlier in the day. It's weird that the director of Amistad and Munich packs his own meals and travels to Washington D.C. by bus like me when his net wealth is $3.1 billion. But I'm looking right at him, and there he is, silver beard and all -- enjoying a thinly-sliced pig on white bread.

It's also strange that his cell phone's ring tone isn't the theme to E.T. or Jurassic Park, but Marc Anthony's "You Sang to Me." Steven Speilberg should be ashamed of himself.

I am trying to be sneaky by looking at him through the space between the seats, but he still appears tense. Celebrities, from what I've read, have a third eye in this respect -- they're able to sense when they are being followed, photographed, or stared at.

But for Steven, instead of shoving his palm into my face, he instead shuffles in his seat, and slowly exhales. He now appears completely relaxed.

It turns out it wasn't me that had made him nervous; he was simply holding in a fart.

Should I tell him how crappy the 4th Indiana Jones movie was? Should I tell the producer of Tiny Toon Adventures and An American Tail: Fievel Goes West his huge mistake in turning Shia LaBeouf into a "star?" Should I ask him why he's speaking in Persian when he finally answers another Marc Anthony-inspired incoming call?

His phone call is short. He then burps, and again shuffles in his seat. The smell of ass finally makes it's way to me through the space between the seats as he then reaches into his backpack and pulls out a second ham sandwich.

I am officially done with my stalking. I will not call Page Six, TMZ, or The Insider. Steven Speilberg, or whoever the hell he is, is too boring a little fuck.

I Got Buns, Hun

Fri, 21 Aug 2009 12:11:18 GMT

2 family-sized bags of hot dog buns were dumped onto my refrigerator shelf. Each bag contained 16 "enriched rolls" which had been smashed flat, due to what I believed to be a classic case of accidental ass press. The buns had expired 3 days ago.

No, this is not an algebra problem. This is reality.

These bags were placed on my shelf without consent. My roommate's thinking, I'm sure, was that I'd finish anything that was given to me. Even one that was "half used." Boy, oh boy, was he dead right.

But unless you're an active member of the IFOCE, 32 hot dog buns is simply too much to consume, especially when you're on a clock that stopped ticking 3 days ago. And especially when you have no actual hot dogs (I'm too lazy to go to the store).

So I've had to be creative, using only what I already have/ need around the apartment to help me on my quest. So far, my picnic-able friends have become -

mini breakfast hoagies (using expired Spam, egg, and cheese)
PB&J-on-HDB
a poor man's soup crouton
kindling
substitute snowballs
biodegradable pooper scoopers
edible wall caulking
kitchen and bathroom sponges (unedible)

This is just the beginning. I need to really put my thinking cap on (made from two hot dog buns Scotch taped together) if I'm going to completely eliminate my rollage, my buntasity.