Incidentally 4 out of 5 dentists recommend this blog.

When I was doing the photo tour of my apartment I noticed something. Those damned garlic chips were still with me. As a guy who prides himself on being appealing to all senses (even your sense of balance) this vampire slaying garlic breath could not be allowed to continue. So when I got to the bathroom, I brushed my teeth, Listerine'd, etc. And I noticed something. How I'd over looked it for so long I've no idea, but the truth of it hit me like a sucker punch from grandma.

What I noticed was this: when I brush my teeth, I look like I'm trying to get the plaque out of my mouth by sheer intimidation. Unfortunately I didn't get any pictures of the original event. But, with your indulgence, here is a reenaction of the event mere moments after it happened. No names, faces*, or toothbrushes were changed.

Here we have a look that says "Look out for me Aquafresh. I killed the Crest Sparkle; he failed me."

Hot bi(cuspid) action. Oh, and an expression of warrior's rage.

I used to have an electric, but I kept biting off the end of it. The free ones from the dentist are much more durable.

And there you have it. One disclaimer: the above was inappropriate for small children. You had them in the room and they saw it? Yeah, they'll probably never brush again. Great parenting.

- Scott

Chez Awesome.

Gaaah! Holy God! Sweet Living Zeus! Apparently the powers that be at the fair University of Illinois Master's Journalism program are very fond of imposing on me (in the words of Senator Ted Stevens) "enromous amounts of material, enormous amounts of material." Sorry for not posting (though not as much as I usually am), I've been swamped with things to do. And after a seven month semi-hibernation period... let's just say that it's going to take more than a double shot espresso to get me going.

However being in action is where I thrive and I've quickly worked my way to the top. Sweet apartment: check. Hot girlfriend: check. Free time for various large-university shenanigans: a qualified check. You've already seen the girlfriend (in fact, some of you are even clammoring for me to take that picture down). You're aquainted with my shenanigans. What you've all been missing out on is the apartment.

Huzzah for old things.

Here we have the very sweet old timey intercom system, and the very useful wall mounted platform where my change, wallet, phone, and pen (Pilot G2-07, all I ever use) get dropped when I breeze in the door.

Three remotes for one T.V. ...the age we live in.

Here's my living room. There's more of it, but that happens to be where I'm standing to take this picture. And at the time, was filled with boxes. Not the most photogenic material, cardboard. Is that a Ghostbusters poster you ask? Why, yes. Yes it is.

A room with a (voyeuristic) view.

Here's the bedroom. I like to sleep with the blinds open. People like to watch me. It's a symbiotic arrangement. But the bedroom itself is pretty spartan; the sole luxuries being the heater, large windows, big closet, fan, night stand, clock radio/CD player, and awesome Ghostbusters comforter. The Ghostbusters bedspread has been with me since I was three. Usually it's flipped over, but for the sake of those who thought it was too funny to hide... there it is. Laid bare.

Somewhere a Mexican Restaurant is making do with two chairs on one side of a booth.

I "procured" that sweet red booth from a Jerseyville Mexican Restaurant. Allegedly the intent was not to discard the benches, but simply put them out behind the building. Seeing them, I immeadiately borrowed my dad's truck and it has moved with me from apartment to apartment ever since.

Dinner for the health conscious.

One more of the kitchen. Meg and I were about to take off for the night, but realized that without food in our bodies the things alcohol was likely to do to us would be at best unplesant. Working from my vast array of foods, seasonings, and cooking supplies Meg managed to whip up a peanut butter and banana feast. "This is pretty much what a four year old would have for dinner," she laughed. Yeah, if that four year old is livin' hard.

More voyeurism. Crowds have begun to gather in the mornings and just before I go to sleep.

This is actually something I've always wanted. A window in the shower. I'm not sure it would be obvious unless I mentioned it, but here you have the view from my shower. Literally. I turn around and this is what I see. And since my apartment is about a block off the Quad, there are always people walking past. It's a good time.

The War Room.

From now on, this is where you'll find me cooking up diabolical schemes (and the odd blog posting). ...To be fair it's a lot more menacing when the overhead light is off.

See? Slightly more Batcave-esque.

There's one more feature of the apartment. I don't think it's expressable with mere pictures however. So, for the first time in the history of the Wonder Blog (sort of) you get a video. It would have been a really great one. I think there was take that was really solid. Unfortunately that one take was split over about five seperate videos. And I'm far too lazy to splice them together. So since whatever you were going to watch would be riddled with errors, and all of them expressed the main idea anyway, you get the best outtake reel of them all. Enjoy.

WE'VE GOT MOVIE SIGN!

And that's where I've been lately. If you're ever in Chambanna feel free to stop by.

- Scott

P.S. If you'd like to see a slightly better one, digg this version.

Snakes at the Theater

Ok, this is going to be quick and dirty. But I know my audience and several of you like it that way. At least where reading is concerned. I just got back from the first showing of Snakes on a Plane. And I have this to say: It was phenomonal.

I don't say this in the sense that our extravagantly (rotund) over the top (...and around the sides) theater director used to. But in the "causing a phenomonon" sense. It was unlike any movie experience I've ever been a part of. This must have been what the original screening of the Rocky Horror Picture Show was like... if it was highly anticipated for a year and a half by a rabid fan community.

Walking into the theater, I was giddy with anticipation. The film was showing (as it seems all new films do these days) the day before its official release date, but instead of starting at midnight they bumped it up to 10:00. Presumably to lure a few more people who would otherwise not be there. Steve's frat brother Rob said as we walked in "We could go see WTC." Which was met with disapproval on several levels. "Nah, we're going to see a different plane tragedy. A funny one." (I doubt I'll ever bother with WTC, both because I have no desire to spend $10.00 and two hours of my life on hero porn and because Nicolas Cage tends to annoy me.)

The energy inside was more palpable, more electric than at any event I've ever been to. Sporting events, concerts, religous experiences (and it nearly was one)... they all pale in compairson to the gathering of internet people at the 10:00 Snakes on a Plane in Champaign. They even came in costumes. One guy dressed in a suit and skullcap/goggles. I complimented his ridiculous outfit (as I too have felt the sheer joy that comes with dressing up for a movie) and asked about his 1930's pilot's goggles. He shrugged and explained that he didn't have any real pilot hat. "That's ok," I said, "it's kind of a Snakes on a Bi-plane thing." "The Prequel" Rob added. Such repartee went on all night. We waited anxiously for the movie to start.

And when it did, it did not dissapoint. It was somewhat formulaic early on; i.e. it conforms to the horror movie standard of people not getting killed until they are:

a.) doing drugs
b.) having sex
c.) black
d.) all of the above

But it picked up fast. Every line regarding snakes is going to get laugh as they are all as contrived and ridiculous as the actors could possibly manage. The witness (whom the plot centers on) could not act his way into a community theater production of Grease which makes for hilarious interactions between him and the rest of the cast.

One last piece of good news before I crash for the night and seriously consider revising this post tomorrow: I can assure you this; the line "I'm tired of these MOTHA FUCKIN' snakes on this MOTHA FUCKIN' plane," is on the list.

And cries of joy rang out when it was uttered.

- Scott

P.S. One note, it's just slightly more vicious than I'd like. A few completely unnecessary acts and deaths. So if you were going to go see it, I'd encourage you to. But if not, maybe I'd warn you off it.

A Secret Cabal.

I've often thought that a sufficiently intelligent film maker would just steal from the sheer comedic gold mines that are the Wonder Blog, Not All Who Wander Are Lost, and Rob's Space. I sometimes assumed it would be our very selves a few years down the road when we've become firmly engrained in the public consious as some of the funniest, most attractive, and therefore best people around. However the powers that be have decided that they will cull their rancid harvest from the seeds of comedic genius that grow in our young, fertile ruminations. Specifically this abomination:

I'll spare you if you don't want to watch it.

Synopsis: Robin Williams plays a fake news anchor (basically Jon Stewart) who runs for president as a ratings stunt... and wins.

Now if this seems a mite familiar take a gander at this post from October 2004 over on Tim's blog. Here it is edited to the relevant points:

10.21.2004

Celebration station

Some quick props must be thrown out tonight.

[...]

Props to Jon Stewart for yelling at the stupid people who host Crossfire. If you haven't seen the video or read the transcript yet, I highly recommend it. It's hilarious and he makes some excellent points.

[...]

3 Comments:

Scotty 2 Hotty said...

Damn, I meant to make my next post on Jon Stewart and his solid performance on Crossfire. Oh well, at least it's out there. He was right on through and through. Everytime Jon makes a serious speech he's always insightful, clever, and most importantly honest. We should start electing comedians to public office. Just not Robin Williams, I don't want an improvised 5 1/2 hour State of the Union delivered by a guy in a tuxedo and converse all stars. Robin's ok in small doses. Or when he's doing standup. Other than that...yeah.* - Scott

1:11 PM

Timmy Tapeworm said...

[...]

Scott - I just imagined that improvised State of the Union. After regaining consciousness, I'd have to agree that I would not want to see that ever.* Seeing him on Inside the Actor's Studio is bad enough. And as far as comedians being elected go...I'm voting for a reteaming of Fey/Fallon for President in 2008. And you better believe Tina Fey is going for President. Rroww...

3:52 PM

The message is clear; Hollywood is stealing from us. And we demand a cut (even if it's an abomination like this one.)

- Scott

*Emphasis added.

Confessions of a Terrorist

I was recently driving (well, riding) to a Reel Big Fish concert in St. Louis when our meandering SUV passed a billboard that caught everyone's attention: Confessions of a Terrorist, the sign cryptically stated along with a picture of a stereotypical Arab man, dark eyes peering from beneath his be-kaffiyeh'd head. At the bottom there was a phone number. That was it.

And it. was. hilarious. Not in and of itself. No, not really. But when I started thinking about what kind of things you might hear if you called the number, I nearly wet myself. With your indulgence, I flesh out my one-off gag below:

A pre-recorded stock introduction picks up on the second ring and begins speaking.

A Very Serious, Thick Arabic Accent: Hello, infidel. You have reached the Confessions of a Terrorist audioblog! Stand by for today's confession.

The same voice, though using a much more frivolous tone (bordering on effeminate) then says:

Wednesday, August 2nd.
O.K. Today I was so going to go work out, but Allah be praised, a MacGyver Marathon came on and I spent all day just eating Häagen-Dazs (I'm so bad!) and wishing I could do that stuff. With the ball point pen... suddenly a gun!

*BEEP*

Friday, August 4th.
Todays' is a secret from everyone but my family. Or at least, it has been ever since that acursed day, November 11th, 1992 when the lie told by the animators of the corrupt Western media (may their hands be chopped off) forever linked my name to a lowly, if adorable, monkey! He and his tiny carboosh can go to hell! Damn you Aladdin! Damn you Disney! My name is Abu! And I'm sick of hiding it. It was that day I put a jihad on Disney! I say to them, a shoe is on your head! ...That doesn't translate very well. But it's bad. Trust me.

*BEEP*

Monday, August 7th.
(Poor Dr. Nick impression, laced with heavy Arabic accenting) "hhhHi everybohdy!" Didn't I sound just like him? Today I have a good confession, lots of times when I'm shooting at the planes of the Great Satan, I'm really thinking "This desert air does no favors for my skin." It's horrible, but that's where my head is. Sometimes I think, are they really that much of a "Great" Satan? Sure they're pretty bad, but sometimes I feel like there's a better Satan I could be campaigning against. Anyway, like I was saying, I moisturize like like the Dickens, believe me people talk about all the lotion I go through, but still I crack! It's horrible.

Monday Bonus Confession!!! In my cell we like to call each other "peeps". Like "Hey I need my peeps to help me move this damned huge crate of Sixteen Candles DVD's." It's touches like that that really bring a jihad together.

And... scene.

- Scott

Quick Post

Sorry to be so flighty with the posts lately. Things in the wide world of Scott have been a bit hectic recently. In addition, my brother's computer overheated and will no longer tolerate his large-and-in-charge video card. So I had to give him mine to quell his whining about not being able to play Counterstrike. I recommend everyone experience an online Counterstrike game once in their lives so you can fully understand how awful fetal alcohol syndrome is and what kinds of "adults" it produces.

Anyway I realize that I'm leaving a void in your lives. Nessa can't live without my pithy and well written "Crush o' the Week" or scathing, merciless, and cleverly named "Anti-crush of the Week". Both of which are returning within the month (probably this week actually.) And that's just one example. Several of you are no doubt yearning for a sidebar update. Yearn no more fair readers! I've a truckload of links, praise worthy individuals and villians (for the bottom five) to dump on you. I'm also spending time writing and editing a post I like to call "The Greatest Story Ever Told" it involves theft... from a zoo. I'll not say more here.

But in the mean time I think you could all use a little Scott fix. So I'll provide it:

1. This song. (Direct MP3 link.) It's the rock cover of the Katamari Damacy theme song. And it is the best thing for your ears since the Q-tip. I've said it before, and I'm sure I'll say it again, but a Japanese man singing "NA-na-na-nah-na-na-na-nah Katamari Damashiiii" to a backdrop of wild J-Pop just... completes me. How it relates to the Scott Fix: the sheer, madcap energy.
   
2. Rob and Elliot. (Link to Scott-esque panel.) The character Rob is occasionally says/does something very much in line with my general demeanor. In the below example it's almost exactly the kind of thing I sometimes say that makes Jake so frusterated. (Well that, and when I make intentional errors like saying "para-diggem" and statements like "Picasso? That chump peaked with Starry Night.") Also we're both good lookin' blonde men.
   

And there you have it. Some Scotty-goodness for your otherwise bleak Monday. You're welcome.

- Scott

What's in a name?

Hey kids, I was a posting dynamo Thursday. If you'd rather believe I've was posting like that all week, feel free. Piece-meal it out in your head so it works out to one a day. Maybe even read them that way. I'll just go ahead and apologize in advance to Rowela.

Anyway sorry about not posting for so long, I've been greatly distracted, which is partially explained below, but what really threw me off was the hunt for a laptop. I needed one, and so went off on an epic quest to procure the perfect lappy. I finally found it in an HP. (The HP dv8327us if you're curious.) I researched it, price compared it, and fell deeply in love with it.

I brought my new beautiful bundle of joy home with me and christened it with a name: Laika*. It turned out to be an ill omen, for like it's namesake the laptop soared briefly... then promptly and unexpectedly experienced catastrophic death. So I did what any lazy HP customer would do: called India. As it turns out you can pretty much just dial any Indian phone number, a friendly technician will answer and give you a false name. It'd be more fun if we got to make up names for them, but that's neither here nor there.

So talking to my new friend Hadji, no doubt sporting a fine Nehru jacket as we chatted about my dilemma, I was guided through the ardous process of testing every mundane thing that might have caused my problem (no drives useable except a small portion of the C:\ drive). I even took the bastard apart, saw that my drives were present, reseated them, and reinstalled Windows. Nada. Best of all Hadji had taken his leave faster than you could say "sim sim salabim" and I was left to my own devices.

Fortunately I knew what to do. When I reinstalled Windows I had the opportunity to rechristen the laptop Sputnik**. And from there on out it worked perfectly. Sort of. I actually put my Computer (Super) Science degree to use and fixed the problem myself in about five mintues. But I think it was because I had given it a name that couldn't fail. As a bonus it also scares Americans in the 1950's.

A final P.S. to this story is that the next day (as per my arrangement with the young Sultan of Bangalore) HP Tech Support called me back to ask if any of their solutions worked and I got to explain to them how to fix it. Apparently it had been a recurring problem. Fixed. By me. We're currently in talks to put me in a commercial.

- Scott

* Because it's going into new computing territory.
** Because it's the first satellite of my mother station (desktop computer).