What the kids of today don’t realize is that automobiles weren’t always the microcosms of leather-interior luxury with DVD players, X-Boxes, satellite navigation, temperature control, and iPod docking stations.  Far from it.  When I was a kid, cars were hot, stuffy, bouncy, and smelled of exhaust.  The sun beat through the untinted windows mercilessly causing car sickness AND heat stroke.  It then makes since that my generation has a lot … and I mean a lot … of car stories that involve puking.

Here is one such story … [Read Column]

So much of the film industry is based off of handsome people.  The cleft chin, dimples, strong jaw, and abs … or big boobs, big boobs, and even more big boobs.  Exhibit A: Robert Pattinson.  Exhibit DD: Anna Nicole Smith.  But I tell you, faithful readers, that it is more often than not the Ugly People that make Hollywood’s most memorable films sparkle.  It is the character actor or quite simply the troglodyte from the mail room added as a last minute extra that adds realism, depth, and visceral resonance.

So here then is next edition of Who the Hell is This Guy? [Read Column]

For those people not in fraternities, there is a short list of things that they’ve gathered from the myth surrounding the Greek community – such as Bacchanalian orgies in the basement (false), underground tunnel systems throughout the Oklahoma State campus (true), secret handshakes (false), or hidden networks of rich industrialists all striving for world domination (true).  And perhaps the most notorious of all is the dreaded Black Ball.  Tradition has held that in secret societies, membership was decided upon a secret vote and voting against a candidate meant slipping a black ball into the voting cannister.

Ooh, scary.

Well, in truth, this was not how my fraternity (FIJI) decided who its new members were – we would just play Pledge Invaders with frozen water balloons until the losers quit (or were knocked unconscious).  Still as long as non-brothers still thought that the Black Ball was the primary means of determining membership, then why wouldn’t my pal, Glock, and I have some fun with it.

Enter Wes Reed.

[Read Column]

Mel Gibson is in the news again.

Do I really need to say more than that?  You and I both know full well he’s nucking futs.  The days of Melly showing up as the world’s most handsome man … or saving 35 drowning kangaroos from a billabong in Yungaburra … whatever, those days are over.

He’s a drink away from a TMZ orgasm at any moment.  He’s a buttery nipple away from punching out his parole officer and another mug shot in a Banana Republic reject shirt.  He is one 30-pack away from having a hooker orgy in the Le Brea tar pits.  And isn’t that too bad?  Because I liked Bird on a Wire.  I liked Air America.  I liked Tequila Sunrise.  Ok, so none of that is true.

Yet I wonder sometimes if Mad Mel ever sits back in between his bouts of fall-down drunkedness and wonders to himself …

How did I become bat shit crazy?

[Read Column]

We suck. That’s right. Human beings suck. And I’d go so far as to say not only do we suck … but we suck hard. Of course, some of us suck more than others as the constituents of the esteemed state of Arizona have proven, but the truth remains. We are little kids in the playpen with the leaky diapers. It doesn’t matter if it was our doo doo or not, somehow or another we’ve all ended up with poo on our fingers.

Now in case your wondering what specifically has triggered me to endorse humanity’s pervasive sucktitude, I don’t need to go far to find a reason. Afterall, this is the same species that produced Andy Dick. This is the same species that created Blossom.  The very same species that assassinated/murdered the greatest of our number (and thereby least sucking) – Gandhi, MLK, JFK, Jesus Christ, Paul the Apostle, and John Lennon.  Specifically, though, I have surrendered to the incumbent suckiness of my race because of the Oil Spill. [Read Column]