"Save the Fight for the Komodo"

The other night, I happened upon a film on cable so extraordinary, so revelatory, I can't in good conscience keep it to myself. I MUST share it with the world.

Ready? Are you in your Netflix queue? Get ready to type this:

"Curse of the Komodo."

Yeah, you read right.

Featuring some of the worst FX ever committed to celluloid, unspeakably awkward editing, and largely endowed porn stars in tank tops trying to act the LIVING SHIT out of it all. In a word: MAGIC.

Behold the awesome power of the komodo!


Know what he's after?

These:


Fingers crossed I can find it for less than 3 bucks on eBay! Though even I refuse to get into a bidding war with a 14-year-old pimply teen from Arkansas for the glory of having it in my paws. Because, as the hero of "Curse" sagely advises: "Save the fight for the komodo."

American Appalling

While I was making a lunch -- aka Red Vines -- run today, I passed an American Apparel store that had two mannequins in a pose that could only be described as "retail-window doggie." It was THAT BAD.

Almost as bad as the stock, which featured, among other pieces of fabric not worthy of the label "clothing," this demure, chaste, I dare say subtle, offering:


Note: This warrants a trip to the proctologist after wear, as things tend to get, er, sucked into the abyss.

I especially am partial to the "action" shots found on the company's site, highlighting the item's broad functionality. Par example:

They're perfect when you're too drunk to make it to the bathroom!

Also:


Ideal for giving you that self-esteem boost when your friend's suffering from crippling scoliosis!

All that and more for the low low price of 26 bucks! A small price to pay for the worth we call Self.

Masterpiece Theatre: Honky Tonk Badonkadonk

After taking a much-needed mental-health hiatus (aka, lounging around in my PJs with an open jar of peanut butter and a spoon), I need to break my silence the only way I know how: with a country-music video. So I am introducing everyone to the wonder, the glory, the dance-hall genius that is Trace Adkins's Honky Tonk Badonkadonk:


First off: The unaltered GarageBand dance loop layered underneath the down-home lyrics is, in a word, miraculous.

I am also weak at the knees for Mr. Trace's painfully awkward, he-should-be-embarrassed dance "moves."

BLESS!

I also likey what transpires at the 3:04 mark, when it morphs into a disco-infused roller-rink slow jam.

KLASSY!

And the lyrics! Dear Lord, THE LYRICS!

Now Honey, you can't blame her
For what her mama gave her
It ain't right to hate her
For workin' that money-maker
Band shuts down at two
But we're hangin' out till three
We hate to see her go
But love to watch her leave
With that honky tonk badonkadonk
Keepin' perfect rhythm
Make ya wanna swing along
Got it goin' on
Like Donkey Kong
And whoo-wee
Shut my mouth, slap your grandma
There outta be a law
Get the Sheriff on the phone
Lord have mercy, how's she even get them britches on
With that honky tonk badonkadonk
(Ooh, that's what I'm talkin' bout right there, honey)

I feel fuzzy inside. (And outside. But that could be my allergies.) Hell, this is just the feel-good song of my lifetime. What a time we live in!

Frida of Expression

My current mood can be summarized thusly:


Oh hells yes!