Oscar Snubs!

Another year, another Oscar nominations’ day of Hollywood shaking their tan fists and pouting their plump lips over the well deserving films that were snubbed by the Academy. And this year is no different. Below are the most egregious Best Picture Oscar snubs of the year. 

Walks Like A Duck

Really Academy? You’re not going to nominate the true story of the first lisper to play professional sports? Sammy Styler Stipter was not only a champion soccer star but also swam the seven seas at six cisterns a second! And Kirstie Alley as the tugboat captain who saved her life? What a woman!

Beeper

Sure, there were grander movies this year, movies with soaring ambitions that tried to encapsulate the messiness of life on this planet, but the story of Jiff “Beeper” Butler, the last beeper salesman in Knoxville, Tennessee, told a story that resonated in a way that Frankenweenie never could. Because when cell phones win, who loses? The answer is beepers. 

Dimwit

Look, I’m not going to tell you that Dimwit was a perfect film. There was rampant xenophobia throughout, and the depiction of Floridians was simply inexcusable, but the scene where Dimwit learns the power of friendship when he’s rescued from the dump by that family of hawks? Heck, forget Best Picture of the year, how about Best Moment. Ever!

The Problem with Problems

Sally Pittler doesn’t have a job, or a boyfriend, or a prayer! But what she does have is a pet sheep who can add fractions. I wasn’t sure how I felt about the film, but I know how I felt about that sheep. Good. I felt good about that sheep. And isn’t that what the Oscars should be all about? Feeling good? Because after I saw Argo I slept for thirty days and thirty nights and that didn’t feel too good at all.

Drum Hunk

What do you get the woman who has everything? A giant drum with a hunk inside. I’m not saying it should of won Best Picture, but not even a nomination? What does the Academy have against hunks? The only hunk that was nominated was Bradley Cooper and he has smallpox! Nice idol for the kids Academy!

Jeez.

An Expert's Guide to Las Vegas

When planning a trip to Las Vegas it is important to get expert advice. Going to Las Vegas for the first time presents a host of challenges to navigate and sites to behold. As a man who has seen it all, from the poker room at the Bellagio, to the parking lot at the Bellagio, to the shuttle to the Bellagio. I am here to help you. Thus here is some practical advice for your trip to Las Vegas.

 1. Go to a Strip Club

There are two kinds of strip clubs in Las Vegas. One kind is ridiculously expensive, and the other has gonorrhea on the door handle. Go to the expensive one. Make sure to trade all the cash in your wallet for hilarious stripper money. Its colorful and fun, and really useful if the only thing you ever spend money on is lap dances. The strippers are all very friendly and have never met anyone as down to earth as you are. Most of the guys who come in there are creeps but you are not so you will become close friends with the all girls and start dating them immediately. Oh and make sure to help them out with their credit card debt. To not do so is considered uncouth.

 2. Walk down the Strip

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to slowly bake to death surrounded by throngs of sweaty tourists while walking on thousands of discarded hooker flyers? Then take a walk down the world famous Las Vegas Strip! Oh and remember, because of the world-class street design, walking 1/8^th of a mile takes 4 hours! So don’t forget to bring water!

3. The Howard Johnson near the airport cannot support human life.

There is one cook there who makes only French Fries. That is all. Do not eat these French Fries. 

4. Take a $75 dollar cab ride one mile.

Part of Vegas' charm is it's long and windy cab lines. Gamble with your friends on how long the line will last! Or if you're actually on the cab line at all! Then ask the cab driver to take you to a hotel and see what magical and fun-filled ways the driver will use to make you spend half an hour in the car. Perhaps, he's got a tale or two to tell. And listen up, because these beloved men of the road have much wisdom to impart. But don't buy the meth they offer. That's for suckers! Ask for coke.

5. Take a ride on the indoor roller coaster.

Have you ever been on a roller coaster in an amusement park? Of course you have. Well Las Vegas has one just like it but it's inside a hotel! It's just like your favorite roller coaster from Six Flags or Disney World! Except its smaller, not fun and lasts 5 seconds. But the memories of the 3 hour wait time will last a lifetime.

6.Don't get kicked out of the food court because that one guy is being a total jerk.

What's his problem anyway? 

7. Visit the Poker Room.

Ah to be a professional poker player. Who hasn't thought of ditching their go nowhere job for a fast-paced lifestyle where you're your own boss? So, to see your future life, go check out the happy well-adjusted gentlemen populating the poker rooms of Las Vegas! Watch grown men cry when they miss their straight! Marvel at the man who has grown a full beard since he first sat down to play! Delight in the intoxicating aroma of stale Cheetos and pure desperation! Gasp at the man who can eat, fold, and sweat all at once! Just don't use the bathroom. Thats a hobo only zone!

8. Dress to Impress

When visiting Las Vegas it is imperative to make it clear where you are from. Either purchase a shirt with your state on it or make one. P.S. Texans must wear cowboy hats, Floridians must wear novelty t-shirts, and everyone else must dress in neon. 

9. Play the slots

Do the stupefying rules to blackjack have you confused and befuddled? Can you not decide on which number in roulette is luckiest? Does the very thought of poker make your head hurt? Are you capable of pushing down on a lever? Then playing the slot machines is for you! All you need is a bucket of quarters, a stool, and a dream. The dream of winning more quarters so you don't have to get up again. Ever.

10. Do not write an expert’s guide to Las Vegas

Only I am allowed to do this. 

Smooth Criminal

The minute the cops approached me at the bar I knew I was toast. It was the regular Saturday night round up of underage drinkers at Stillwaters, a bar near the University of Wisconsin-Madison. Many people could get away with a quick cop interview, showing them their fake ID, and laughing in a mature fashion, but I, a 20 year old man still barely able to get into a PG-13 movie without being hassled, was not one of them. Yet I was not afraid of a night in a holding cell, for in truth I was anxious to get back to jail, where just 3 weeks beforehand I had had one of the best Sundays of my life.

I had a moped at school that was useful for driving to class on the University’s spectacularly spread out campus. It also had the added benefit of making me look completely ridiculous, as a man tooling around on his moped in 10-degree weather ought to. On the aforementioned Sunday I had offered my younger brother a ride to his dorm and he hopped on the back, giving me a look that said, “please don’t be drunk.” We took off, and as we raced down Langdon Street I heard sirens as a couple of gruff looking cops pulled us over. Apparently, it was illegal to have two people on a moped. This was not a big deal. Unfortunately a cursory check of my driver’s license revealed a slightly bigger deal. There was a warrant out for my arrest and I was placed in the squad car.

It turns out that I had forgotten to pay a ticket I had received a few months earlier for “Person Making Unreasonable Noise.” The noise in question was not so much unreasonable as it was misdirected. I had thought my roommates had locked me out of my apartment and had flown into a rage. It took the cops showing up to make me realize that I was banging, kicking, and screaming in front of someone else’s apartment.

As I was driven to jail I pondered that not paying the ticket may have been a mistake. Despite a lifetime of degenerative behavior I had thus far avoided jail, and the last thing I wanted to be doing was spending the Sunday of a big Wisconsin football game stuck in a dingy cell. I called my friends and told them that I would need to be bailed out as all my money was wrapped up in an online poker account. They said they would be down right away and actually sounded worried for my safety. Perhaps they, just as my brother did, assumed I was drunk and would perhaps find a way to make this situation far worse.

Upon entering the complex I was strip-searched. This was no big deal as I had obviously hidden my drugs in my moped and luckily no remnants were found. I was then led into the main area. Astoundingly, I was startled to see that, as opposed to the rank dungeon I expected, the jail looked brand new, like a showcase on the Price is Right. There was a large open-air common space with couches and a skylight, and artwork dotted the walls. Still, I was nervous, as I had heard stories of insane drunken derelicts rounded up on the streets of Madison, continuing their misbehavior in the prisons themselves. It didn’t help that I wasn’t exactly dressed for prison. My chinos and sweater vest made me look like Little Man Tate. Thus, I timidly stepped into the cell.

I was greeted by about 7 men, not with a yell or even a stony silence, but with a series of extremely pilot questions about my well-being. They asked if the cops were too hard on me and if the handcuffs had hurt my wrists. A man who looked like a friendly old librarian asked if the cops had caused the rip on my sleeve. It was as if, by virtue of being the kind of man who makes unreasonable noise, I had been inducted into the friendliest fraternity on earth. I took a chair and noticed that there was a large T.V. in the corner. I inquired into whether we could actually watch it, and not only could we, we had the remote and access to more channels then I had in my dorm room. We all settled into watch the football game, making small bets with each other, and laughing at a man named Dingo’s hilarious Regis Philbin impression.

Some time later a cop called my name and said that I had been bailed out. I looked at my watch and I couldn’t believe that nearly five hours had passed. I said some mournful goodbyes to my new chums and we all promised to keep in touch (by this point we had exchanged email addresses). I exited the jail to find five of my friends sitting in the visitor’s area. They had pooled their money to pay my $500 dollar bail and had clearly been waiting for quite a long time. I regaled them with tales of my new friends and the exciting football game that they had somehow missed. They did not seem much interested in how much fun I had had.  So I left them there, and leisurely strolled to my moped to collect my drugs. 

No He Can't

I was not the most natural candidate for student body president of my high school. For one thing, I had sold pot to much of the electorate, which, while not a detriment among the students, served to warn the faculty of just what an Adam Levy administration might entail. Also, I had no interest in increasing school spirit, or any kind of organizing of events. I would leave that to the toadies I was certain to gain once elected. No, I intended to win on the basis of a simple but bold message. That our school sucked, and that only someone with the courage to say that in front of all the students and faculty deserved to helm the sinking ship that was Columbia Prep.

And why did my high school suck? To me, mainly because we were situated across the street from Central Park, and were forbidden to enter it during school hours. The faculty had decided that an open park would tempt the students towards illicit activities and that it should be closed off during the day. This was idiotic for many reasons, mainly because if we wanted to smoke or whatever everyone would just walk a few blocks uptown. For us stoners though, this was a real pain in the ass.

When I announced my decision to my friends there was a general consensus that this was a terrific idea and that more importantly, it would really aggravate the teachers. I assembled a crack campaign team immediately. My best friend Mokey, mainly known for the time he accidentally scored for the opposing team in JV basketball, would join the ticket as a sort of Co-President. This would have the result of broadening our voter base and driving up turnout among people who liked Mokey but thought I was kind of a dick. My friend Brett would become our campaign manager and chief strategist. And Mokey’s ex-girlfriend Karen, who despite their break up still hung out with us for some reason, would design the posters and perform overall girl outreach.

We decided that as the insurgent campaign we would have to put together a completely new kind of strategy. One that disregarded traditional means of campaigning like being positive and talking about your ideas. Our plan was more subtle. A series of signs were created that advertised the ticket but had subtle drug references that we were certain everyone would understand. Brilliant slogans like “There are 420 reasons to elect Mokey and Adam.” We weren’t exactly sure how this would help us get votes but at least it would brand us as the pro-pot ticket and thus stigmatize our opponents as anti-fun.

And while our opponents weren’t actually anti-fun they were certainly pro-lameness. Our main adversary was pseudo-jock Robbie Crespi, a man so boring he actually advocated for more pep rallies. He was well liked though, especially among the younger girls, and he cast quite the bland yet imposing shadow on our maverick campaign.

As the election approached our pro-pot message seemed to be getting through. Mainly because the teachers had caught on and started ripping down our advertisements. I guess signs like “Mokey and Adam, Save the Trees!” were less understated then we had hoped. We decided that we needed to define our opponents as more then anti-fun, with a targeted negative advertising campaign calling them dorks. These too, were ripped down soon after going up.

Then a week before the election disaster struck, Mokey was stripped from the ticket for failing math, apparently no one who failed anything could be student body president. We doubted the motives of the school, as they clearly feared the heady breeze of progressive change that was sweeping through the student body. Yet we did not quit the race. A hesitant Brett was placed on the ticket and we regrouped for the stretch run. I settled in to write what I knew would be our last chance at victory; a rousing and revolutionary speech, to be delivered to the students and faculty on voting day. A speech that would directly excoriate Columbia Prep for it’s draconian park ban. I finished it at midnight the day of voting day. I wasn’t positive, but I was pretty sure I had crafted the perfect speech.

Twelve hours later, the gym was packed as I strode to the podium. To say I was nervous was to put it mildly, but the gravity of my message propelled me forward. The crowd was respectfully silent as I began “This school treats you all like pre-schoolers!” I bellowed. “Here we sit, next to Central Park, one of the city’s greatest resources, and we are not allowed to set foot in it! And why? Because someone may smoke a cigarette! I have news for you Columbia Prep, you may stop that one smoker, but you also stop the Frisbee thrower, the puddle skipper, and the duck watcher! You stop us from enjoying a sunny afternoon in May or a snow filled January morning. You stop us from being New Yorkers. Well, when I am President of this student body you won’t stop me!”

And on I went. I covered the myriad of abuses perpetrated on the students by the administration and how the park was indicative of a school where the rights of the individual were trampled on. 10 minutes later I stepped back to lap up polite applause, not exactly the thunderous ovation I expected, and retreated with my staff to await the results.

Needless to say, we were crushed. When we asked our dean what the totals were he said that Robbie had received more then 3/4ths of the vote, and that a number of write in candidates had made quite a showing as well. He also reminded me that student council presidents are not able to set school policy and if I had simply asked him I probably could have avoided getting so worked up. This was a thought that probably should have occurred me to sooner in hindsight.  And while I was disappointed, I was also relieved. The closer I got to the job, the more of a hassle it seemed like it was going to be. And we also realized that if we just walked down to 86^th street we could enter the park anyway. Oh well, a point had been made.

Outrage at 30,000 Feet

When one begins to walk down that rocky road on which a boy becomes a man there are certain milestones one must cross. Moments that, because of there shared collective humanity, teaches us to see ourselves in each other. Whether it’s your first kiss, your first love, or, as is recounted below, the first time getting drug tested by your probation officer.

I was twenty one years old and I was nervous, not so much for the results of the test, although that was certainly an issue, as for the idea of urinating in front of this imposing and bizarre looking creature. His name was Clark Rogers and his unkempt whiskers, bulbous baldhead, and top-heavy physique made it clear that he was some kind of Walrus. He had called my cell phone requesting one of a series of “random” drug tests that was part of my probation. I had assiduously avoided all previous tests with various invented maladies ranging from “my tummy hurts” to “Not only does my tummy hurt but I’m celebrating my younger brother’s birthday at Six Flags and we have no car or discernible means of transportation back into the city.” This did not cancel the test but succeeded in postponing it so that I could flush whatever I had taken that week out of my system. Now, as Clark lumbered into my apartment, clearly exhausted from flopping around in the ocean all day, the jig, as they say, was up. There are many times in which a random drug test is merely an inconvenience and not a reason for outright panic. The Monday morning after July 4th weekend was not one of them.

But how did I find myself in such a calamitous predicament? I had clearly deserved it, hadn’t I? No. In fact, I was the victim of a conspiracy perpetrated by American Airlines in an attempt, no doubt, to sully my good name. Six months earlier I was flying back to college after winter break, eager to resume my studies at the esteemed University of Wisconsin. At the airport bar I, along with three equally eager associates, had decided to celebrate our return with a few bottles of the LaGuardia airport’s finest chardonnay. After polishing off our beloved vino we entered the plane with a gallant flourish. Clearly the other passengers were excited at the sight of us and we saluted them with a hearty cheer. As we took off I was excited for the journey and figured it would be uncouth and insulting to our fellow passengers to not keep up my delightful demeanor. Thus I decided to switch to a more gentlemanly Jack Daniels and Coke in order to assure my fellow passengers that I was not some rowdy collegiate but a mature man of manners with a fine taste in liquor.

Alas, the stewardess did not concur. She brusquely denied my courteous request and insisted that the joy I had brought to the other passengers had not been reciprocated by the flight crew. Perturbed by her lack of appreciation for our merry group I informed her that a sternly worded letter would be registered with her superiors, and that her job itself would very likely be in peril. Needless to say she felt otherwise and I was left drink-less, forlorn, and forced to make that dreary slog towards sobriety. A beaten man, sleep shortly overtook me.

Several hours later I was rudely shaken back into consciousness by the burly arm of some miscreant with a badge. It seems that we had landed and I was being escorted off the plane by the authorities involved in the situation. Clearly someone had been informed of the stewardess’s insolence and I was certain that some sort of financial reward awaited me. Appallingly, this was not the case. In fact, I was being charged with disturbing a flight crew and no heed was paid to my cries of injustice. I will spare you the grisly legal debacle that followed but the end result was the aforementioned sweaty mass Clark Rogers urging me to urinate into a receptacle. The end for yours truly was clearly nigh.

Yet fate smiled upon your put-upon protagonist on that Monday morn. Owing to the sub-par quality of the good times I had ingested over the weekend my test was clear. I danced a happy dance and proudly asked the be-tusked behemoth to leave my abode. He scowled at me and somehow smushed his physique through my front door. While he would surely look to trap me again, today he had been bested. I had faced the rotund rapscallion head on and my innocence had been declared.  And I had also learned a lesson that every young gentleman must understand. Never answer a phone call from your PO excuse-less.

Sir Boots of Bleecker St.

It was a gorgeous summer night in the West Village. The air was filled with the girlish giggles of black transsexuals and what appeared to be the muffled grunting of a young rent boy and his first john. As I skipped over overflowing garbage cans and used condoms I thought merrily how happy I was to live in this glorious city. It was then that I encountered a shining star of a man that I would come to know as Boots. Boots was a hearty hobo with a grin as wide as the Nile and a smell that could kill a kitten. He knew me from the time I fell down a sewer pipe near the local bodega, Boots’ personal Xanadu. I was glad to see him, as he had come to be my personal Jeeves, always ready to give directions or medical advice. I hailed him

“Boots! My good man! How goes it sir? It’s a lovely night for a stroll is it not?”

He responded in the affirmative and gave me a handshake that was as crusty as an old prospector. He asked to walk with me and I obliged, happy to share a few tales with this crab apple cheeked miscreant. We walked by all the uniquely village landmarks; the Tasti D-Light, the Barnes and Noble, and the local fetish emporium. It was then that we encountered trouble. A local group of trangendered rapscallions accosted Boots and I, demanding I account for the sartorial mishap that was my footwear.

“Look at this bitch ass breeder, this nigga buys his shoes at the Home Depot!” The newly minted male quipped.

I was appalled, not at the comment itself, because I had actually stolen these shoes from a Polish immigrant, but because he seemed to think I was ripe for parody. Boots himself was taken aback, less so at the egregious effrontery that was taking place and more because he was suffering from the DTs and was stumbling back and forth like a crippled Irishman. I addressed my sex switched interloper with candor.

“Stay back” I demanded. “Or I shall blow my rape whistle without discretion”

This seemed to startle the mob, and sensing victory I began to make my way through this impromptu imbroglio. It was then that I was struck in the back of the head with what appeared to be a spray painted Manolo Blahnik. I cried out in pain as my rape whistle was torn from my neck and my hair was tussled with vigor. I knew that I merely had seconds to live. And yet, my life was not to end on this excrement smeared side street, as at this very moment Boots barreled through the crowd of cross dressers and snapped the leaders pink umbrella into 2 pieces. The leaders perfectly put together ensemble was decimated by this impulsive act of impudence. He stared at Boots for a second, and saw in his eyes the same thing I saw. The dull incomprehension of a man who could not be reasoned with, who stood for his street, when he wasn’t sleeping in its gutter. The leader harrumphed, but led his group back down towards the pier where they would no doubt dream of bygone days and do crystal meth until their brains leaked out of their ears.

I turned to Boots and showered him with praise. He was a true patriot, a statesman, and a hero to the helpless. He looked at me with a gleam in his eye, and a blush on his cheek, and asked if he could borrow 5 dollars. I told him I would give him something better. I took out a piece of paper. “Boots” I said, “what I’m gonna write on this paper is worth a whole lot more than 5 measly dollars.” I shook his hand and skipped down the streets towards my abode as I heard Boots yell out as he read my note. “You are special??!!!!” he bellowed.

Indeed he be.

Merry Misanthropy

People always ask me, Blog, your writing is all sunshine and butterflies. Why not take at least one post to talk about things that you dislike, as your jolly demeanor is really getting on my nerves. Well, here is a list of things that piss me off:

People who hate Paris Hilton – Oh do you hate her as well? Wow, you certainly have taken a bold position. Do you also hate famine and poverty? People who talk about how much they hate Paris Hilton are really just saying I take the time to think about her life and actions. In other words you are an empty headed yenta with a penchant for US Magazine. If people stopped thinking about her she would disappear, like the bogeyman or “God.” You know who you should spend your time hating? Yourself

People who do Borat impressions – "Yeshemesh!" Hahahahah. Oh my! That was the height of witticism! How about trotting out “Don’t have a cow man!” or “I’m Rick James Bitch.” Instead of doing Borat, why not try being yourself and saying “Have you seen the most recent popular movie? Because I have memorized an oft repeated line from said movie and here it is.” It’s not funny but at least you will be accurate. And the worst is when people are just talking about Borat, like “hey that part in the R.V. was pretty clever” and some lummox for no reason will simply pop out with “niiiice.” I mean when someone is talking about math do you just start yelling out numbers? God I hate you.

The growing disillusionment with George W. Bush – Well I’m glad he’s finally become unpopular. All it took was the greatest intelligence blunder in the history of America, the greatest terrorist attack on American soil ever, and 2 incredibly fucked up wars. And now people are starting to be like “hmmm, maybe voting for him twice was not the best decision.” Oh do you think so doctor? Although I must say I’m finally glad you guys are on board. It’s like you idiots kept getting in the car with the same drunken driver, because he’s a good guy who makes you giggle. Well I hope the next time he makes you giggle your car skids into a ditch.

Dane Cook – “Hi, my name is Dane Cook and I overcompensate for my awful jokes and lame impressions by doing an atrocious radio guy voice that Ryan Secreast would find hacky. Have you seen my loose limbed physical shenanigans?! Boy oh boy I really am quite the character!” If you would like to meet a fan of Dane Cook simply walk down the street with an exaggerated walk and your hair gelled up. The first 13 year old boy to think that’s hysterical is a Dane Cook fan.

Deal or No Deal – Just when I think the American public can’t possibly become any stupider along comes this bloody fart of a game show. I mean they’ve actually managed to make Wheel of Fortune seem like a Mensa examination. And yet people still manage to fuck it up! The show will literally be like “LaSheneequa, you can either have $120,000 dollars for being a lucky worthless porpoise or you can take a 6-1 shot at a suitcase with a higher number. And every fucking time they take the chance and lose. Everyone who has ever wanted to be on a game show should get ass cancer. Oh and Howie Mandel looks like a mutant who escaped from the sewer.

Mind of Mencia – If you have seen a white guy do an impression of a Mexican gang member by using the word “Esse” you have seen something funnier than Mind of Mencia. Carlos Mencia makes Tommy Chong look like Martin Luther Mexican. Are you interested in tired stereotypes, “white people be walking down the street like THIS” humor and poop jokes? Well, so is Carlos Mencia. His show manages to somehow be too sophisticated for 3^rd graders while at the same time too dumb for a goat.