The song “Nothin’ On You” by upstart rapper B.O.B. is the song of the summer.  It plays on the radio every 12-15 minutes.  It’s stupidly catchy.  It gets stuck in your head like only summer jams can do – to the point where you start looking for an ice pick to assist in removing it.

Honestly, I say these words with love.  Making a song this catchy can’t be easy.  So kudos to you, Mr. O.B.

But there is one glaring, hate-worthy part of this song that must be discussed.  By now, I’m sure he is rolling around in dollar bills and couldn’t care less.  Lest I continue.

The song, about a girl he loves (edgy), showers said female friend with a laundry list of exaggerated compliments.  The goal, it appears, is to convince said girl that she stands alone in the unspoken competition against her own sex.  More clearly, B.O.B. truly feels that every other girl has “nothin’” on this particular girl.  She is the bee’s knees, from what we can deduce.

You think about it B.O.B.

There is one line, though, that breaks the mood so definitively that one could start to second-guess his true feelings towards this girl.  The line makes about zero sense in relation to the rest of the song.  It is a doozy.

“You’re my wonder woman/call me Mr. Fantastic

Stop/Now think about it”

Well, B.O.B., I stopped.  I thought about it.  And it hurt my head.

Now maybe it’s wrong to overanalyze a rap song.  Nobody really questions the lyrics in rap.  It’s about flow, and not necessarily about logic.  But, in defense of the girl you are trying to woo, I think she deserves a rewrite.

Taken at face value, this lyric places B.O.B. and his love interest in separate planes of existence.  Wonder Woman, a D.C. comic book character, exists in a world where Mr. Fantastic, a Marvel superhero, does not exist.  They are mutually exclusive.  They are oil and water.  Actually, they are more like oil and another type of liquid that will never come in contact with oil unless universes were to collide.  They are doomed to be strangers.

I sure hope B.O.B.’s love interest doesn’t read comic books, or this site for that matter.  If so, his chances are ruined.  An otherwise smooth song collapses upon itself with the utterance of this lyric.  Calling a girl “Wonder Woman” might be a smooth move in theory.  But once the line is completed, B.O.B. might as well have said “I love you, but I’m not in love with you.”  That is about equally as smooth.       

Popularity: 1% [?]

Every once in a while, something comes along that unites the people of world to a common cause.  Thanks to the Internet, this happens far too often these days.  And the cause is usually just to waste time.

The most recent example of this is ChatRoulette.  If you have yet to experience the “game” of ChatRoulette, consider yourself lucky.  ChatRoulette is a hopeless vaccuum of assholes and dicks.

Literally.

Oh, the excitement

In this so-called “game,” players are randomly connected to a stranger by way of webcam and text chatting.  After chatting with one stranger, either player can choose to progress onward to the next stranger.  And so on.  It’s a potentially endless game, and for many a couch loaf around the world, it probably is.

The assumed goal of ChatRoulette is to have fun meeting people from around the world in a rapid-fire way.  You might be sitting in your den somewhere in Wisconsin, and have a life-changing conversation with a random dude from Budapest.  Or meet the girl of your dreams who only lives an hour down the road.  Or some shit like that.

Bollocks, I say.  Almost instantaneously after it’s debut, ChatRoulette was infected by the same terrible disease that makes the rest of the Internet such a damned cesspool: perverts.  The whole stinking lot of them.

Upon entering a game of ChatRoulette, you basically sign away your gag reflex for whatever amount of time you can bear to endure.  For every halfway-decent, mostly-clothed person you may come across during your ChatRoulette experience, you will see at least six of the following:

1. Dude jerking off

2. Dude preparing to jerk off

3. Dude who just finished jerking off

4. Dude holding a sign asking to see boobs so he can jerk off to them

5. Dude jerking someone else off

6. Dude asking you to jerk off for him

7. A completely dark room (where some dude is most likely jerking off)

ChatRoulette: Reversing evolution one click at a time

This is not a complaint so much as a white flag.  Congratulations, perverts.  You’ve ruined yet another potentially cool idea.  There is no point complaining or asking you to stop.  You never will.  You will be a pervert until the day you die alone, or are put away for child pornography.  These are the sad facts.

Is ChatRoulette worthy of hatred?  No.  I don’t hate concerts, even though some douche bag will most likely spill his beer on me or hit me in the face and confuse it with dancing.  I don’t hate parties, even though some douche bag will likely start a fight or punch a hole in the wall after losing at beer pong.  I don’t hate ChatRoulette, either.  I just hate the douche bags who spoil the fun for everybody else.

I imagine the only actual perk that comes from jerking off while on ChatRoulette is the chance you might stumble upon another douche bag pervert with his junk out.  Then, these two douche bag perverts can jerk off to each other and truly make a connection.

Maybe this was the plan behind ChatRoulette all along – giving douche bag perverts a way to meet other douche bag perverts so they can jerk off together, basking in all their shameless douchery.  Maybe the normal ChatRoulette users not interested in jerking off are the real douche bags.  Just maybe.

Either way, I propose that they rename “ChatRoulette” to “JerkOffForStrangers.”  The douche bags have already won.  Let’s just call it a loss and move on to the next one.

Popularity: 2% [?]

A long time ago, a wholesome family’s idea of a good time was sending out Christmas cards with a picture of any kids, babies, or dogs in the family to every address in their address book.  This would be accompanied by a wholesome, unthreatening message such as “Happy Holidays from the entire Jefferson Family!”  They contained enough prepackaged sentiment to kill an ox.

That was bad enough.

Nowadays, these families have taken to the streets in a very literal way.  It was not enough for their friends, relatives, and coworkers to have the perfection that is the Jefferson family rubbed in their faces every holiday season.  Now, they need everyone to know about them.  How cute they are.  How perfect.  How f*cking precious they are.

So naturally, a bumper sticker was the next step.

Look! Aren't we perfect?

By this point, you had to have seen at least a thousand of these bumper sticks during your many hours a day out driving the streets.  They are hard to miss.  They reek so violently of wholesomeness that they are impossible to ignore.  Their stench seeps through your car’s air-conditioner like a noxious gas planted inside your engine.  It almost seems that their goal is to make you crash into the back of them at an intersection, just so they can get out and show you how kind and understanding they can be in a wake of a car accident.  Only then will they be fulfilled in their life’s mission to be more perfect than the next perfect family.

Stop me if this is sounding negative.  I just hate these bumper stickers.  And if you are a consistent visitor to this site, you likely hate them as well.  To the less-than-perfect population, they are just so damn hateable.  They are like a middle finger to the drivers and passengers on the road that do not have a spouse who loves them, good-looking kids, and a dog or cat that doesn’t shit on the carpet every day.  You know – the rest of us.

I’ve never been a fan of bumper stickers in general.  But these take the cake.  Then they decorate that cake with a perfect ribbon of the very sweetest frosting, and smother its exterior with Funfetti.  The people who don these bumper stickers wouldn’t eat a cake that was any less perfect.

Popularity: 1% [?]

Not so fast, Furbys.  You can’t slip into obscurity just yet.  You can’t get away that easily.

Before you completely disappear from the collective consciousness of the world, I have chosen to call you into the spotlight for a well-deserved tongue lashing.  You are the most awful, terrifying toy of all time.  You have made worse the lives of millions. Because of this, it is only fair that you are subjected to one last stream of insults before the memory of you is buried away with the likes of Mighty Max and Creepy Crawlers.

Let the Nightmares Begin

I never personally owned a Furby.  For one thing, I had nice parents that loved me.  Secondly, I never had the desire to own a Furby.  I could barely stand five minutes around one while at a friend’s house.  The idea of actually owning one is quite frightening, to be honest.  Always being there.  Talking to me.  Blinking at me.

The fact that Furbys merely exist is not all that bad.  It was their popularity that took things over the line.  For a couple years there, Furbys invaded households like an unstoppable virus.  Every kid had one, two, or seven of these damned machines.  It was hard to go anywhere without hearing the tiny movements of their plastic beaks and eyelids.

And that voice.

The voice of a Furby sounded like a cross between animals being stepped on and the demonic ramblings of a possessed child.  When they spoke, sometimes at random and unprovoked, it wasn’t entertaining so much as unsettling.  Similar to when a Chucky doll would speak; whenever I heard a Furby speak, I had this terrible feeling that my life was in danger.

If money and logistics weren’t an issue, I would round up every Furby doll that still existed and set them ablaze on live TV.  They would still be getting off easy.  Like many a tsunami and terrorist attack, no good actually came from Furbys.  The Furby population – along with their inventor, and anybody else involved in their production – deserves to meet a slow, torturous end.

Do you get the message, Furbys?  Or do I have to put it in Furbish for you?

Popularity: 1% [?]

I don’t like to throw the word “debacle” around.  I don’t like what it means.  I don’t like how it’s spelled.  It’s just not a typical word in my conversations.

But man, is this talk show debacle ridiculous.

In the wake of recent decisions at NBC, Conan O’Brien and Jay Leno are in the middle of the biggest clusterf*ck in television history.  Type “clusterf*ck” into Google, and the first results are Conan O’Brien and Jay Leno.

Basically, after seven months of hosting The Tonight Show, Conan O’Brien is being usurped by the show’s previous host, Mr. Leno.  It’s a decision based on politics, money, and everything else that is terrible about the entertainment industry.  And it’s making the front page of every newspaper this side of the Anchorage Press.

"It's HIS fault!"

The situation has gotten so ugly, people in Haiti are sending relief money.  Since the network’s decision, Leno and O’Brien have trash-talked their way through recent monologues and interviews, making this very ugly situation very public.  Viewers have been forced to decide whether to take sides, watch both shows helplessly, or stop watching altogether.  It’s a train wreck in progress.  And it’s impossible to look away.

In the next few weeks, O’Brien will leave The Tonight Show for pastures whose greenness has yet to be determined.  Jay Leno will reclaim his gig at The Tonight Show, after his “Jay Leno Show” bombed at 10 ‘o clock.  For the first time in history, the audience may actually boo the host of The Tonight Show.

Watching Jay Leno’s first night back at The Tonight Show will be like Tiger Woods’ first day back at The Masters.  Ratings will be huge.  But man, will those ratings be dirty.  The term “blood ratings” comes to mind.

As for Conan, his fan base may actually be larger than ever.  Wherever he goes, he will be paid handsomely and watched by many.  But there will always be this underlying feeling that he got screwed.  It’s not often that such a debacle occurs.  And being at the losing end of this debacle, O’Brien deserves to be pretty angry for a long time to come.

Oh, and don’t really try that “clusterf*ck” search in Google.  You’ll be disappointed.

Popularity: 1% [?]

Save for one thing, 2009 might have been the lamest year of all time.

That one thing is Avatar, and it’s sweet jungle alien love.  Sweet, sweet alien love.

But besides that, how do we remember 2009?  The people who died?  The celebrity scandals?  The political…blah?

In more ways than one, 2009 should be considered a step backwards.  The major stories that we enter 2010 with are disappointments, tragedies, and unmet expectations.  Susan Boyle had the top selling album of the year.  Transformers 2 was the top grossing movie of the year.

Yes, really.

Mediocre taste has become somewhat of a pandemic, drawing precious money and attention away from the worthwhile.  Ironically, this is only the second lamest pandemic that struck in 2009.  Number one, of course, is the swine flu.

Rest in peace, MJ. You haven't missed much.

Barack Obama, who ended 2008 as the barer of hope, is now the most unexciting president since James K. Polk.  The unintentional rhyme of that sentence might actually be more interesting than Barack Obama’s presidency.

Twilight fever was never declared a pandemic.  In reality, though, it may have ended more lives than the swine flu.  New Moon bested The Dark Knight for the biggest opening weekend in box office history.  Vampires are all the rage when – really – vampires are about as cool as a stake to the eyes.

2009 will also be remembered for Michael Jackson and Tiger Woods, but for all the wrong reasons.  I imagine a good year is when the best performer releases a masterpiece, or when the best athlete destroys his competition.  A bad year, then, is when the immortal ones turn out to be just as f*cked as the rest of us.

2009 was that year.

2009 in a nutshell. Er...cardboard box.

It must be said, though, that every dark cloud has a silver lining.  As to what exactly 2009’s silver lining is – I couldn’t tell you.  Avatar?  Funnel Cake Sticks at Burger King?  Health care reform?  It’s anyone’s guess.

All I know is that 2009 left me with a bad taste in my mouth.  And it’s going to take more than Funnel Cake Sticks to fix that.

Popularity: 1% [?]