I’m trying to watch this otherwise wonderful documentary on the cosmos but every time they cut to this one Astronomer Philip, he starts giving his Hollywood scripted doomsday scenarios about an asteroid hitting Earth, or the Sun exploding like a Supernova… Christ Almighty Philip! Can I just learn about space without all the Hollywood shtick?
And of course they’ve got CGI special effects to illustrate his wild scenarios in full detail – because learning about the Universe isn’t fascinating enough without footage of NYC getting blown the fuck up by an angry Quasar. In fact, if they took out all the scenes of recognizable landmarks being vaporized, the documentary would be nothing but intro credits and one hour of Astro-Philip talking to himself in the dark. Now that the shuttle program is grounded, I’m sure he just sits around mission control all day, calculating how far a Pulsar could flip a school bus or something.
I can assume his bosses in Houston won’t let him on the space station either. He’s a little too buggy-eyed to be trusted up there – I’m sure he’d try snorting Adderall off of the control panel and end up steering it towards the Sun. That’s probably why he’s on the Discovery channel instead of in orbit; it keeps him occupied when he’s not scraping the rust off of old shuttle parts.
Cycling enthusiasts are the Dane Cook of the sports world. You don’t see wrestlers walking around town with their mouth guard in and ear protectors on, so why do you see these turkeys geared up like this if it’s not race day? It’s like if every time Paul Simon went grocery shopping he picked up parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme just so he could drop a hint to the cashier about who he was.
Before you bike to the corner store to get that loaf of bread, don’t forget to completely shave your arms and legs, tape your scrotum to your leg, strap on your aerodynamic custom fit helmet, fingerless gloves, SPF 50 spandex racing shirt, vacuum-sealed shorts, aerodynamic sunglasses, clickity-clack cycling shoes, galaxy-sized ego, and Nike heart rate monitor armband …just calm down there, Lance.
Every hipster bartender in San Francisco can take turns tweezing the hairs from my undercarriage. Every week there’s some new speakeasy-style cocktail bar popping up in the city, and sure shootin’ there is some smug suspender-clad dippity-doo with a waxed mustache trying show off his God-like abilities with a julep strainer. Calm down there buddy, no need for the pomp – your job is to combine liquids that eventually get filtered through some college student’s tired kidneys and end up in a puddle in the bathroom stall.
“Hey barkeep, let’s see some of those fancy mop tricks!”
The thing that really chaps my ass is the part where bartenders slam the shakers together as if to say: “HEY EVERYBODY WATCH ME I’M ABOUT TO DO THAT THING I DO WITH THE ICE NOW!” Earth to bartender, you are the only person in the solar system who thinks shaking ice looks cool – what you don’t see is your cheeks jiggling around like you’re trying to land a plane with potatoes for wheels. I liken it to a cashier doing a spin move every time the register opens. That shit ain’t cool, knock it off!
You know, sometimes people just want a simple cocktail with some well liquor and a lime wedge – they don’t need all this mad scientist, cirque du soleil-swinging-from-the-ceiling-fan balderdash just to combine the ingredients into a glass. Just a thought.