March 2002 Archives

Honestly, you couldn't pay me to sit through this movie. Instead of jiggling her hooters in front of a giant neon Pepsi sign, Brittany Spears is shaking her self worth on the big screen. Why pay for the cow when she exposes herself for free? Besides, we all know that pop music movies reached perfection with Disorderlies, and, despite the title, Bone Thugs and Harmony have nothing to do with the musical score.

The release of Crossroads does, however, allow me to discuss a very important theory. Brittany Spears is not human. I assure you, the evidence is overwhelming and can no longer be ignored.

1) Alien eyes. If you take a good look at a close up of Brittany's eyes (yes, she has eyes), you will see that they are spaced very far apart. When superimposed against the cover of that Communion book, the theory begins to take shape.

2) The Magical Mystery Boobs. If you were going to send an alien to take over a planet, wouldn't you do it with a saucy temptress? Spears is a pop star with boobies that magically switch from an "A" to a "C." In her videos, she's packing heat, but in the previews for Crossroads, there is a profile shot of Brittany in a bikini where she is melonless.

3) The word on the street. I'm not the only one who knows that something just isn't right with Brittany. While shopping at Target one day, I passed a young girl who was being scolded by her mother. "I don't want to hear you call Brittany Spears a whale penis ever again!" shouted her mother. I salute that young girl for her bravery in questioning the status quo.

Whether Spears is a whale penis or an alien, I will continue to fight for the truth. On a scale of one to Club 11, Crossroads gets a 2 (one for each of it's stars).

Bone bone bone bone bone, bone bone.

Dear Intelli-head,

Lilac, West Los Angeles, CA

Dear Lilac,

No, fair lass, your dreams of sugar in no way make you dull. They do, however, leave you prone to brain damage.

Sugar is the food that eats you. Our dentists warn of the damage sugar's acidic war with saliva can inflict upon our teeth, but do psychologists warn of sugar's assaults upon our Intelli? Just like a good dentist, a good psychologist can give you tips on how to keep your brain clean and healthy. I'll pass on some tips that have helped me to keep my Intelli so fresh and so clean.

TIP 1: Wash your brain. What better way to get rid of thoughts that consume you (not to mention that ever-nasty sugar) than to have your Intelli cleansed? You'll need help with the washing. I'd suggest any of the following groups for they seem to be experts: The Church of Scientology, the FBI, or the creators of the television show Friends.

TIP 2: Let the PAX Television Network do your thinking for you.

TIP 3: Think of minty things before you go to sleep. Unless you're British, you've been brushing your teeth daily for years. As Colgate, Crest, and AIM have taught us, mint and mint flavoring are the arch enemies of sugar. Thoughts of mint therefore are the enemies of thoughts of sugar. Does it not make logical sense? Intelli-reasoning is rock solid.

Hope that helps. If it doesn't, consult the Masonic pyramid. I hear it's got a ton of Intelli as well.

This week, fair reader, I shall attack an issue close to my heart. But in place of my normal rant, I will present to you a monologue similar in style to that which Camus employed in The Fall.

"I say, you there! Yes you, sir. Your dogged tennis shoes, frayed denim trousers, and mussed hair signal to me that you're but a step above homeless. Are you in need of financial assistance? A bite of food? Speak up, lad, I can't hear you. You write for Pork Pony? You're on your way to work? They don't fire you for wearing this to the office?

"Oh, child! How naive you are. Come, son, follow me and I shall impart you with a knowledge that will transform you from the boyish amateur scribe you are into a well-dressed, well-organized professional MAN of letters.

"Ah, the stench of processed meat. Don't slip on the vegetable oil Julio has spilt upon this red tile floor. Where are we? Oh, poor boy, we're in MacDonalds, the bastion of America's sickest eating habits, the trough from which all of these stinky farm animals our country calls citizens eat. Does it not disgust you? I certainly shall require a touch of the post-visit Pepto. Cover your nose and look around you, son. Although we are in one of the basest dens of swine around, there is something to be said for the restaurant's employees. They may be a bit dull - mentally, that is - but they possess a professional and clean appearance that elevates them above the common slobs who are their patrons.

"Fresh air. I can breath again. You want to know where I'm taking you next? It's just over here, across the street, next to that man with the shopping cart. Oh, he does smell acrid. Ack! Don't get too close! It's that money-grubbing, filthy creature Dave Barry. He was once a well-respected writer (a hack columnist, in my opinion),loved by many. But the way he dressed had much to be desired. Sloppy, unkempt, half-shaven. No one can take him seriously. You see him now, here, destitute. Here's a dollar, Barry. Goodwill has some decent suits and it's half-price day.

"Come inside, don't trip on those novels Barry's peddling. This, dear boy, is where a professional finds his attire - a quality men's clothing store. Look around at the suits. Blue and Black. A pinstripe here and there. Classy. Respected by one and all. I suggest you bring the staff of Pork Pony here. The lot of you could browse the store, be measured, and choose a common uniform. Think about it. Uniform. Unity. No more scraggly T-shirts and torn jeans. All will arrive at work sparkling like the morning dew on grass. Patrons and visitors will gasp in awe at the transformation. Who knows, maybe you'll even get some intelligent people to read your work.

"Go! Fly away, lad and speak the words of Stuart Gimble to your colleagues. Here's one of my cravats. Show them this and they'll buy into the idea for certain."

I came up with the concept for Time Canyon during a period in which ridiculous forms of time travel fascinated me. It was pretty hard to write within the constraints I set up for the Canyon and I don't consider this one of my best Pork Pony stories, but it's still somewhat entertaining. My friends liked it, so I'm putting it up. (CL)

I'm sure you'll all be sad to hear that your favorite writer (that is, of course, me) is a bit under-the-weather this week. That's right, your poor Stu has caught a wee bug, but fret not dear reader; it is not the typhoid nor is it the consumption. 'Tis but a touch of the flu.

What have I been doing while sick, you ask? Oh, I've been working on my latest novel, A Cat For All Places. My freshest story follows a young feline as he prances about the great cities of the world, encountering adventure, peril, and, of course, love. How does our fair cat travel about our planet? Why with his master! The owner in this tale is a stage performer, a graceful male dancer named Sven. Sven encounters difficulties as well, for the well-read Swede's show is based on the fable of the Phoenix, which forces our cat's master to wear a suit of feathers. The common men mock him calling him foul names and throwing things at him, but our little kitten, whom I've named Francis, comes to his defense.

When I mentioned this story to the staff of Pork Pony, most of them ignored it, writing it off as useless pretense. Mike Wargo, however, actually listened as I explained it to him. I was stunned for he started to give me intelligent feedback. Then, out of the blue, the twit burst into laughter and called me a "big, flaming poof." Needless to say, this only extended my illness and hampered my Stuance lessons (which, I believe, had been helping this vile web site's staff). Bah, I care not as long as they give me cash and freedom.

Dear Intelli-head,

Renee La Roux, Bordeaux, France

Dear Renee,

As my Intelli scanned your letter, it picked up on a certain peculiarity, a detail you may have ignored. You say you want to get in touch with an "old" acquaintance. You do realize, Renee, that old people must be treated differently. Here are some suggestions:

• Talk a little louder. Sometimes, old acquaintances forget to wear their hearing aids.

• Learn to play shuffleboard. The old seem to enjoy this game immensely.

• Go to the hot old people hangouts. My Intelli's calculations tell me that you should try hospitals, nursing homes, and the state of Florida.

Good luck!

Mr. Albright's first entry into the realm of Pork Pony details his quest to quit watching television "cold turkey" during lent. (CL)

Last Thursday, my employers here at Pork Pony told me something I hadn't realized until that day: Pork Pony's supposed to be funny. It is, as they call it, a warped humor magazine. Dear reader, I once left my favorite Mario Lanza record near the heater by accident and my error rendered that beautiful slab of sound warped. It would no longer play. Warped humor. Hmm...

After this revelation, I decided to look over the manuscripts of our web site's writers and add a little zing to them. I like to call my amendments "Stuance". Stuance transforms dull, colorless sentences that my primal cohorts pen into sparkling literary gems. Here are a few examples from Issue 11:

A.S. Albright writes the sentence:

"I would like to consider myself a reader."

Stuart Gimble adds a dash of Stuance:

"I, upon mulling over the many facets of my person, opine that if the choosing of a label for myself were fully up to me, the word 'Reader' would be tattooed boldly across my chest."

Do you notice the difference? Quite striking, is it not? Let us try another:

Eli Lindy writes:

"I forced a chuckle - an old trick of mine."

Stuance makes this boyish sentence a man:

"Through mine own lips I let out the falsest of chuckles, the mightiest of ironic guffaws. 'Twas a skill I'd honed through the years, using it repeatedly, aging it like a fine wine or cheese."

Has the art of Stuance sunken in? Let's try one more to make sure:

Mike Wargo writes:

"They will simply be a chance for us to have a little fun."

The Stuance striketh:

"These extraneous categories, seemingly naught but dalliance, shall become an opportunity for us to frolic in a sea of words, discussions, thoughts, and philosophies."

Stuance is the only way for Pork Pony. Forget this notion of warped humor. The literary high road is the only road worth driving on.

This is another story I initially published under the pen name Eli Lindy. The characters in the story are very closely related to people I knew growing up. There actually was a guy called Chocolate Face who went to the same church as I did and the Wayner is based on a crazy friend Weaver and I graduated with. (CL)

Finally, someone tackled the difficult subject of early 1900's British snobbery. I'm not really sure if British food or British humor is more plain, but strangely enough, I'm drawn to both.

Gosford Park is kinda like Clue on quaaludes. It is a beautifully made mystery with enough plot twists to keep you interested (and slightly confused) until the very end. Maggie Smith is brilliant, and Robert Altman does a wonderful job of directing. Not only is Altman's mastery of character development very impressive, but he is also able to use the word "fag" in a completely innocent way. What an auteur. On a scale of 1 to Club 11, Gosford Park gets a 9.

Dear Intelli-head,

Mike Staugaitis, Shamokin, Pa.

Dear Mike,

You'd actually be quite surprised to find out just how frequently my Intelli has been summoned to answer questions concerning transforming car purchases. When it comes to such matters, listen to Intelli-head: your greatest enemy is a very evil robot inside of you.

You first need to know that the aforementioned evil robot is a tiny Decepticon called Paranoiacon. Paranoiacon often makes a home in your head, right next to one of your greatest allies, your Intelli. The dreadfully evil Paranoiacon may have the most treacherous transforming power of any Decepticon: it can turn your good and trusting Intelli into an evil and skeptical Intelli. Your only weapon available to fight against the evil Paranoiacon is your second greatest internal ally: your heart. Paranoiacon may also have partial control of your heart by this point, so follow my directions very carefully. Play Stan Bush's song "The Touch" on your stereo. The sensations this piece of music arouses within you will most definitely enable your heart to be freed from the Decepticon's grip. Now, focus on your Intelli. Let your Intelli know how much you cherish, love, and trust it. Then, beat your head against a wall (make sure it's plaster, not concrete) ten times while shouting, "Paranoiacon" as loudly as possible. This should do the trick.

If, after following the above advice, you still don't find a way to make your new car transform, take it back to the dealer and deliver him the Cybertronic beating he deserves.

Do you realize that on the road of life, Pork Pony is the smelly, slow, rust-riddled diesel-burning automobile that hogs the left lane? Why you spend your time reading this garbage is beyond me, but I'll give you credit reader, at least you're wasting your time on my words (which, by the way, are the equivalent of the 100 percent authentic ivory gear shift knob in the aforementioned filthy car) instead of the balance of the trash on this site.

This week, I received another letter, this one stating that I "could learn from" the staff of Pork Pony. At first I laughed, but then I realized that the reader who suggested this was right. I now cherish my every moment here, for every second I spend in the Pork Pony offices, I learn more about stupidity. I am convinced that when I finish my time here, I'll have earned a doctorate degree in the study of human idiocy. Here are some of my potential thesis topics:

Video Games and Fire: A Comparison

I am certain that by now you've seen or played some variety of video game. But have you ever thought, dear reader, of how closely our ancestors discovering fire resemble those playing these games? Think about the cooing. The grunts. The tossing of objects. The frustration. The look in the eyes of one who finally finds within himself the ability to defeat something so simple and subhuman. In actuality, I'd have to say that our ancient brothers and sisters have a leg up on these present day Playstation primates.

Rock and Roll: The IQ Decimator

Is repetition difficult? If so, my four-year-old great nephew must be an Einstein, because he can repeat nearly any phrase (not to mention the alphabet) for hours on end. How these dunces at Pork Pony can listen to Rock and Roll music is beyond me. Every song sounds the same. I've tried to introduce them to a little Caruso, but no use. The pea brains that occupy the space around me are too small to absorb the intricacies of a well-delivered aria. Let their brains rot, I care not.

I shall think of more thesis ideas to share with you reader, but for now, I must go. I am ill you see, but my illness cannot be attributed to a virus or bacteria. It's cause, however, can be described simply, with two words: Pork Pony.

In this episode, William is surprised at work. American cheese is mentioned. (CL)