This morning I woke up and had a crazy, cracked out urge to play some football. That's right. Football. N. F. L. Not the pansy-shamnsy stuff they play in Europe and like, um, 90% of the world. I'm talking about REAL football, as only the Americans and Tecmo can do. Now, I know there are some out there who are wondering WTF I'm talking about. But, if you're a child of the 90's there's no way you could NOT remember Tecmo Super Bowl. Matter of fact you'd have to have been a total vegetable throughout the 90's to not know what I'm talking about. Or Amish. If you're Amish you might have missed it. But then again, if you're Amish, chances are pretty good you're not reading this anyway. What with your backwardness and all. Silly Amish.
Anyway, I played Tecmo Super Bowl online for like an hour and you know what? I'm ranking it right up there with the best season of Madden in terms of fun factor. I mean, don't get me wrong, I love technology. Hell, I keep hoping I find a girl whose parents were crazy enough to name her Technology just so I could fall in love with her, get married, and have an army of nerds. I'd go around telling people how much I love Technology and I'd keep pictures in my wallet to show them all the great technology I possess. Then there'd be times when we'd be on the outs, and I'd be all like, FUCK TECHNOLOGY!!! I fucking HATE Technology. But, you know, eventually I'd get over it and we'd be a happy couple again... but I digress. Anywayyyyyyyyyyyyy.
Super Tecmo Bowl. One of the greatest of all time. And I bet everyone remembers the best part about this game. That's right: Bo Jackson. Way before Jack Bauer and Robo Vick, there was Bo Jackson. The man was a monster. Nee, he wasn't even a man. He was a god in 8-bit black and white and would rain down fear in the hearts of all those who lined up against him. With the help of Bo I was able to post a 56-0 win in a game I haven't played in years. For those of you that never got a chance to check out the brilliance that was Tecmo Bo, here's a little something to remind you of how deprived your childhoods were:
Greatest Touchdown EVER
Yeah. Now that's what I call football. Long live Super Techmo Bowl. Long live Techmo Bo Jackson.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Happy (belated) birthday, America
Sigh.
You know things have been a bit iffy when you start a monologue with a sigh. That's hardly a good sign. That's the way the near death/dying hero or heroine starts their final, well written and carefully crafted words in any death scene worth it's salt. I, however, lacking a team of writers or a really creative editor to tell me how to not make my writing suck (or to at least make it suck as little as possible) begin with a sigh simply because that's how I feel at the moment.
It's July 5, 2007. America just celebrated her 231st birthday and, is it just me or is she starting to show her age? A few days before the big 2-3-1 our president decides to commute the sentence of Scooter Libby, who up to this point was the only tangible evidence of this administration holding themselves accountable for any wrong doing of anything. Ever. Now, I have two problems with that. The first is that no grown man should go by the nickname "Scooter". Especially if you're expected to hold a position of power. You know what, fuck that, name one profession where if you found out the person you just hired was named Scooter you wouldn't immediately check all his references before conducting your search for his replacement. The only grown people who should be aloud to refer to themselves and have other refer to them as Scooter work for Vespa. That should be a law. Scooter. That ranks up there with grown ups who never drop the "ie" or "y" endings from their names. There are exceptions, but not many.
The other thing that bothers me is that on September 30, 2003 George Walker had this to say, and I quote,
"If there is a leak out of my administration, I want to know who it is. And if the person has violated the law, the person will be taken care of."
I guess he meant taken care of in the old boys club "I'll scratch your back if you scratch mine" sort of way. But then I was never much for political science, so what do I know?
Also, the 4th of July got rained out in Philly and all along the east coast. I guess it was only fitting, right? Maybe it was just America weeping. I prefer the image of America peeing on the Constitution and burning the Magna Carter. But, like I said, she's getting old. I guess most of the fight has gone out of the old girl, so the rebel imagery probably doesn't hold anymore, now does it?
But I digress. What I really wanted to do was share one of my new favorite poems. It's by a guy named Brian Dykstra. He seems like a solid cat, at least from what I gleamed from googling him. Who knows, maybe we'll hit it off and I'll ask him to be my myspace buddy. If you like stalking as much as I do you can start at his official website
www.briandykstra.net
The name of this poem is Pushing Bush, and it goes a little something like dis:
I wish to push Bush on his tush.
George Walker,
Not much of a talker.
Raised in his cushy nest in Texas.
Earning nothing; discerning less than.
His mess with Texas distress
Concerning our yearning for returning this country to peace
And earning some relief from his intelligence spurning.
He’s just another Bush we’d be better off burning.
I wish to push Bush on his tush
And beat on Rumsfeld like drums on a battle field
Of which he prattles and wields nonsensical deals
Of unarmored vehicles from the comfort of home
Where he answers to nicknames like “Rummy,”
Proving once and for all that his chummy
President boss and his white house of whores isn’t the first and last dummy.
I wish to push Bush on his tush
And stir in the sleaze of Condoleeza,
Our dreaded in over her head
Secretary of fake.
So that with this burning Bush, it might be twice as nice
To stir in a spicy side of hot, sizzling Rice.
I wish to push Bush with a knife
In a rainy day drained with Dicky Cheney
Who can’t wrap his brain around what it’s like to be a detainee.
So Geneva gets the stick
While the troops get sick
Of dreading beheadings.
It’s sick how quick these tricky oil men fancy themselves slick
When the truth is everybody knows that Cheney’s a dick.
When push comes to shove Bush is too dumb to love
Let’s stop saying he isn’t stupid. Everybody, enough:
He believes in Santa Claus.
“If I’m the right kinda Christian I’ll get better stuff.”
I wish to push Bush on his duff.
No, that’s not it.
I’d like to slap him senseless with a Crawford caught bass.
Give him a transfusion of at least second-class.
Explain the relationship between critical and mass,
Blur the one between crude oil and gas.
Ponder if there exist even one test he can pass.
Choke him to death on his own Texas sass.
In short: I’d love to shove Bush up his ass.
Well, there it is I hope everyone had an enjoyable 4th of July.
You know things have been a bit iffy when you start a monologue with a sigh. That's hardly a good sign. That's the way the near death/dying hero or heroine starts their final, well written and carefully crafted words in any death scene worth it's salt. I, however, lacking a team of writers or a really creative editor to tell me how to not make my writing suck (or to at least make it suck as little as possible) begin with a sigh simply because that's how I feel at the moment.
It's July 5, 2007. America just celebrated her 231st birthday and, is it just me or is she starting to show her age? A few days before the big 2-3-1 our president decides to commute the sentence of Scooter Libby, who up to this point was the only tangible evidence of this administration holding themselves accountable for any wrong doing of anything. Ever. Now, I have two problems with that. The first is that no grown man should go by the nickname "Scooter". Especially if you're expected to hold a position of power. You know what, fuck that, name one profession where if you found out the person you just hired was named Scooter you wouldn't immediately check all his references before conducting your search for his replacement. The only grown people who should be aloud to refer to themselves and have other refer to them as Scooter work for Vespa. That should be a law. Scooter. That ranks up there with grown ups who never drop the "ie" or "y" endings from their names. There are exceptions, but not many.
The other thing that bothers me is that on September 30, 2003 George Walker had this to say, and I quote,
"If there is a leak out of my administration, I want to know who it is. And if the person has violated the law, the person will be taken care of."
I guess he meant taken care of in the old boys club "I'll scratch your back if you scratch mine" sort of way. But then I was never much for political science, so what do I know?
Also, the 4th of July got rained out in Philly and all along the east coast. I guess it was only fitting, right? Maybe it was just America weeping. I prefer the image of America peeing on the Constitution and burning the Magna Carter. But, like I said, she's getting old. I guess most of the fight has gone out of the old girl, so the rebel imagery probably doesn't hold anymore, now does it?
But I digress. What I really wanted to do was share one of my new favorite poems. It's by a guy named Brian Dykstra. He seems like a solid cat, at least from what I gleamed from googling him. Who knows, maybe we'll hit it off and I'll ask him to be my myspace buddy. If you like stalking as much as I do you can start at his official website
www.briandykstra.net
The name of this poem is Pushing Bush, and it goes a little something like dis:
I wish to push Bush on his tush.
George Walker,
Not much of a talker.
Raised in his cushy nest in Texas.
Earning nothing; discerning less than.
His mess with Texas distress
Concerning our yearning for returning this country to peace
And earning some relief from his intelligence spurning.
He’s just another Bush we’d be better off burning.
I wish to push Bush on his tush
And beat on Rumsfeld like drums on a battle field
Of which he prattles and wields nonsensical deals
Of unarmored vehicles from the comfort of home
Where he answers to nicknames like “Rummy,”
Proving once and for all that his chummy
President boss and his white house of whores isn’t the first and last dummy.
I wish to push Bush on his tush
And stir in the sleaze of Condoleeza,
Our dreaded in over her head
Secretary of fake.
So that with this burning Bush, it might be twice as nice
To stir in a spicy side of hot, sizzling Rice.
I wish to push Bush with a knife
In a rainy day drained with Dicky Cheney
Who can’t wrap his brain around what it’s like to be a detainee.
So Geneva gets the stick
While the troops get sick
Of dreading beheadings.
It’s sick how quick these tricky oil men fancy themselves slick
When the truth is everybody knows that Cheney’s a dick.
When push comes to shove Bush is too dumb to love
Let’s stop saying he isn’t stupid. Everybody, enough:
He believes in Santa Claus.
“If I’m the right kinda Christian I’ll get better stuff.”
I wish to push Bush on his duff.
No, that’s not it.
I’d like to slap him senseless with a Crawford caught bass.
Give him a transfusion of at least second-class.
Explain the relationship between critical and mass,
Blur the one between crude oil and gas.
Ponder if there exist even one test he can pass.
Choke him to death on his own Texas sass.
In short: I’d love to shove Bush up his ass.
Well, there it is I hope everyone had an enjoyable 4th of July.
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