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March 9, 2011 / moldyboo

Appeal to Obama

Dear Mr. President,

When I was little, my little sister, who, at the time, was seven years younger than I was, wrote a letter to President Clinton.  I was amazed that she got a quick response from the White House.  It didn’t exactly address any of the issues that she brought up.  Nor did it mention her by name.  Nor was it written in crayon to keep the consistency of the correspondence.  However, it did have President Clinton’s name on it, so I knew that he read it.

I probably will not be reading the content of the letter that you probably are not going to write me.  I’ll read as much of the letter that you put time into writing.  I want the date at the top.  Next, I would like for you to express exactly whom you are addressing.  Then, I would like for the body to be written using words and punctuation.  After that, I would like your name and some sort of presidential seal.  Finally, and most importantly, I would like for you to attach a picture of you walking a pig.  If the letter part is too much, you can simply send me the picture of you walking a pig.

Once I receive the photo of the pig-walking, you can be sure that you might have my vote in 2012.  Of course, that will depend on your performance until then, as well as the competency of your campaign.  Also, though I am not writing any other candidate, if, for example, Sarah Palin were to send me a photo of her walking a pig, the ante will have then been upped.  The only way to top that would be for you to send me a picture of you walking two pigs.  I am a Democrat, but anything can happen before the next election.  Though the pig-walking picture will not guarantee a vote from me, it sure would be a step in the right direction.

This could also be used to appeal to certain constituents.  For example, observant Jews and Muslims do not eat pork.  Also, the First Lady has been giving a lot of her attention to improving the health of America’s children.  What better way to illustrate this than by showing that you not only possess the ability to walk, but you also maintain the capability to not eat pigs while simultaneously walking them.  Of course, I do not want the pork industry to be hurt by this.  That is why I will now tell you how much I enjoy bacon.  I enjoy bacon.

I realize that I am not actually sending you anything.  I am just posting this in my blog.  However, you know where to find me.  My email address is




March 7, 2011 / moldyboo

Bait Car: The Downfall of Our Empire

I recently found out something that most people my age have known for years: late nights on Sundays is the best time to watch television.  On MSNBC, where you would usually see reruns of Chris Matthews or Rachel Maddow, you get real journalism: Chris Hansen.  It’s just To Catch a Predator for hours.  It’s usually followed and preceded by Lockup, where they just film people in prisons.  On truTV, which used to be CourtTV(?), which used to be an untelevised courtroom, you get the greatest television show of all time: Bait Car.

Ever wondered what would happen if you leave keys in the ignition of a really nice car in a really bad neighborhood?  Bait Car explores this question, and the answer is usually something you would never expect: people steal the car, usually very quickly.  Leave all your racial and classist stereotypes at the door.  Just kidding, take them with you.   Do not let go of them.  This show is fueled by broad stereotyping mixed with the low expectations of an American public that should be asleep.  It feeds the lowest common denominator of our basest instincts that tell us racist things like poor people need to eat.  Also, car thieves’ alibis almost always involve a prostitute.  That is their go-to excuse for why they stole a car.  It usually doesn’t fit whatsoever into the framework of the story.  Cops: “Why did you take that car when you knew it didn’t belong to you?”  Criminal: “This girl with me is a prostitute”  Cops: “You’re under arrest.”

Oh my god hold on one second.  My custom-made Pandora station just started playing a song by an artist named Michael Moor…  I was surprised that Michael Moore is also a recording artist.  Then I read his full name: Michael Moorcock.  The description says he was a singer in the 1970’s.  There is a singer out there named Michael Moorcock.  Why haven’t Michael Moore haters clung to this as firmly as they can?  That’s to the Right what it would be like if I found out that there was a singer in the seventies named Ann Coultercock, and I am never ruling out that possibility.

Anyway, poor people steal things in order to live.


March 2, 2011 / moldyboo

Remember high school, download O.A.R., kill yourself

When your computer fails to connect to the internet for more than two minutes, you probably panic.  You can’t get to Pandora, the luscious planet of endless music and hidden shame that had narrowed down your perfect station to only play the song Ohio (Come Back to Texas) by Bowling for Soup.  Don’t judge me.  You have an equally horrible song that you love and you would give anything to hear that song on a loop interrupted by McDonalds commercials.  What?  You don’t?  Because Ohio (Come Back to Texas) by Bowling for Soup is the worst song of all time?  Tell that to Almost by Bowling for Soup.  Please.  Tell somebody.  I have to stop listening to these songs.  If sadomachochism is defined as the combination of sadistic and masochistic elements in one person, characterized by both aggressive and submissive periods in relationships with others, then Bowling for Soup is the dominatrix in my own personal chamber of discordant musical torture.  If it’s not, then is wrong.

So, during the two minutes of no internet, I turned to my downloads in order to listen to music.  Luckily, I had downloaded an album a very long time ago.  Even luckilier, it was by the most awesome band of all time: O.A.R.  As a sadomasochist, I often confuse pleasure with pain, and pleasant melodies with downloading guitar tabs in high school of jam bands that I often look back on with misplaced admiration.  So I start to play the album, and it’s the worst thing I have ever heard.  Not only do I not remember what I liked about this music, I don’t remember anything about the music at all.  This is partly because I had downloaded the wrong album.  I was listening to a shitty album they released three years ago instead of the shitty album they released ten years ago.  I know that the music that I’m listening to is shitty, because earlier I classified Ohio (Come Back to Texas) by Bowling for Soup as my favorite song of all time, and I still considered this bad.  Try listening to Ohio (Come Back to Texas) by Bowling for Soup and then try to be happy for the next week.  It’s impossible.  I am angry all the time because I am constantly listening to that song and it is constantly refueling my hunger for McDonalds because either their guitarist is morbidly obese or because commercials for McDonalds are the only thing breaking the nonstop sequence of torture I inflict on myself.

Okay, I finally down voted Ohio (Come Back to Texas) by Bowling for Soup, and the first song that Pandora plays is Shattered by O.A.R. Pandora!  Bad!  This is actually happening as I’m writing this.  Pandora is refueling my depravity by reading my diary and simultaneously integrating it into its repertoire of pain.


February 28, 2011 / moldyboo


I turned on my television and it was on TNT.  It was some sort of cop/detective show.  It seems that a woman and her son were being interrogated, and the first line of dialogue that I heard was the mother yelling at her son, “Just give the FBI your shoes!”  I laughed so hard for at least three straight minutes.  That was the funniest thing I had ever heard.  Out of context, that can be so many things.  In context, it can only be one thing, and I have no idea what that thing is.

I was entranced, and soon learned that I was watching Bones starring David Boreanaz and Zooey Deschanel’s sister.  This is now my favorite show.  I had never seen more than a few minutes of this show at a time, and I now never want to.  If I had continued watching that episode, it would have ruined that line for me.  It could have gone, “Just give the FBI your shoes!  That is standard procedure at any American airport!  Enjoy your flight!”  Or, “Just give the FBI your shoes!  The bureau is terribly underfunded and its members need protection for their feet!”  Or, “Just give the FBI your shoes!  They’re running a clothing drive for the less fortunate because people don’t commit crimes or do drugs anymore!”

I knew this was going to be a good day because the first song on the radio after I got in my car this morning was, Forget You by Cee Lo Green.  I am not allowed to say the original name of the song, and although the edited version doesn’t have the same kick, it will wake you up.  I heard that song twice today so far, and my day has been fantastic.  The video for the song is equally as good, and I’m going to obsessively watch it now for three hours.  Having said that, the backup dancers in the video could use some tighter choreography.  It’s as if they don’t care, and they’re not really backup dancers when they’re in the foreground.  And, since this is and will be Cee Lo’s defining song of his career (yeah he peaked), those girls will be very sad that they will no longer be hired to dance at diners in funk music videos.


February 27, 2011 / moldyboo

Hall Pass (Choke City)

I sat down and gripped my diet soda as the lights dimmed and I contemplated an escape plan and the consequences of incarceration.  Though I knew I wouldn’t literally be thrown into state prison for going to the restroom without a urine-stained, bone-shaped, piece of wood, I knew that I also couldn’t go to the restroom without a urine-stained, bone-shaped, piece of wood.  You see, the restroom pass was a small piece of wood shaped like a dog bone.  I knew little of the process of sterilization and the effects of bacteria on white blood cells, but knew lots that this bone always had hardened urine on it.  Ironically, I was in science class.  Unironically, the hall pass was virtually the same in every classroom.

It was 1995.  That has almost no relevance to this anecdote comparing seeing a sort of bad movie to having to pee in junior high.  The year does mean one thing, though.  It was 1995, and during that time in Houston, our NBA team was quite popular.  They were so popular, that Clutch came to speak to our school.  If you don’t know who that is, I don’t want to know you.  Our class wasn’t chosen to hear him(?) in the auditorium.  Of course, however, my class was chosen earlier that year when Walter Cronkite came to speak.  Life sucked so hard in middle school.  Look who’s dead now.  Karma sucks.  That’s what you get for murdering JFK.  You get a long, successful life and a peaceful death, you son of a bitch.  Oh, he announced JFK’s death?  You’re not off the hook yet, John Wilkes Booth.

Our classroom was right across the hall from the auditorium, and I had to see Clutch.  Ms. Gould wouldn’t let me go to the restroom because she knew I would sneak in to see him.  Looking back, it seems ridiculous that Clutch would give a speech, as he is a mascot without a mouthpiece.  Nevertheless, I convinced my teacher that I had to pee.  I took the revolting pass and walked out of the room using the door closest to the restroom.  I went to go see Clutch, and when I came back, I used the other door that was closer to the auditorium.  The trail of prepubescent evidence was overwhelming.  She immediately knew that I had seen Clutch.  That was the stupidest thing I think I’ve ever done.  Totally worth it.  Also, go see Hall Pass if you like poop or According to Jim.  Those two things are not synonymous for the purposes of this film, but are synonymous for the purposes of anything else.


February 25, 2011 / moldyboo

The Man in the Television

Welcome to my new blog. It will be much like my previous blog, except one of the words in the title will be different; and now that word is different. The word is not ‘different’, it is just different.  I used ‘recovering’ because 1.) ‘progressive’ implied politics and was already taken by a douchebag sitting in a law library in 2008 and 2.) I like to think that I am in the process of not violently hating that guy on television.  You know the guy.  Ray Romano.  “Yeah but have you seen Men of a Certain Age?”  No, I haven’t, because nobody has seen Men of a Certain Age.  Scott Bakula hasn’t seen it, and he’s easily the worst of the three actors on the show.  So why didn’t I say that the guy everybody hates is Scott Bakula?  This is because the title of his most-recognized television show isn’t nearly as viciously paradoxical as Ray Romano’s.  Also, his most-recognized television show is nothing.  Star Trek doesn’t count.  Also, Chuck doesn’t count.  Also, The New Adventures of Old Christine doesn’t count.  Okay, that show is awesome.  Okay, I’ve never seen it.  Okay, I saw it because she was the last chance for any member of the cast of Seinfeld cast to break new ground.  Okay, The Michael Richards Show was remarkable.  My remark is that it was bad.  Okay, I actually have never seen either show.

I’m talking about that other guy on TV.   The dude staring at you after you turn off the set.  The production value is always low and the set looks like an approximate (exact) mirror image of your bedroom.  This is mainly due to the fact that the screen acts as a below standard convex mirror.  The writing is nonexistent unless you are physically writing something directly in front of the television screen.  I have stared at my reflection in my television for long periods of time more times than I can count.  Twelve.  I have done that twelve times.

I think that staring at your own reflection in a television screen is probably the funnest thing you can do when the set is turned off.  This includes all activities that have nothing to do with your television set.  It is better than swimming, judging high school debate tournaments, and playing the lottery; all of which I have done in in chronological order.  Remember though, if you do spend any amount of time doing this, you will be judged; not by other people watching you do this, but by the man in the television as he commands you to obey him while your waning sanity falls into an abyss of indifference.