Brain Poops

[Please pardon my spelling errors. I suck at life]
The saying goes “You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.” There are tons of variations, though. You may know it as “You love most what you don’t have”, or perhaps “beer tastes best when you can’t find a six pack before sunday in a dry county.” It all depends on the region I suppose.

My stepdad retired from the National Guard this weekend, and with a week’s notice and a very pricey ticket I was on my way. Four days in the south might do me some good, I thought. And you know what? It kind of has.

I could go into the normal shebang about how airport security sucks and how pricey even the most basic items are, but it would be nothing you haven’t heard before. I can tell you that a breakfast sandwich composed of instant eggs and a teaspoon of sausage at Silvio DiSalvatores Sausage Empire costs approximately 8 dollars by itself and tastes of the assness. Been there. Done that.

In fact the only seemingly unique part of my trip to the south was the particular bouquet emenating from the fat[ter] guy sitting next to me. It was a combination of urine, root beer, and old spice. To my best estimation, he probably passed out in a puddle of maple syrup, pissed himself, and then in a rush to get on the flight doused himself in old spice [I'm told it's called an italian shower].

But I arrived back in Bama with little delay to meet the bit of family that had assembled for the ceremony. It was nice to see my dear old mum again. I have nothing but apreciation for a parent who knows enough about her son to bring a bottle of Crown to the hotel. We talked, we drank, we ate cruddy food. It was pretty nice.

All this took place in a little town near Birmingham called Gadsden. Gadsden looks like it was built within the last five years and had people imported in to make it look lived in. All of the buildings had that popcorn stucco look so common these days. I had half hoped the Wal Mart would be made of wood, but my dreams were dashed against the giant stuccomonster looming across from the hotel.

The ceremony was everything one would expect in a military event. Sharp, to the point, and delayed. I was impressed, however, by the shadowbox they made for my stepfather. It’s a gorgeous case made out of wood and glass with a blue velvet [insert Dennis Hopper joke here] backing that holds all of the medals and ribbons he has recieved in the past 20+ years or so of service. It was purty.

But being back in the south reminded me why I wanted to leave so much. This, for once, is not a jab at the people but more the vibe of the cities I went through. As friendly as southerners are in general, there doesn’t seem to be much drive there. Or perhaps that’s something that I see in myself because of how I feel here. I’ve always been one to push forward in pursuit of progress. I just dont feel that way down here. My motivation gets stuck in the mud, so to speak.

But for the moment, I’m going to kick back, sip sweet tea, and bullshit with locals about that damned Brittany Spears. It’s rather nice.

I read a long ass article about “Radical Honesty” today [ Here], and thought it might be good to give my honest thoughts about some of the people lighting up the tubes nowadays.

At the top of the charts today is Chris Crocker, the self-appointed Queen of Ghetto, with his personal video masterpiece “Eat My Cornhole” currently at 300,000+ views.

For those of you who wish to stay on this page, a brief synopsis: Kathy Lee Gifford doesn’t care that you hate her, and wants to illustrate this by inviting you to tongue her anus.

Seriously, I have no qualms with Chris, but I can’t help but picture him as some kind of guest host on the View or perhaps Good Morning America. Maybe it’s the hair… perhaps the dead eyes… But without a doubt it’s the Colgate smile that seems to have been honed by years of getting second place in beauty pageants.

His videos can be seen at best as a somewhat clever satire on social views and morays, and at worst a grab for attention and a projection of sincerely skewed ideas. He posts 5 videos daily, so it seems that he is either not gainfully employed, or perhaps his employment requires dolling up and smiling in the face of adversity. Probably not a superhero.

Next up is sxephil. I’m almost at a loss here because my beef with him is more technical than anything else. I can’t stand his videos mainly because it’s scripted and his method of delivery comes off as a sports broadcaster who is better than you. He’s one of the few youtubers who has recently enjoyed a growth spurt of views not by content, but by careful choosing of thumbnails.

Like any other [and it seems EVERY other] red blooded horny interweb-dude, I like boobies. Kudos to Phil for capitalizing on this very important swing factor in viewing videos. The clincher here is that unfortunately for him, he is a youtube partner and subject to increased scrutiny by way of copyright.

WHAT YOU SAY?
I’m talking about photos. Photos that he did a little Google image search on and then used without permission of the original photographers. You know, the guys who own the copyright? Phil, if you’re reading this: be warned, photos are people too. You could just as easily have your videos taken down because of a photograph as you can have them removed because of music or video clips. And as a partner, I’m more than sure daddy Google isn’t going to be thrilled with paying you to include copyrighted material.

“But boh3m3! You just used HIS picture without permission!”, you say… Yes. Yes I did. But I don’t have banner ads on this page. Hence, I’m not directly making money through the use of said content ON this page. That doesn’t make it OK, but aside from him throwing a bitchfit and telling me to take it down, there is little risk or reason to ask me to remove it.

Ugh… Like the scourge of humanity carrying the same surname, Perez Hilton has decided to blow his green and pink wad of self on youtube and promote it via his digi-rag perezhilton.com

I had a chance to meet the rotund reveler of fashion review while working on a video with Lisa Donovan. Verdict? As fake as a model of a sculpture of silicon breasts in Second Life. He’s more phony than AT&T [HAH! GET IT? OMGLULZ]

Can someone tell me why this overweight Joker wannabe sporting a bruno mustache isn’t laughed into oblivion because he’s nitpicking other people’s fashion choices? Ignoring his personality flaws and a laugh that seems to have been spawned from Fran Drescher’s anus, the only merit I can see in his existence or notability is that no other human being in recent history has been quite as contradictory or hypocritical combined with piñata-like fashion choices and a desire to be “known for being known.”

Perez also likes finger painting and men’s penises. End.