Fresh Wes

My roommate and I are in our apartment drinking rum and cokes when we get a knock on the door. We open the door and see a man with grimy dreadlocks, a long nappy beard, and shabby clothes. “Hey you mind if I use your phone?” he says. Being the idealist that I am, I immediately say, “yea come on in, you want a beer?” Now the perfect outcome of this awkward situation I had created was for him to call the owner of whatever shelter he was able to scrounge up for the night, maybe have one beer, and then leave. It’s this type of naïve thinking that leads to bad situations.

Scott makes the call and does not get an answer. Then he makes himself at home on our couch and says those nine magic words: “you guys mind if I take my shirt off.” We both said ‘sure’ in the most insincere fashion. Due to the booze in our system and the overall absurdity of the situation, we were far too confused to utter the words ‘no Scott, you can’t take your fucking shirt off.’

He proceeds to peel off his disgusting hoodie, allowing his putrid body odor to immediately consume our apartment. It’s amazing how much of his stench was previously shielded from us by his hoodie. Perhaps it was made of lead, because his foul armpits were emitting some pretty raunchy rays.

My roommate, desperate to break the creepy silence, asked him if he could have a pinch of his chew. “Sure, I also have some homemade chew if you want.” My eyes lit up. Homemade chew? What does that even mean? I had to see it. He pulled out a baggy filled with some sort of substance that I couldn’t recognize. I smelled it and I can only describe the smell as some sort of fishy oil. I found out from some local who knew him (I know, our mutual acquaintance was a homeless person) that the secret ingredient in his homemade chew was nothing other than PCP.

Scott starts telling us about himself and how he used to work at Wal-Mart but quit because they “only paid him $8 an hour.” Let that sentence sink into your head for a second. A homeless person is trying to convince us he was overqualified and underpaid…for a job…that pays money…which he has none of. If this seems backward to you, don’t worry, you aren’t alone.

.It is now becoming quite apparent that the “friend” Scott came over here to call is probably nonexistent. As all three of being to realize this fact, Scott says, “you guys mind if I crash here?” Most of you think you would immediately say no and try to kick him out. But this guy was so pathetic that we couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. However, there was no way in hell he was going to be staying with us that night…or ever.

My roommate quickly says that my sister is coming within the hour and she didn’t want any of my friends to be staying there. It was a terrible lie that really made no sense, but luckily Scott was so brain-dead from all the substances his body has incurred over his “life” that he bought into it. Then he smiled at me, with his Indian corn teeth, and asked me how old my sister was. Yea Scott, you’re just her type. And don’t ask how old she is as if any number I throw out there is really going to sway your decision one way or the other.

So I go onto the computer to avoid having to talk to Scott as well as to find refuge from the Agent Orange that was steaming off his filthy, shirtless torso. I IM one of my friends and telling him to call my roommate to save him from Scott. It doesn’t matter what you say, just make that phone ring.

The phone rings, my roommate puts on a Oscar winning performance pretending to be talking to my sister. This ruse back up our lie, and Scott gets up to leave. He asks to use the phone one more time. This time the person who we thought was fictional picked up and said Scott could come over and crash both agreed on what we should do with this treasure. We placed it on top of our TV like the prize that it was, and every time we watched TV and looked up at it we would remember that fateful day a smelly bum showed up at our apartment door.

“If the misery of the poor be caused not by the laws of nature, but by our institutions, great is our sin.” - Charles Darwin

And it’s not a crotch rocket either.

This past weekend the weather was really awesome, and everyone and their mother went to the beach and/or the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica. And since I live near the beach, this meant getting to and finding parking at Baja Fresh was a nightmare. That got me thinking, I need to find an alternative method of transportation that is less gay than roller blading. Since Segways were never cool, I had to go with a bike.

Since everybody who owns a bike feels the need to shit-spew Bike propaganda , I feel the need to defend myself. These are not reasons I wanted to get a bike:

1. Commuting - Get sweaty before work? Doubtful!
   
2. Picking up ladies - Nothing says “playa” like spokes
3. Environment - For every mile I bike, I make sure I drive 5
4. Safety - I’ll pull a Ben Roethlisberger before I rock a helmet
5. Errands - They are not called errands, BUT called doing shit. On a bike, this requires a basket and a uterus
   

Those are are totally valid reasons for some people - just not for me. Here are my reason’s I got the bike:

1. Day Drinking - Nothing says fun like a BUI
2. Basketball - Played at a court near my house - everyone wondered why we drove. I didn’t wonder. We’re lazy.
3. Parking - Parking sucks in LA. Trying to get a validation after using an ATM is painful.
4. Gas - $4 a gallon? What is this Dom P?
5. Bike By Shootings - Nobody expects that shit. Especially not kids.

I bought a new beach cruiser from the XYZBikes.com website. They delivered it the next day and I built it myself (that’s manly right?). The color is gray, but I prefer to call it Gunmetal Gray.

So I went for my first ride last night, just to break it in.  It was pretty sweet and I think I’m starting a small gang with the kids down the street.  Let them know this is our hood and we got to represent hard.

The first of many hateresque posts from our newest contributor Darwinian Phenom. If you knew him, you would see how oxymoronic that name is. Enjoy!

For all of the wonderful things television has given us over the years, it has also brought one of the greatest plagues on our current society. The “as seen on TV” product. This epidemic of crappy merchandise has graced us with such memorable punch-line products as the chia pet, the egg wave, and the infamous clapper. But the other day I came across a perfectly normal item, a pair of binoculars for only one easy payment of $29.99 plus the cost of shipping and handling. A woman in the commercial testified that these binoculars were “just as good as the $1,000 pair her husband had bought.” First off, lady, did you perform a comprehensive experiment testing the performance of each pair of binoculars? Can you present documented evidence that these $30 binoculars can see at night, through my window, across the street, and into the window of my neighbor’s 14-year-old daughter at 9:37 p.m. when she gets undressed before her nightly shower? Didn’t think so.

Usually I would ignore a commercial like this, but then came the big “call now and we’ll throw in (insert some really shitty deal here) ABSOLUTELY FREE!” Along with receiving these “high quality” binoculars, the first 500 callers were also promised a pen-sized pocket “spy scope.” That’s right, at first glance what appears to be a completely ordinary pen is really a hand-sized, relatively undetectable telescope in disguise. This product is a worse idea than the Jump to Conclusions Mat from Office Space.

“Oh man, I’m like 50-50 on whether I’m going to buy those binoculars…but oh shit! I get a pen sized telescope with absolutely no practical use too? And they only give it to the first 500 callers?” (Dialing frantically) I hope they didn’t stock out of spy scopes yet! Think about the fact that someone who works for this company proposed this crappy idea, and then got it approved by their overpaid and clearly underachieving superior. Hey boss, I’m predicting a huge growth in demand for pen-sized telescopes designed to spy on people during highly covert operations. A product like this should only be found in one of those claw grabbing arcade games where some kid gets pissed off because he wanted the mood ring and got stuck with the spy scope.

I can’t think of one good reason to own this piece of shit. I could perhaps see someone buying it in order to cheat on a test (even though the scope would clearly have to resemble that of a number 2 pencil and not a pen), but think of the risk and consequences associated. I’m not talking about a failing grade and possible expulsion from the school. Instead, I’m saying if someone catches you then you will have to admit to owning this stupid thing and tell the embarrassing story of how you acquired such a device. Those first 500 callers that receive this item should have to register as spy scope owners and their place of residence should be made available to the public. If I can search for sex offenders living in my area, I also want to know if there are spy scope owners in my area. I trust someone with a spy scope about as much as I would trust Michael Jackson to babysit my kids, probably less. I can understand that there are people in the world who have a fetish for kids, but I can’t understand a person who believes a spy scope somehow enhances their quality of life.

The creators of this product are clearly lacking in attributes fit for survival. In an era in which we’ve seen such great innovations as the internet, social networking, cellular phones and GPS devices, these half-wits give us the spy scope. The next time you have what you think is a good idea and someone shoots it down as being the stupidest idea they ever heard, tell them about the spy scope.

“An American monkey, after getting drunk on brandy, would never touch it again, and thus is much wiser than most men.” - Charles Darwin

Voicemails suck. They are the least efficient way to transmit information between two people. I think text messaging is the greatest form of asynchronous (aka not at the same time) communication there is. Here’s a list of some of the worst offenses and the people who commit them.

The “Call Me Back” voicemail person
This person has the balls to call you and leave a message letting you know they called. They don’t leave any relevant information either. Women usually leave these.

“Hey it’s Lauren, call me when you get this”

Jesus Christ what is wrong with you. If I take a shower or something, I am going to be fine. My phone has this sweet feature called a “missed call list”. It leaves me with a feeling of security, because I know who tried to contact me. You don’t need to tell me that you called, because most likely I hit ignore as soon as your name came up.

The “I’m going to leave you my number really fast” and not repeat it person
This is usually someone trying to be professional, particularly if somebody wants to hire you or sell you insurance. They leave some boring ass message and then BAM - you’re ears are molested by a drive-by shooting of phone numbers. Then they have the nerve to only leave the numbers once.

This means you have to restart the message while simultaneously struggling to find a piece of paper and grab a pen. The difficulty is multiplied because you’re awkwardly wedging the phone between your neck and your shoulder. Then you have to try to absorb the number barrage before it’s too late. 90% of the time I end up writing the number on my arm in a highlighter. Then I have to burn my corneas while trying to decipher between which is the number and which is just the fiery haze caused by my retinas detaching.

The “Pocket Dial Voicemail”
This is one of the worst experiences in the history of telecommunication. One of your asshole friends inadvertently calls you from the most remote crevices of their pants, leaving a maximum length voicemail. This goes unbeknownst to both parties, and the message massacre continues. Most likely, they will continue to call several times, leaving your voicemail inbox full of crap.

Bonus points of hatred awarded to those who call you from a bar. Nothing says “you’re a loser for not being here” like the cloth muffled murmurings of music or laughing. Waking up the next morning and seeing several missed voicemails is only made worse by the sole fact that they you cannot derive any pleasure out of them. You can hear music but can’t make out the song.  The teasing is the most hurtful part.

I have heard of those mythical opportunities when you can hear people talking about you or just spy on their conversation.  Where someone pocket dials you and you hear all their creepiest secrets. Sadly, I have only been the victim of these situations. Like when I was in high school at party. I pocket called my mom and she heard it all. Nothing says grounding like your mom quoting some of your worst lines. Screaming “I can’t believe I burnt my eyebrows off” or saying “he doesn’t have alcohol poisoning” have never been so detrimental to my youth.

The “Wrong Number” person
This anonymous creature leaves you a painful and irrelevant message thinking you’re somebody else. I guess the whole “This is Wes, leave a message“ scam didn’t leave you fooled. Yes, 83 year old woman riddled with senility, I am your daughter. And yes, I would like you to stop leaving me multiple voicemails about your grandkids and what you made for dinner.

The “Fake Leave A Message” person
This bastard intentionally leaves a fake message at the prompt. Instead of the usual “leave a message” they play a dirty trick on you. You see, their message is a fake conversation, designed to make you think they actually picked up

“Hey”….”What’s Up?” ….. “Really?”……”That’s awesome”…. BEEEPPP

I am always conned into having a fake conversation with them.  Somehow my conversations are so fratty and generic that the preceding formula always works. Then it’s too late - that stupid beep.  The beep is a slap in the face, which I follow with a voicemail that begings with me trying to act like I wasn’t tricked, then ends with my sadly admitting my defeat, sounding vulnerable and confused.

People get me all the time. I am notorious for biting the lure. Well the jokes on them. I apply for jobs leaving their number all over the internet. I’d love to see the face on a potential employer after he falls for the trick too, permanently blacklisting the conman himself from their organization.

In Conclusion:

Send me a text. I can look at during meetings or class. I don’t have to type in a code and sit in complete silence jotting down your usually irrelevant message. I can’t take my eyes off it and go right back to it. I can’t pause a voicemail.

One day, I hope I am ballsy enough to completely turn my voicemails off.

Zack Morris, one-time teen heart throb and All-time pimp, knows his way around the ladies. Zack had complete control of the hotties at Bayside High. He is a god. In fact, I have based most of my life around his teachings. From slamming Stacey Carosi behind her father’s watchful eye, breaking racial barriers and friendships by hooking up with Lisa Turtle, or weaning Jessie Spano off caffeine pills, Zack was a true player.

I mean, look at that picture… does it meet all the qualifications of a true pimp?

Does it have:

a) Retro button down shirt, with a pattern that only pissed off Native American descendants would rock
b) Thumbs tucked firmly in the pockets of acid washed denim jeans
c) Sweet 1992 Casio digital watch
d) Lightning blonde hair majestically captured by chestnut-colored roots?
e) NO FUCKING BELT WHATSOEVER

Yes. Zack Morris doesn’t give a fuck about what you think.

So how does the greatest character in television history tie in with pirated software and the RIAA?

Simple. Zack knew the importance of going to the movie theater.

Zack would take his dates to the movies, because the theater was his arena for gettin’ his . Can you imagine the Zack Attack himself, downloading a movie then inviting Kelly Kapowski to his house? You know his parents are going to be home, which also makes things even more awkward. Do you think she cares what a torrent is or that he has the latest DiVx codecs?

Do you really think the self-proclaimed “blonde Tom Cruise” is going to make his move on his parents couch or a crusty futon? Fuck no. Zack is going straight to the theater (in Mr. Belding’s car no less), where his fake stretch-yawn will be smoothly transitioned into an arm around the shoulder. This deadly combo move mysteriously incapacitates the opposite sex. Could it be all charm and no harm? Or did Zack enlist Screech to create a potent form of Roofie deodorant? All we know is that Zack needs the romantic setting of the movie theater to get his hot sauce on.

The movie industry should take cue from Zack and realize the value the movie theater can provide. Zack Morris doesn’t let the cost of a ticket influence his game - he would rather concoct a crazy scheme to earn the cash than bitch about it. The content will drive itself. But the method of delivery must be where the money is earned.

Experience, expense, and convenience are the three key elements of success. They are all interrelated. People will pay money as long as convenience and/or the experience are at a premium. Zack Morris knows the real deal. Don’t even get me started on AC Slater, who finishing move was an immaculate combination of his Jheri curl-mullet manifestation and his dimples. Fatality.