C-Nug Gets Pissed

Today was trying to reset the password on my Twitter account because I forgot it. Kind of like the same way I forget the names of girls that I desperately want to get with. I'm still not sure why I even have a twitter account in the first place. But I needed to login to help Michael Ian Black in his twitter war against Levar Burton. So when it came to hitting submit on the change password form I was presented with this message:

403 Forbidden: The server understood the request, but is refusing to fulfill it.

Now I'm no stranger to 403 errors, but never have I gotten one with this much sass. If there's one thing that I hate more than sass from people that are not me, it is sass from computers. What this message is basically telling me is that it heard what I want it to do, but is telling me to go fuck myself. Well I am not one to take insults from machines lying down.* So I e-mailed their support team this:

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To Whom It May Concern:

While attempting to reset my password for my twitter account I received this error message from your site:

403 Forbidden: The server understood the request, but is refusing to fulfill it.

As you can imagine I was not pleased with this error message. I was not so much displeased with the inability of your website to perform a simple task, but instead I was upset by your server's severe behavioral maladjustment. As I am to understand from the error message, your server was fully capable of carrying out my request but simply refused to for some reason which it deemed unnecessary to impart on me. Imagine if you will, that you were to order a hamburger from your local McDonald's employee. The employee hears the requests and is physically able to press the button that rings up one hamburger, but he doesn't feel like doing it, so he says, "No. Bugger off." This is basically the same situation that I am in with your servers right now. The morally responsible thing to do is promptly improve your servers' attitudes. I thank you for your time.

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I do not expect to receive a real response from an actual human being, but I will update as necessary if I do get a response. If further action is required, I can always impart Arnold's interpretation of collateral damage on them.

*A big middle finger goes out to the semen dumpsters who thought it was a good idea for the past tense of "lie" to be "lay" which is the same as the present tense form of the transitive verb "lay."

Since there seems to be such a high demand for it, I might as well write about the new year.* But rather than doing what everyone else does and talk about the new year by actually talking about the past year, I’m going to talk about what is going to happen in the new year.

- White people will continue to complain about how bad they have it.
- Hispanic people will continue to make shitty music.
- White people will take credit for it.
- Wal-Mart will continue to sell shit, vis-à-vis it will piss off hippies.
- I will become pissed at both the spelling of vis-à-vis and my general lack of understanding of how to use the word and cease to ever use it again.
- James A. Garfield will come back from the dead. Nobody will care.
- The makeup companies will be sued for their practice of selling you a product that you think you want then selling you another product so that you can remove it.
- I will punt your dog if it looks like a pig. Either that or turn it into bacon.
- Conan O’Brien will realize what year it is and stop doing the “In the Year 2000” bits, unless he already has. I don’t know I haven’t watched it in a while.
- I will watch Conan O’Brien more often now since I remembered they have it on Hulu.

Now I’m sure you are all very disappointed that I didn’t do a Simpson’s style clip show recap of the past year, but the fact of the matter is that nothing cool happened in the past year. At least nothing of public knowledge happened that was worth mentioning. On the other hand, I had an awesome year. It was quite possibly more awesome than all the best parts of everyone else’s year put together. Still, I’m glad that it’s over.

*Microsoft Word told me that “new year” should be capitalized. Microsoft Word can get fucked.

What’s with the word “phones?” Is that Latin? Anyways, I always get phone calls at the most inopportune time possible. Either I am in a deep or hilarious conversation with a friend about marshmallows in jar, playing video games, or my hands are covered in cookie dough, making it impossible for me to answer the phone without covering it in dough. Interestingly enough, I never get calls when I am cranking it. Though that might be accounted for by the fact that I never crank it during peak hours, I’m going to take it as a sign that I don’t crank it enough. The point is that phones have made it their personal agenda to make everyone else’s life convenient while making my life a pain in the ass.

Today however, my phone almost helped me out. I was walking my friend Nathan’s dog, since he was too lazy to, when Gwen Stefani’s #1 hit, “Hollaback Girl” protruded from my phone indicating that my partner in ladies undergarments, Andrew, was calling me. He sells ladies undergarments mind you, he doesn’t wear them. He’s not a freak. As Andrew was informing me that the third quarter profits had been announced, a glandularly challenged man carrying a garbage bag filled with what I could only assume was used ham bones erupted, “Awwwww, is that a basset hound?”

Now in case you don’t know a thing about me, it is important that you know this one fact: I loath when random people try to start bullshit conversations with me. To make his case worse, this “human” was a globulous excuse for a man who starts his conversation with, “Awwwww,” and I was attempting to control the most conniving dog I have ever met while also listening to my good friend talk about panty profits. Even if I had wanted to, I was in no condition to give this fat fuck a verbal response. Therefore I stared at him with a look of agitation and disbelief, while at the same time making it abundantly clear that I was on the phone. This however did not sway the man, for he absolutely had to confirm his belief that the dog in front of me was a basset hound. So he asked me again, louder this time. This time I just ignored him and continued to walk away from him.

Of course it would have seemed way cooler if I had come back with a witty response like, “Yes he is. And no he’s not for eating, you vacuous blubber bucket.” The problem is if I had done that, he would have received more social interaction than he usually gets in a week, making him the victor. So all I can do is hope he has his own blog and is crying about how he just wanted to know what a basset hound looked like.

I was making my way through the speed bumps, a.k.a pedestrians, at the local Wal-Mart today when I saw what appeared to be a mustachioed man. But after a double take and a triple take, I realized that this was no man, but a woman with a stache that could account for multiple missing babies. Upon seeing this spectacle, I almost ran over an Asian couple, which would have been ironically just.

Due in part by the fact that I am far from fat, I really enjoy walking. It gets me from point A to point B in an efficient and cost effective manner. This is my primary use for walking. Occasionally, I will walk to ease my troubled mind or if I am feeling gassy. However my goal is ultimately to get from one place to another. I have found that a large percentage of people do not share this goal with me. As such, when they are walking they will do things such as stop for no reason, slow down to a legless Korean War veteran pace, or walk in circles and warn me of imminent disaster to be caused by a hurricane. This frustrates me. More and more frequently, people have been luring me into The Stop and Chat. This pisses me off immensely.

For those of you are unaware of what The Stop and Cat is, let me enlighten you. I will be walking along at a brisk pace, minding my own business, when somebody will call out my name. I of course do what comes natural to almost anyone and turn to look. It is at this instant that I wish I had not looked because I know what is about to come. But as I don’t want to look like a robot that is capable of speech recognition but not actual speech, I greet the person in return. This greeting usually does not include their name because, more often than not, I do not remember their name. After the greeting I have exactly 0.3 seconds to think of a reason to continue walking and not talk to this malcontent. I usually fail at this as I am not a quick thinker. I will continue walking as I am doing the greeting but this does not face the stopper, he dives right into conversation. So then I am stuck in a conversation about current events or shoes or my lack of intimacy for at least a full minute. I loathe talking about all of these things, especially with acquaintances.

Often vagrants will attempt to launch The Stop and Chat with me. The irony of this amuses me so much that I ignore them completely. There is of course one instance where I will not hate, but also initiate The Stop and Chat. This occurs only if an attractive female greets me first and given female is not known by me to be a crazy bitch. So if you are not in this elite category and you try and commence The Stop and Chat with me, just know that I am full of shit when I say, “I’m late for a hearing.” Also, I hate you.

I had a dream the other night that was too spectacular to be kept to myself. It started out ordinary enough: I was riding in a convertible with some strangers who claimed to be my friends, yelling at old people to “Give something back to society besides Worther’s caramels,” and “To stop stealing all the lucrative Wal-Mart jobs from mexicans.” I soon tired of this, though I do not understand why, and I was instantly transported to a school. This particular school seemed more reminiscent of a mall than a school, complete with escalators and a Cinnabon.

I’m going to take this opportunity to go on a brief tangent about Cinnabon. Why the fuck do people pronounce it as if they were eating cinnamon on the autobahn? To begin with, it should be CinnaBUN, as it is the clear choice for the combination of cinnamon and bun. You don’t see me calling myself C-Nog do you? But let’s pretend that it is indeed Cinnabon, even so, you don’t pronounce cinnamon like you’re a fucking Rastafarian. So why would you when you change one consonant?

Back to schools and malls; the interesting thing about them is that they both are filled with underage whores. I made sure to point this out to every one that passed me. Eventually, I felt the urge to use the gentlemen’s facilities. A wandering girl appeared to me upon entrance of the bathroom. I double checked that there were urinals to confirm the fact that this was indeed the gentlemen’s facilities. She asked me if she had seen her dog or her bra or something, I was too busy looking at her boobs to pay attention. She continued to whine, which became annoying after a while. As I was fairly sure she was of legal consenting age, I told her, “The way I see it you have two options: take your top off and give me a blumpkin or get the fuck out of the men’s lavatory.” This only made the girl yammer on more.

This was getting old fast as I really had to drop a deuce and I wasn’t going to do it with a girl hovering over me if she wasn’t also going to be sucking my dick. Under the circumstance, I did what any sane man who had to take a crap would do: I grabbed her by the back of the head and forced it at an alarming rate towards the closest urinal. Apparently her brain did not like this. It was fairly apparent by the way she did not move a muscle as she lay on the floor. An elderly man exited the stall directly in front of the incident with a look of utter terror on his face. I tried to explain to him that she had knocked herself out while trying to use makeup and a tampon at the same time, but he was not buying it. So I did what any sane man would do when caught in a bathroom with an unconscious, scantily clad girl who was bleeding profusely from the head: I ran.

An array of shouts, European police sirens, and Nazi propaganda trailed behind me as I blasted out the front door. I was met by a bouncer who had a rather displeased look on his face. Fortunately for me, this was the worst bouncer ever as he was about 5’6” and 120 pounds. I beat the shit out of him too.

This is where things get kind of weird. The school’s guidance counselors began to chase me in police cars. Unable to escape them by normal means, I turned into Jackie Chan and ran into an apartment complex, flying over every wall I came across. Mercenaries hired by the school/mall rained down upon me so I murdered all of them with a few well timed roundhouse kicks. By way of ninja smoke, my [Jackie Chan’s] father appeared without warning. It may have really been my uncle. I couldn’t tell as they all look the same. He explained to me that I had happened upon the exact location of my conception. This news was disturbing and disgusting; therefore I punched him so hard that he turned back into ninja smoke. This tired me. I went to sleep on the bed on which I was conceived.

I awoke the next day [still part of the dream] to find that I was no longer Jackie Chan. Lame. My mother was outside the window, painting away. I went outside to find all of my friends helping her paint, happy as ever to see me. “I’m confused,” I announced to them, “aren’t you all mad at me for beating the snot out of that hot girl?” They all quit painting and turned to me with confused but amused looks on their faces. They explained to me that I had fallen asleep in the convertible. When they stopped, I slept walked out of the car and slept fought a mob of homeless people until there was nothing left but bloody cardboard boxes. “Well I still assaulted somebody; shouldn’t the police still be after me for killing those bums?” I asked with concern. Everyone just laughed.

All things considered, it was my least racist/sexist dream ever.

Instead of driving around the mall parking lot looking for that perfect spot that is as close as possible to the entrance of JcPenney's, park in the first spot you see upon entering the parking lot. You will save on gas in addition to getting FREE exercise whilst walking to the store. The fat cats down at L.A. Fitness lead you to believe that you have to pay in order to get exercise, but with this money saving tip planning, you can get it for free. Also, don't buy anything at the mall.

Have your own money saving tips? Tell them to your Jew friends who give a shit.

It's a fact: crazy people will kill you if you cross them, or if you do something they don't comprehend, or if you do anything at all.

I was able to pass by most of Thursday without any encounters from any crazy people. Staying indoors and away from homeless people will dramatically decrease your chances of coming into close contact with a crazy person, inherently increasing your chances of living another day. In a recent medical study, scientists found that people with an extreme money deficiency were 96% more likely to be crazy than a person without this deficiency. It wasn't until I started drinking some cold beers that my chances of meeting a crazy person, nay, multiple crazy peoples, increased dramatically. The thing about drinking is that it inhibits your ability to identify crazy people, and as well as preventing you from realizing that they will kill you.

Nate (who will be henceforth referred to as Alpha Tango Johnny Cash, because that is way cooler) and I were safely inside playing video games away from any crazy people when disaster struck: the xbox broke. Our only recourse of action was to go outside and talk to people and drink cheap beer. Alpha Tango Johnny Cash and I are not made of money after all. And even if I was, it's not like I would just rip off a part of my body just to pay for better tasting beer. Money legs don't just grow back overnight. Also, I might be crazy.

Alpha Tango Johnny Cash (who will henceforth be referred to as ATJC, since it is annoying to type his full name) has the uncanny ability to get complete strangers to give him high fives. Now you may think that this is the coolest ability since being able to stare at a chick's cleavage and not get slapped or punched in the scrotum, but you are fucking wrong. While normal people view high fives as a noncommittal display of friendliness, crazy people view high fives as invitations to sit down with you and announce, "I'm going to stick my finger in your asshole," to every girl that walks by. Of course, this was bound to happen.

So after introductions and more harassing of random passersby, this crazy guy sitting with us asks out of the blue, "You ever seen a man die?" Before I could even produce a syllable he answers for himself, "I have, man. I saw my best friend die in Iraq, puking out his own blood." After he said that about five times in various wordings, he claimed to have shot said best friend. Keep in mind that this was all interlaced with gems such as, "Hey baby, you have two fat dudes behind you."

After about twenty minutes of talking to the craziest guy ever, I realized what time it was and desperately looking for an out, I said to ATJC (who will be referred to as Nate again, because ATJC is stupid), "We should probably get going to beat this drunk rush." The crazy man, desperate for new souls to take, asked, "Oh yeah, where you going next?" "Probably back home," I responded. To my horror, he questioned further, "Right I know, but where's your home?" It was about this time that another crazy person that was possibly drunker and crazier than the first, pointed at me with a serious face and motioned that I follow him. I was eager to get away from crazy number one so I figured I would hear him out. He explained to me that crazy number one had been "eyeballing him" earlier and that as an "Alabama boy" he could not let that happen without crazy number one having his ass kicked.

I decided this was a fantastic time to leave. So I told Nate that we had to go and as Nate was saying his farewell, crazy number one asked Nate, "Did you take my wallet?" while his face was overcome with pure hatred and rage. Nate obviously said, "No," and we left, narrowly escaping the most unmotivated beat down ever. Crazy number two never made good on his word, but he did graduate college to become a high school teacher. Crazy number one tried going back to the army but was deemed to be too fucking crazy, even for the army. Nate and C-Nug grew up and became astronauts and got married to hot alien chicks. No girls' assholes were fingered that night.

First off, I want to apologize to the two people who read this for not updating more frequently. Secondly, get fucked.

I've heard several times that a good tip for aspiring writers is to just listen to people in public talk. I would highly discourage trying this at Wal-Mart if you have a fear of stabbing yourself in the eyes with two elephant dicks provoked by severe psychosis of the anus. I passed by some tool bag today while shopping in the wormhole who was warning his 2-3 year old kid to, "Get out of the damn way of the cart." While I too take joy in the tormenting of small children, I can't say that I approve of doing it to your own spawn. But who am I to judge how someone should raise their child? So I blew it off and went back to deciding what kind of peanut butter would be best to cover the entirety of a cat. It wasn't until I passed him again that I almost lost it.

And now an excerpt from my book The Night of the Werecat:

"I just can't decide what kind of fucking pizza to get right now," said the dill weed as he threw the unsuspecting box back to its frozen tomb. Filled with the rage of a thousand anti-abortion activists, I passed him with my barely operable shopping cart. It took every ounce of determination and willpower I had ever known not to punch this degenerate in the back of the neck and then while he is spasming in pain, perpetually stomp his crotch into the ground as I take pleasure in knowing he will no longer be able to produce further failures. No, this half-man half-brick will never know how lucky he is this day. For it is this day, that I have the more important matters to attend to of deep frying peanut butter werecats.

I highly recommend you all listen to the new Opeth album Watershed. I don't want to hear any of that "it's scary," "what is he screaming about?" or "why does C-Nug like to watch people eat?" crap. Get over it and grow a pair; it's damn good music.

This post is just a friendly reminder that the keyboard shortcut [Ctrl+Q] will quit some programs and is dangerously close to [Ctrl+A] (the shortcut to "Select All"). So if you happen to be trying to select your two page journal entry encompassing how much grocery baggers and hippies suck and how awesome BLTs are, you might want to play it safe and select it with your mouse.

I'm really starting to get fed up with this war on terror bullshit for one simple reason: it is all happening in the Middle East, which is primarily desert. It's not surprising that everybody there is pissed off. After all, they live in the hairy ass-pit of satan that is the desert. Imagine living on a beach, except instead of a beach, it's just sand. Now imagine that sand being lodged in every orifice of your body for the entirety of your life.

Of course where there is a war, there are fictional events taking place in it care of movies and video games. This is usually a great idea except, you guessed it, it is still taking place in a fucking desert. Even as great as a game like Call of Duty 4 is, after playing all those desert maps it makes me wish there was a function to point the gun at my face so I can stop looking at nothing but tan. Tan, for those who didn't know, is just the bastard son of grey. If purgatory exists, it would be nothing but tan.

When it comes down to it, anything that takes place in the desert automatically sucks ten times worse than if it took place anywhere else. Think about how much more badass The Bible would be if it took place in the Andes and James Bond was best pals with Jesus and everyone had laser guns. It would certainly be a lot better than the fart in a can movie Jarhead.



Now as pointless as the war on drugs was, it did have one thing going for it: it took place primarily in the jungle. I believe Axl Rose put it best when he said, "You're in the jungle baby. You're gonna die."

I understand what causes a person to sneeze, but I've never really understood the point of sneezing. As far as I'm concerned, it is caused by your nose deciding that you need a brief moment of attention to be called to yourself. Do other animals besides humans, dogs, and cats sneeze? I bet if you hung around a lion long enough, it would sneeze, if it didn't eat you first. An elephant sneezing would be awkward. Doing certain activities and sneezing can also be weird and sometimes down right dangerous. That's why I made a list to let you know when you should hold it in, no matter how annoying it is.

10. As you're headbutting someone
9. Getting a tattoo on your face
8. Urinating
7. Vomiting
6. Driving
5. Making friends with the aliens from the movie "Signs"
4. Snorkeling
3. Performing open heart surgery
2. Doing the Siamese Twin Tango
1. Bunking with Anne Frank

The friends I have now are great and everything, but let's face it: if by some odd occurrence I become famous, I will be forced by the laws of physics to drop my current friends like a sack of potatoes with a surprise baby head in it. To fill the void, I will need a posse, a crew, a gaggle; basically a group of people who will follow me around and make me look cooler than I already am.

Most importantly I will need an intimidating bodyguard type of person to take care of business. There's nothing I hate more than seeing an acquaintance on the street and having to do the stop and chat. Odds are I don't remember the person's name and they are going to talk about some bull shit thing like how my life is or some crap. Introduce the bodyguard to their face, and they will no longer have a face that requires a name being put to it. I think the guy who played Apollo in Rocky would be a good man for this job. Unless he is dead now, which would make him not as good. I don't know if he's dead or not, I don't keep tabs on that. All I know is that he was awesome in Predator.

I would also need a guy that wears a whole bunch of coats all the time. This would look hilarious as well as have a practical use. Whenever somebody compliments on the coat that I am wearing I could, without hesitation, respond "You like it? Here have it. It's yours." And then I could just take a coat from my multiple coat wearing friend and not look like a douche who gave away his only coat.

I've noticed that most posses will only have one gender type in it. I find this to be extremely sexist. A female presence is an absolute necessity in order to establish a dynamic group that can roll with whatever is thrown at it. And what better job for the female presence to fill than cooking for me and cleaning up after me? In addition to being a master at these two duties, she would also need to be easy on the eyes. I'm not going to roll with any ugly bitches. However, she couldn't be so hot that dudes would be hitting on her all the time. I would be the famous one, so all attention would need to be focused on me.

Of course a tech guy that accesses computer mainframes and bypasses security cameras would be a must, but I'm pretty sure they come standard with any team. Also a British dude would be pretty cool. That way he can tell us scientific facts, like the boiling point of a carrot, but we can also make fun of him when he says things like, "observatree," and "leftenent."

If you've ever driven a car with your eyes open, you've probably noticed a lot of odd signs on the side of the road that don't make any sense. That's why I''m taking up my normal blogging time to decipher a few odd signs which could easily confuse the common driver.

This sign really inspired me to write this article. If somebody had never seen this sign on a road, they would probably think it was a flag belonging to a nation comprised of giant bees. By putting it in context of where these signs are placed however, it means something quite different. If this sign could talk, it would say "Don't drive off the road here! Not that you should do that in other places, but you should especially not do it here. There might be a ditch, or a sharp rock, or a huge bridge, or another sign that is a clone of me. If you really are compelled to drive off the road, do it somewhere else that is not where I am."

Take cover and be on the lookout for snipers and ambushes.

Hippies care more about saving the planet with recycling and less about your safety while driving a car.

Why is this deer shitting out lego bricks from its forelegs?

This sign is actually pretty self explanatory as it is a complete sentence. They are usually seen if you are driving inside of a movie theatre.

Watch out for illegal immigrants.

Holy shit dick that is a huge sign! Why it is boasting about this fact with its exact measurements I do not know.

If you see this you are driving on the wrong kind of road. The road may in fact be a railroad and is meant for trains only.

Fuck this picture shit, I'm going to stick with text from now on.

During this time of year we can't help but think about giving, family togetherness, delicious ham, and, if you're unlucky, the unfortunate and Jesus. But let's not forget about what we would really like to be thinking about: presents. Unfortunately it is impossible to think about presents without thinking about all the crappy presents given to you over the years: a homemade sweater made of what feels like steel wool, bread that contains bits of left-overs from last year's Christmas, the cat that pees on everything, and of course the bike that is way too big for you to ride and even if you were big enough to ride, you couldn't because it's the middle of the fucking winter.

Let us not dwell on these demoralizing thoughts. This is supposed to be a happy occasion. Let us instead think of what the best present ever would be. I know what mine would be: a personal hooker popping out of a chocolate cake with a pimp cane. The cake would be promptly eaten by all upon emergence of the hooker. Then the hooker and I would pork in front of whatever misguided soul got me this delicious present, still covered in chocolate pastry. Of course the pimp cane would really become mine later, but stay with me here.

Some naysayers might easily point out how hookers are gross and filled with magical but deadly STDs. Not with personal hookers, check it out; unlike normal hookers who sleep with any schmuck-face that comes along with enough money, personal hookers only sleep with one dude. A large fee, henceforth referred to as the "principle" would have to be paid to the hooker so as she would not take on other clients. This and the first pork would be paid for in the present. Let's be realistic, this clueless girl would have still have to get a steady income as she would undoubtedly blow the entire principal on crack.

Now there would still be the issue of the personal hooker turning on me and making the move towards more traditional whoring practices. This is where the pimp cane comes in. Not only do canes look cool and excel at silencing annoying children who dare cross its path, they are also quite efficient at quelling any radical thinking done on part by the personal hooker.

I wish that you all receive a gift of equal or greater awesomeness and have a very Merry X-Mas.

Black Friday. 0500. Walmart. I realize that none of the first three statements were sentences and I apologize for that, but there really is no other way to state it with such elegance. It really was an experience. I have yet to decide what kind of experience it was, so I'll just leave it at that. I'm just glad Josh had not enacted plan X on this particular Walmart.

My squad, consisting of my friend Andrew, his brother, and his girlfriend arrived at Walmart at 0430. After five minutes of waiting in line, we realized we did not have enough clothing, morphine, or munitions. There was quite an extensive line in front of us, but it nearly doubled in length behind us by the time it opened. A mass of people thought that they could just charge in by waiting in front of the doors in the parking lot and forgo the line. These people were shot down by the police and then ravaged by German Shepherds. And when I say ravaged, I mean humped. Upon entering the store, there was mass confusion and panic. A few people cried, huddled in a corner laced with their own urine, but most just ran in every direction.

Andrew forded his way to the electronics section to locate his mission objective: a 42" LCD TV that was $200 off. After we got there, all we found were dummy TVs. It was an ambush. We spread out looking for deals, when Andrew overheard a conversation from Charlie. According to them, tickets for the doorbuster TVs were in the pharmacy section. Of course, Charlie could rarely be trusted, but we didn't have much choice. Andrew dashed towards the opposite end of the store, drudging his way through mounds of bodies as I grudgingly covered him from behind. Andrew received a ticket that laid his claim to purchasing the cargo. I bought a Dr. Pepper. Ten minutes later, we exited the hot zone, guns blazing with the package in my trunk. Napalm decimated the encampment seconds later.

The following is a public service announcement brought to you by the makers of Twix candy bars. Yes Twix, there's two of them so you can be an asshole to your friends.

Having watched countless amounts of movies involving ghosts, it is important to remember this one thing: never watch another movie involving ghosts that doesn't have the word "busters" in it. Every ghost movie with the previously mentioned exception all follow a very simple formula: 1) Main character dies. 2) Main character can't get it into their thick, non-existent skull that non-ghosts can't see or hear them. 3) Turns out, some crazy person can hear the main character and the main character has to communicate to his friends through this crazy asshole person. 4) The main character magically becomes not a ghost.

Really though, being a ghost would be a lot cooler than they make it out to be in the movies. You could play video games all day and not have to stop for tedious tasks like sleeping, pooping, and repeatedly tasering your neighbor's only child so that he will quit begging to be let out of his cage. You would also have free reign over watching naked chicks. Although it would suck having to wait around for that one really hot chick to get naked, because when you think about it, how often are you really naked? The correct answer is: not nearly enough, unless you are fat.

The problem is, while all this exonerating of Mr. Tumnus in exotic locations may sound well and good, it makes for a really lame movie. If the main character is no longer living then there is no possibility that any tangible threat or conflict will arise around the main character. I believe it was Peter Pan who said, "Life is the world's greatest adventure."

If there's anything that the storytelling in Halo 3 is sorely missing it's, aside from many other things, character development. The most developed character in the game is Major Sergeant (or is it Sergeant Major) Johnson, and that's only because he's actually Sgt. Apone from Aliens. The only reason Cortana (the annoying computer chick) existed is to advance the plot, since Master Chief is too much of a numskull to do anything else besides jump into space in the genral direction of a planet and hope for the best. But since Cortana is missing for the majority of the third installment, Master Chief has to step up and say things like "That's our galaxy," when shown a picture of his own galaxy. His name is two prefixes! This guy is such a redundant asshole that I bet if he was a rapper, he would call himself MC MC. Who the hell decided to put him in charge of anything?

And another thing: there is way too much flip flopping going on with the different races in the Halo games. Just pick a fucking side and stick with it. Master Chief has to be on some serious meds not to go insane and just ice everybody and their indecisive anuses.

P.S. The plural of mongoose is mongooses. I disagree and motion that it be changed to mongeese.

I always feel weird when somebody wishes me a happy birthday. It only happens once a year, and then it all comes at me in a rush and I have no idea how to respond. I guess the correct response is to say, "thank you," but that seems odd to me. Any other time somebody wishes you a happy day the most natural response is to wish him or her one as well. But with a birthday, that doesn't really work out. So when somebody whishes me a happy birthday and I just say, "thank you," it seems to me more like I am saying, "Hey thanks, now go fuck yourself." Really, the only correct response is "Thanks, you have a happy living day." I think once I hit 30 I'm just going to deny that I ever have a birthday and avoid the whole mess.

I have to say that this summer was looking pretty bleak when it came to new movies. With Spiderman 3 and Pirates 3 coming out early in the summer and only meeting my expectations, the rest of the lineup seemed sub par. Sure there's possibilities like The Simpsons and Transformers, but let's face it, these movies probably won't meet anyone's expectations. And then there was Live Free or Die Hard. At first when I heard about this I couldn't help but have a pessimistic attitude towards it; but then I saw the trailer, which sparked my curiosity and then some.

There has been an underlying theme in all the Die Hard movies (except maybe Die Hard with a Vengeance, but it's not worth remembering anything from that one): we as a society rely too much on technology. I don't personally agree with this theory, and I'm not sure why I even brought it up. I'm just impressed that I picked up on a theme.

I had a few minor gripes with this movie though. Firstly, and least importantly to the common viewer, the compositing in this movie was terrible. Maybe they ran out of money when it came to Post-Production, maybe they just spent too much time finely polishing other parts, but it definitely stuck out like Bruce Willis at a wig convention (Editor's note: that was a cheap shot and totally unnecessary, but nonetheless funny.) Some of the interior car scenes were obviously shot with a green screen and looked like the compositor didn't want to spend time on it and just put a large dither around everything. And a lot of the computer animated elements were very poorly blended with their respective plates.

Also, I hate Justin Long. I was a little confused as to exactly why the terrorists were trying to kill his character, and then I remembered he was Justin Long and it made sense. He actually did a decent job acting in this movie though and was somewhat humorous. Unlike other Die Hard movies, this new one is rated PG-13. This, along with their casting of Justin Long, seems to be an attempt by the executives to pull in a younger audience. It's kind of sad they made this move, as it is the only thing that is in betrayal of the series. The good news is that there seems to be just as much violence, and only slightly less extremely unnecessary profane language. However, that didn't stop me from yelling "fuck" several times in the theater to make up for it.

A common problem with blow your ass off action movies is that the action will be taken so far that your suspension of disbelief will be lost. I call this the awesomeness to reality ratio, or AR ratio. While this movie had a lot of unbelievable details, it was acceptable because it was necessary to drive the intense plot and jaw dropping action. If you don't get a boner from seeing a car take out a helicopter, then I can only assume you have no balls. Overall, it had an excellent AR ratio of 5:1.

Surprisingly, the acting in this movie was very convincing. The head honcho bad guy was evil to the core, but still had a human element. I'm convinced Elizabeth Winstead (Lucy McClane) was the actual offspring of John and Holly McClane. Kevin Smith could not have fit more in any other role than the one in this movie. Even Bruce Willis did a damn good job. The cinematography was also good. It didn't have really shaky hand-held camera movements which seem to be the trend in action movies lately. And while there were several complex camera moves, they were all motivated by the even more complex action taking place so it didn't detract from the experience.

I hate to sound contrived, but if you are going to see one movie this summer and you have one or more testicles, you should make it this movie.