Charlie Weis' swan song new contract extension

Yep. Advocating Weis' return would pretty much be approaching shitty football with the injudicious stoicism of a retard burning his hand on a stove. But don't tell that to the stoics who just gave the portly one another year, which may as well be tantamount to a slow-roasted, heavily-labored, and gratuitously sweaty death sentence for their otherwise stout football program.

Pride will inevitably go before the fall in either case, but not until after the former's three Super Bowl rings; the unblemished head coaching records against Pittsburgh, Purdue, Navy, Air Force, and Syracuse; and the decided schematic advantage which yielded only 41 rushing yards against Syracuse and didn't record a single first down until the end of the third quarter against Southern California's backup scrubs. Also, it's strange that I use the term "against," because I only saw a bunch of guys who ran around in circles before willingly offering themselves and readily capitulating on first contact at that. It's ok, Irish. Now where did that slightly above-average team touch you and your ill-prepared coach?

I'm sure that real Notre Dame fans would rather immolate themselves (or tune to something comparatively milder) than tolerate another year of this, but the collective base has become so accustomed to inferior football that there are very few of them left.

I hope Megan Meier will be reincarnated as somebody who knows how to use MySpace's ignore function

To tell you the truth, it's hard to reconcile the blubbering outpour of sympathy for Megan Meier, not that I have any for her morose, morbidly obese former nemesis. There's probably a greater chance that I would've given a shit if she were killed walking down the street by any means other than throwing herself into the path of an oncoming semi, but the motivation remains the same: she killed herself because she was stupid. Since when did it become socially acceptable in this country to be so personally irresponsible?


I don't expect much from any 13-year-old who takes some random person she met on the internet seriously — given that she presumably wouldn't have been on the internet if her mother actually considered her delicate medical condition and knew what the hell she was doing in the first place, an act which I believe used to be called parenting — but at least she saved everyone the trouble of finding her belly up in the bathtub after being told that her favorite band sucked. Yeah, I may have pretentiously wallowed in the cascading chorus of my abject self-pity and abundance of Doritos after someone verbally murdered my Survivor tribute video on YouTube, but I eventually dealt with it (and the five pounds to boot). At the very least, I'd advise anyone in a similar position not to slit their wrists when they're told to clean their room; I'd rather have my civil liberties. (Or, at the very least, an awesome montage in which Dave Bickler's vocals fuel my efforts to get them back.)

That being said, if Tina Meier were truly sincere, then perhaps she'd address whatever inflicted the smoldering corpse that used to be her narcissistic daughter than launch some self-righteous crusade against something as vague and mundane as internet bullying. First off, no one can be jailed for writing anything obnoxious. Depending on how thick your skin is, "internet bullying" can technically be anything — at least anything in the regard that it can be ignored without the indirect consequence of arbitrarily penalizing everyone else. Otherwise, we'd have to jail everyone simply because some selfish dumbass with a tiara lacked cognitive fortitude. It only follows that both humanity and the fashion police benefit when people like this rid themselves of the genepool.

Alas, I am so incensed over this grievous constitutional infringement that I think I'll commit suicide just to prove a point. Details forthcoming.

How to spot a depressingly shitty war film

Its box art will probably be this:


Why everyone likes this film perplexes me because A) I never understood it and B) I never came across anyone who did. I reasonably assumed that everyone was afflicted with muscular dystrophy and had to endure this insufferable scourge, but the fact that I'm not doing a catatonic Louise Glover completely invalidates my point. I mean, I don't get it. Is it supposed to be some sort of coming of age film? Because if it is, then that's for queer teenage dramas starring that queer, Zac Efron. We're talking about a war film, or something that tries to be like one by lacing itself with superficial soldier jargon and boorish one-liners, either of which would've been mildly tolerable if the fighting scenes didn't suck so much. That the characters spend more than an hour brazenly firing into thin air almost makes you forget who the hell we were fighting.

Who needs substance and transition when you can watch me save the world from those dangerous hydrofluorocarbons!?

In addition to its perversion of the war against. . . something, almost everything in this film is pointless, and through some miraculous measure, so are the action scenes — or the deplorable lack of them. Gee, it wouldn't hurt to have someone actually die in combat at least within the first four hours because that's kind of what war does. And it also wouldn't hurt if the backstory and dialogue actually made sense instead of peddling some morally ambiguous and supercilious subtext straight from some snotty asshole's half-baked, metaphysical treatise on warfare. I don't know about you, but I watch war films to gawk at people being blown apart and crucified; I don't watch to inflate some director's misguided sense of self-worth by sharing my subjective interpretations of a Rorschach test for bullshit.

In addition to actually having a tangible plot as opposed to an inkblot of an intoxicated echidna — or a cheese sandwich — filmmakers need to stick to the violent and gritty formulas that made Blackhawk Down, Saving Private Ryan, and Rambo so successful. All three films are entertaining and practical; they don't try to scrape the bottom of war's root causes because nobody gives a shit, which is fitting since I've never heard of too many soldiers who've wandered into sniper-infested cities torn over abstract concepts like relativism and the "duality of man." (They're apparently too busy, you know, fighting for their fellow man or something like that, not that certain filmmakers would know.) Finally, neither film talks down to its viewers with some condescending, pseudo-holistic approach of warfare intended to "replicate" the confusion of being a soldier; such would invariably involve some boring, three-hour barracks scene filled with inflated high school cheerleader lore and fifty billion masturbation innuendos. Way to rub me the wrong way while I try to tie up the loose ends with Jennifer, Kubrick.

We need those movies because everything else just plain sucks, like those porn sites that demand SexKeys to justify their lesser porno, which, if you're savvy, you can effectively access on a site that doesn't need a SexKey. In the same vein, you're better off tuning to Uncommon Valor or Hamburger Hill unless you want to be treated to a preview that looks and sounds good when you see the thumbnail, but ruins everything with its bad dialogue, dildo-licking (I don't think Full Metal Jacket had any, but I'm going to err on the side of caution), and extraneously lengthy setup. Whoever made it is or was a fucking tasteless hedonist. And whoever likes it is probably bad in bed.

Technically, he got 29

Also, Senator Clinton's name was misspelled and anyone who supports Ron Paul can't comprehend the consequences of their actions anyway, which means that Jesus edges the apathetic and Mike Huckabee vote (technically the same thing) by six. That, of course, is dependent on the assumption that my dogmatically-influenced mathematical calculations of the write-in vote from Duval County, Florida hold any water.


May your reign be long, your cabinet members true beyond the tempting auspices of 30 slivers of bling, and your political acumen as incisive as a lance to the backside.

Nonchalant review of a random internet site (which I may have perused beforehand)

Ah, Domer Domain. You never cease to reinforce your status as the perpetual red-headed, retarded stepchild of the Notre Dame fan community.

The first thing I thought when I visited this place was "Holy shit! This place just screams utter legitimacy." In fact, I may have spotted Max von Sydow in the middle of all that blatant intellectual property theft. (Mr. Sydow, your name doesn't deserve to be sullied by being mentioned in the proximity of such undesirability, for which I apologize.)


And will you look at that? January 1st is already marked as a definite bowl game date, which assumes that Notre Dame won't get its ass kicked by a blind, deaf-mute, cane-wielding midget along the way. (EDIT 11/22/08: I rule.)

Maybe I'm being a bit harsh. This place is a bit legitimate when it doesn't steal premium information from college football pay sites. Instead, it does the next best thing by publishing and promoting hearsay from a 15 year old kid, which is great because I creamed myself in sheer disbelief when he reported that Golden Tate's favorite food was chicken. I always thought it was beef, bacon, or something that didn't really give a shit about what a college athlete has for dinner. On second thought, chickens really don't — unless you're Foghorn Leghorn, whom the aforementioned Notre Dame receiver will shamelessly devour in a matter of minutes — and neither does everyone and everything else. Way to go, kid.


So, Domer Domain blows, which is unsurprising if you consider that Notre Dame's college football team currently does, too.