Category Archives: entertainment

#64 The Karaoke Superstar

I've never wished for AutoTune.  Except for right now.

I've never wished for AutoTune. Except for right now.

As the saying goes: there’s one in every party. There’s always one person or group intent on ruining a good time. In the past, I’ve seen it in the form of police at a house party, or police at a wedding, or police at a soccer riot, or police at the bar. But at karaoke bars, it’s never police. It’s the Karaoke Superstar– that one person who looks at the beer-stained machine and microphone in the back of the bar as their window of opportunity to get discovered by a record executive.

And why wouldn’t they? It’s common knowledge that all music industry moguls spend their Tuesday nights outside their mansions, in the back booth of a sketchy Irish pub drinking $3 tall boys of Naddy Ice. The Karaoke Superstar truly believes this and uses it as a mantra for what he or she will do on Tuesday night for the rest of his or her life (for the sake of misogyny, let’s use “she” from now on).

Karaoke Superstar is the embodiment of the insecurity associated with the female gender, specifically middle school girls and all aspiring actresses. She believes that by using the esteemed principles of her grade school voice coach, she can impress that one person at Sonny McLean’s Publick Drinking House who has “contacts” to the music biz. While other folks are throwing back pints and belting out their favorite Elvis Presley or Three Dog Night song, Karaoke Superstar is sticking solely to what fits in her range, specifically LeAnn Rimes’ “Can’t Fight the Moonlight.”

For a moment like thisThe Superstar comits their acts of “kareokicide” under the dodgy pretense that she’s a good singer. And maybe she actually is alright. But instead of cutting her chops at a local live venue or at the “Dress Like Susan Boyle Night” in the Rec Center, she finds the Tuesday bar crowd less critical and easier to appease, which isn’t hard considering most of the male bar attendees looking at her imagine the microphone as their penis.

In fact, it’s quite common for K.S. to undergo a minor sexual encounter with a bar fly after he tells her he once worked in the same office as Russell Simmons, a half-truth, in that he mopped the floor 2 hours before Russell walked on it in Fat Farm sneakers. These sexual encounters can become a deadly game for Karaoke Superstar, as she’s bound to have a sore throat or oral herpes for a few weeks, both malaises causing major damage to her social life and her karaoke career (both one in the same).

If you come across Karaoke Superstar, be sure to not buy her a drink and not compliment her until she tries to sing something by Queen. There’s no way she’ll reach Freddie Mercury’s pitch, and it will be fun to see her get down on herself. It’s during this point of low self-esteem you’ll be able to go down on her. Even if she’s not into the whole cunnilingus thing, you’ll sleep nicely knowing she’s probably going to binge and purge tonight due to her un-Mercury-esque rendition of “Fat Bottom Girls”.

By Scott Glockholder
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Also Known As: Fiona Crapple, American Idle, Amateur Hour, Stage Fright, Karaoke Dookie, Karaoke vs. Bukkake: The Showdown, Microphone Fiend, the Middle Child, Chris Snornell

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#59 The Laptop Pooper

The Laptop Pooper:  Taking Multitasking Too Far

The Laptop Pooper: Taking Multitasking Too Far

It’s a sad day for technology when that 30 Megahurtz processor is working double duty to rapidly refresh “WWTDD“, while simultaneously attempting to stream the latest “Akon” song, all while you’re taking a sizable BM. But to the Laptop Pooper, this is a twice daily routine. Sometimes three, if today was Bran Flake Tuesday.

A more modern, recent addition to the Idiot Pants Party, the Laptop Pooper has streaked their way onto the scene within the last four years, breaking new ground with the invention of WiFi. These wireless technologies have given the LP virtual free reign, and upon their porcelain throne, they intend to be entertained.

For the Laptop Pooper, there is no line to cross — no line between what’s acceptable computer behavior and what’s just weird. Taking a shit with their computer propped precariously on top of their thighs — mere inches away from defecation — does not raise any red flags. They like that heat on their thighs, they need it.

Laptop LoggerLaptop Poopers tend to be younger males with excessive free time at work — worker bees who thusly experience a numbing exposure to the internet and various FAIL blogs. They tend to rely on these virtual sources to pass all waking moments of free time. And that 10-15 minutes in the Power Dome is no different.

Don’t even try to give them something “printed” to read, that shit is for old people. The laptop is king. “The Laptop Pooper Creed”, translated from Latin, states it quite plainly: It’s thine laptop, and they shalt poop if they want to. Sure, their motto is a rip off of Lesley Gore’s iconic song, but who the fuck is that?

Yet, perhaps the most disturbing aspect of LP’s habits is what’s know by scientists as “Fecal Fallout”, or unseen residue from said bathroom experiences that are unbeknownst to fellow computer users. This is quite similar to a nuclear reaction. That laptop you borrow to look up Google Maps may have been in the shitter only moments ago, and now your fingers will smell like chocolate.

If you’re confused, that’s a good thing. I personally follow the philosophy that if you’re not bringing it in there to whack off, then give it a rest. But be warned, it’s difficult to spot a Laptop Pooper unless you are close friends and/or roommates with them, as this tends to be a very personal pasttime.
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Also Known As: Partners in Porcelain, Poo Crew, The Computer Crapper, Dr. Doody, Crapping With My CPU, The Laptop Logger

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#54 The Robot-Voice Guy

 

The Ghost of Robot Singers Past & Present

Michael Jackson & Akon: The Ghost of Robot Singers Past & Present

Synthesized pop music of the ‘80s lead the Robot-Voice Guy to bust onto the music scene with a metaphorical raging hard-on, reaching his pinnacle with Michael Jackson’s “PYT (Pretty Young Thing)” in ’83. But since his Thriller apex, Robot-Voice Guy has slowly subjected himself to lower and lower levels of pop music, from the theme of the Transformers cartoon to, most recently, anything Kanye West, T-Pain, or Akon-oriented.

Nonetheless Robot-Voice Guy has become quite the popular singer despite his douchebag-by-association moniker. His secret: disguising horrid R&B vocals through robotic enhancements made in the studio. Just think of him as HAL from “2001” if HAL were programmed by Uncle Luke of 2 Live Crew.

Robot-Voice Guy’s popularity has come with several hit singles in recent years, most of which are thoughtless masculine mantras. Such notable lines include, “Work it, make it, do it, makes us harder better faster stronger,” as well as “Shorty got hips and shorty got ass,” and of course, “I want to fuck you—fuck you.” I know, it’s poetic.

Yet, despite the success of Robot-Voice Guy, he remains largely a mystery. This is moslty due to the fact that the Robot-Voice Guy is not a known person. Because of this lack of physical appearance, Robot-Voice Guy has caused many music traditionalists to speak out, believing the absence of human life makes Robot-Voice Guy a complete bullshit artist rather than a musical artist.

The only known photo of Robot-Voice Guy

The only known photo of Robot-Voice Guy

RVG is a master of catchy choruses, a direct catalyst for the crowded dance floors and excessively loud pubs all across America; although in his defense, his choruses have resulted in a plethora of wet vaginas and the occasional public finger bang. Unfortunately, the cumbersome pussy provided is of no use to him for the obvious reason that he’s not a real person but rather a vocal booth entity created by hi-tech Japanese gadgets.

While listening to Hot 97 or an equivelent shitty rap station, you may find it difficult to discern one Robot-Voice Guy’s song from another. This is normal, as they all use the same Pro Tools effect called “Taint”, which turns their R&B mumblings into a Wall-E-esque garbage heap.

Robot-Voice Guy can be found in all places where velvet ropes, $9 Bud Lights, and attention seekers all conjure together, AKA anywhere in Los Angeles or Manhattan. These places follow a strict rule in that their name can only be one syllable, not unlike the Britpop bands of the mid-90s. Robot-Voice Guy can be found ruining hip-hop music at Club Tryst, Krills, or Crème, or as I’ve recently found out, the Goldfried bar mitzvah.

By Scott Glockholder
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Also Known As: Kanye’s chorus, Akon’s album, T-Pain’s career, Britney Spears’ Comeback, Stephen Hawking

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#43 The Fantasy Football Fanatic

It's like I'm actually part of the team!

It's almost as real as beating off to porn!

Since when was it socially acceptable for a grown-man to watch football on Sunday with a laptop propped on his thighs? This question is one of the many asked while observing the internet’s latest product, the Fantasy Football Fanatic AKA F3s.

Other questions include, “why would a grown man live out his life vicariously through an offensive line?” Or even worse, “why would an adult let his life be consumed by the stats of a newly acquired placeholder?” These questions are just part of the enigma that are Fantasy Football Fans, a group immensely growing in numbers while ironically, their cocks shrink.

“Irony” is the proper term for this pathetic culture of loserdom. The F3 is a big proponent of all things masculine: reading FHM, doping drinks with GHP, and shopping at GNC. All in all, F3 lives in a fantasy world (obvious by his name). But on Sunday, all that masculinity culminates to a couch cushion in order to perform the least manly thing possible: watch television and let a computer tally up statistics. F3 plops himself on the couch for an arduous day of nothing but potential bragging rights at the water cooler tomorrow. In doing so, he has become the perfect example of the pussification of the American male.

Whereas only 10 years ago, adult males would enter the workplace on Monday morning to trade stories about who’s penis went where over the weekend or about how much property damage they caused — today’s men meet at the water cooler to boast about who traded up for Ricky Waters prior to Sunday afternoon*.

Even more stupendous than their pussification is the event they hold just before their 5-month internet hard-on. I’m referring to the Fantasy Football Draft, which, if some of you aren’t familiar, is the equivalent of the motivational huddle fluffers create the first day of shooting on a gay-porn set.

Spotting an F3 is one of the easiest tasks to master. For one, F3 outfits are as uniform as the referees they’ve come to detest. By sporting their favorite football team’s home jersey or t-shirt and a pair of sweat pants, the F3 announces to the general public that A) I’m a huge fan of Eli Manning and B) I’ve abandoned self-confidence and have given up caring about my place in society.

Secondly, all F3s congregate in the same place: their homes. There once was a time where F3s wandered planet Earth like the husky dog in heat. But much like the husky breed, they’ve been neutered, trading in their natural ways for a fat, domesticated life on the couch. Nonetheless, an enticing menu of chicken wings and boobs can get F3s out of the house, but the lack of internet access hinders their social behavior. And while you’re trying to kick it to a pair of slutty Chargers fans, your F3 “Wingman” will be too busy texting his buddy Karl to hit the refresh button, and update him on their fantasy league.

By Scott Glockholder
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Also Known As: Tim Couch, Peyton Not-a-Manning, Warren Goon, Warren Sappy, Mean Joe Recliner, Robert DeNiro in The Fan, Season Ticket/Dick Holder

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#38 The CGI Fanatical Animation Grown-up

I <em>totally</em> connect with this movie!

Holy Kenobi! I totally connect with this movie!

You’d think that with the overwhelming popularity of the UFC, and the continuing casting callbacks Nicolas Cage receives, American males would be bursting with masculinity. Sadly, that’s not the case, and we’re stuck with a specific sub-culture of American male 20-somethings: The Computer Generated Image Fanatical Animation Grown-up, or simply, the CGI FAG. This group consists of young adults with a penchant for slip-on shoes, shorts in the winter, and using the phrase “draining the lizard” in regards to urination.

CGI FAGs are a pathetic group: grown men whose nostalgia for childhood ekes out through viewing Disney Pixar flicks in the theatre (and also wearing Nintendo-themed t-shirts). The key characteristic behind CGI FAGs isn’t that they frequent the theatre but that they do so without a date. It’s understandable that men would watch a cartoon movie just for a chance at sex. After all, it’s a known fact that men will lower themselves to standards not too far from panhandling, just for a chance to have a protuberance touch something warm and moist.

But with CGI FAGs there’s only one goal: to enjoy the bright colors and wacky sounds a bunch of Asian computer technicians smoothly fused together for 90 minutes. And by no means is that worth 12 dollars on a sunny Saturday afternoon.

I destroy movies, but empower F.A.G.s!

George Lucas: I destroy movies, but inspire F.A.G.s!

A key element to this pathetic group is the self-awareness they possess. CGI FAGs are just like the guy who owns the album Justified; he relishes in his folly but doesn’t do a thing to correct the error. They realize what they’re doing is a major let down to their gender, a gender so noble and admirable that it’s synonymous with Genghis Khan, Ernest Hemingway, and the lead singer of late-90s alt-rock band Semisonic (rumor has it he hosts lavish coke parties somewhere in Minneapolis, hence it’s never “Closing Time”).

When viewing a line of CGI FAGs at the nearest movie theatre, one will see a line of white faces. Not since Duran Duran’s 1984 Seven and The Ragged Tiger Tour has there been as long a line consisting of nothing but soft, effeminate white guys. It’s imperative that one realizes CGI FAGs are almost always white, with the occasional Philippino peppered in the crowd. But since American white guys invaded the Philippines at the end of the 19th century, it’s safe to place blame at Honkey’s doorstep.

CGI FAGs can be found in any popular American city with multiplexes, but have a heavy foundation in the Southern California area, due to Los Angeles being the epicenter of filmmaking and the state of California’s legalization of medicinal marijuana. If coming across a CGI FAG, feel free to run their pockets, as they will probably have a decent amount of raspberry Kush and will clearly be too thundabaked to fight back. Plus, they’ll be focused on seeing Wall-E for the fifth time, and will not have sufficient energy to do anything but buy a jumbo tub of buttered popcorn, and of course, tickle their balls.

By Scott Glockholder
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Also Known As: The Animated Movie Adult (AMA), Toys R’ Us Kid, Finding Emo, Virgin and a Movie, The Rated G Grown-Up

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#29 The Movie Theater Applauder

Wow!  That Brett Ratner did it again!

Wow! That Brett Ratner did it again!

There’s always one person that ruins a great experience. At Faber College it was Dean Wormer, in the 90s it was that parachuting fan man, and since then, it’s been the Movie Theatre Applauder. Where the former two were single, flash-in-the-pan jackasses (on par with Sugar Ray’s Mark McGrath), the Movie Theatre Applauder is omnipresent and everlasting — and he or she hasn’t let up since my first cinema outing in the mid-80s.

Perhaps the most annoying characteristic about the Movie Theatre Applauder is their anonymity. Just like the drunk girl at the party packing the clap, you don’t know who’s going to ruin your experience until after you’ve had your fun. They’re a slick and self-conscious bunch, able to cloak their nimrod habit just as the house lights are turned on.

With their “clap and bounce” strategy, MTA’s slither out the exit well before a crow-hop hard-right from myself or any other person trying to enjoy the sullen end to Requiem For A Dream. Yet, just a few seconds ago they were applauding with pure vigor, as if Darren Aronofsky was going to answer questions in a post-flick seminar.

Unfortunately, that’s not the case. There is no Aronofsky standing at the podium, no producers to give you insight. The only person waiting when those lights come on is the 17-year old usher, who’s lethargy is at its peak because he’s well aware he’ll be picking up my empty box of Raisinets and the five cans of Sparks I left in the back row.

I’m the D-bag applauding after What Happens In Vegas.

I’m the D-bag applauding after What Happens In Vegas.

Although similar to their annoying counterpart,The Black Movie Theater Talker, the Movie Theater Applauder cowers at the prospect of being identified. Even so, we’ve managed to draw a rough sketch: Applauders are more of the New England smug type; the same people who wear turtle necks underneath corduroy sport coats, work on the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle in bed, and indulge in brunch at least 12 times a month.

If one is to ever catch a Movie Theatre Applauder, I recommend they duff him or her out, but hold back on their vindictive assault. One should shackle the applauder and bring him or her to the nearest university, where their blood can be tested to see if they’re genetically predisposed to being a douche bag.

By Scott Glockholder
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Also Known As: And The Dipshit Is…, Credits Killer, Clap Your Hands Say Gay, How To Lose An Eye in 10 Seconds, Clappy Gilmore

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#28 The Reality Show Contestant

I want to be on TV!There was a time when it horrified the public to hear that guitar-legend Robert Johnson had sold his soul at the crossroads for Rock God status. Yet today, no one bats an eye when the Reality Show Contestant whores their soul out for a pack of American Spirits, a fresh strain of Herpes, and a slot on the latest installment of Bret Michael’s “Suck My Rocks IV”.

To the Reality Show Contestant, eating raw cow testicles and blowing some quasi-celebrity on screen is proof that they too are “celebrities”. This is key. The Reality Show Contestant’s desire to be famous follows a “no holds barred” strategy — they will do anything, screw anyone, and even disgrace their own family, to stay on the show.

Their ultimate goal: To get their own reality show. One where they can make someone else eat moose dick for their “love”. They’ve seen how Flavor of Love’s “New York”s borderline psychotic behavior got her her very own show. And they’ve seen Tila Tequila’s bi-sexual gangbang turn from MySpace Tweak to Reality Freak. These are dreams coming true, people.

“But why?” you ask. “Why would someone make their own Grandmother take deep throating lessons from Tila Tequila just to win that weeks competition?” The answer is simple. They want to “find love”. You’ve seen how quickly they can turn on the waterworks, and start mindlessly blabbering about how much they love Bret Michaels or want to be with Flava Flav for the rest of his life. They love him. Of course, by “love”, they mean they love the attention, and more importantly, the cameras. They really love the cameras. Really.

You may want to use a Dental Dam

Uhh...You may want to use a Dental Dam

I’ve had the unfortunate opportunity to work on a few reality shows and see first hand the RSC’s uninhibited lust for attention. All they want is to be on TV, even if it makes them look bad. You want me to jerk off a homeless person? OK. Really, I need to sleep with all three of those guys? And the Producer? Alright, I’ll do it!

Yet, the Reality Show Contestant does possess one unique trait. They need to be unleashed — chosen. Without cameras, the RSC is just a lunatic with serious parental issues and a loose moral backbone. But after a few sessions with Mr. Producer, they turn into well oiled TV gold.

You can find the Reality Show Contestant on any broadcast or cable network around 8-9 PM, with high concentrations on MTV and VH1. After their 10 week stint on I Love Money VII, you’ll undoubtedly see them trying to leapfrog their “stardom” into a successful entertainment career. And failing miserably.

If you ever see a Reality Show Contestant in public, please, for the love of god, do not give them attention. It will only stroke their ego, and in turn, encourage them to audition for another Reality Show.
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Also Known As: Meat Puppets, The Reality TV Doody, The Callsheet Says Love, TV’s Least Talented, Flava Sava, Who Wants To Marry A Tramp?

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