Analyzing the last five Minutes of D2: The Mighty Ducks

So, I have a strange obsession with The first two Mighty Duck movies, more of a love-hate relationship really, being that most of the love is directed solely at Elden Hensen's character Fulton Reed because when I was a teenager, the adoration was full on. I'm talking Bloody Munchkin Hearts Fulton Reed in big red ink. Yes, I knew he was a fictional character, but that didn't matter to me. I needed me some long-haired strong-silent ruffian, and I needed him baaad. It was full-on scary ya'll. All that pent-up fifteen-year-old school-girl-crush energy that girls reserved for The New Kids on the Block, excuse me I mean NKOTB I diverted to Elden Hensen, well that in about a bajillion other tertiery characters in about a bajillion other movies (Can you say Seth Green's character in Airborne? Can you also say Breckin Meyer's character in Clueless?), but that's beside the point.

The Hate was soley directed at Emilio Estevez because: Shut Up! Shut Up Emilio's prickish behavior, holier than thou attitude, stupid ass smirk, and feather-ass-that-later-becomes-greasy-ass hair. Shut up the girlish love interests in both movies who are supposed to be the thing that grounds Gordon Bombay (Emilio's Character) who just come off whiny and why would a prick like Emilio end up with wet blankets like that? Because seriously. Does kind of explain Paula Abdul, but that's besides the point...

God, I can't believe how much energy I've wasted on explaining what a prick Gordon Bombay end up being. Here I am stating the obvious again, like that point hasn't already been broadcast in space.

But anyway, to get to the point. Somehow I've been catching D2 on cable alot lately. I haven't figured out why I have to watch it ever time it is on cable because that movie has lost alot of the allure it once had for me. There's so much cheese emitting from the screen I'd be able to make enough fondue to last a lifetime. Usually I skip the last five minutes, because booooring.
But this morning I caught the last five minutes, and I got to say, I'm really freaked out now. Like seriously freaked out.

So here's the thing, at the very end, when the credits start rolling, there's this wierd camp out the whole team does and they are sitting there around a camp fire, with Goldberg lighting his marshmellow on fire and Joshua Jackson looking all cute and "The Bash Brothers" hamming it up and the such. There's two things that have me freaked out about this scene, and its not the lot's butchering of "We Are The Champions" either. First of all, it's the longing stares Micheal Tucker's character Tibbles and Emilio have, which emit "Brokeback Hockey" for the two seconds its caught on screen, which, what is with that really? I mean, ew! Micheal Tucker being the Ennis to Emilio Estevez's Jack is not the mental picture I've ever wanted. But I have it now. And I can't un-have it either. Is that why they all went camping, so that their two characters could play tonsil hockey in a tent while chaperoning the other kids? I really think it is.

The other thing that has me freaked out beyond comparison is right before the screen goes to black, there's this wide shot of everyone around the campfire, and you see the bash brothers wrestling by the fire, which is a brokeback moment in and of itself, but then, on the far right of the screen, you see Emilio rocking back and forth in his seat next to the teacher/wet blanket all scary-like. I think he was supposed to be rocking out, but it comes off all unabomber, Charles-Manson-ish and I have absolutely no idea why. What was that all about? I really want to know. Did the director go "Em, we need you to rock out this last scene, but rock out with intensity." and this happened to be Emilio's answer? Did he some how do some drugs he swiped from his brother Charlie right before he started and just got really into the moment? If that last scene is really indicative of Emilio's normal behavior, well then I am beginning to see why he hasn't gotten alot of work in the last ten years and nobody has greenlighted Men at Work 2.

This is a very long-winded way of me saying that I finally understand why I've skipped this scene the five-thousand other times I've scene this movie, because I am seriously scarred for life now...

Murphy's Law Bites My Ass

I think there's some murphy's law that somehow Karma always seem to want to bring about onto Fighting Nun and myself. Well, there are actually several murphy's laws that get inacted on us on a daily basis, one of which is that, even if you pick the shortest line in the super market, it will inevitably become the longest line, complete with little old lady paying for her thirty dollars of groceries in change.

But the one law of murphy currently kicking our asses happens to be a law that states "Whatever you have put good-earned money into will be irreparably damages so that it is truly yours" or something like that. The thing we put good money on is obviously our new house, and although not irreparably damaged yet, within the month and a half that we've lived there it has become "ours" because between the wine stain and the dog who shall not be name BECAUSE HE IS STILL IN TROUBLE tearing up a patch of the carpet, it's now officially got the "Bloody Munchkin and Fighting Nun were here. You can tell by the swath of destruction we've laid" stamp of approval all over it.

Thing is, we were doing so good though. We've been taking our shoes off so as not to get the carpet dirty. We've been fixing the umpteen little things the home-inspector dude found wrong with our house since we moved in and I have been obsessively cleaning the kitchen like Mr. Clean on crack. We were being the good little home-owners I always knew we could be.

And then what happens? We spill wine, a great glassful onto the carpet. Which sucks but whatever. We got a steam cleaner, we're dealing with it. Although it's turning out to be the little wine stain that could, or the ghost of spilt grape juice past, what with haunting the spot we've cleaned in a vaguely brownish color. But we'll deal. What we don't have good solid answers for dealing with is the spot of carpet by the closet door mr. still-in-trouble-pants decided to create because he thought jut was apparantly a good look for the floor.

But I can't totally blame the dog. Well I can, but part of me, a small sliver of me knows it was Karma putting a murphy's law in action on our asses. I mean, why is it that when the world tries to cosmically balance itself, Fighting Nun and I find we're on the wrong end of the see-saw when it happens?

Babies

Can I just say how endlessly amusing I find it that Tom Cruise's and Brooke Shields's babies are born hours apart? That's gonna be a fun school yard five years from now. "Go back to your pill popping mom." "Shut Up Sari. Why don't you worship Xenu with your couch-jumping dad." And then the gloved will be O-F-F. That's gonna be fantastic...

Words are fun!

I once read a Non Sequiter comic in which the main character were just shouting words at each other because it was fun. I decided to send the comic to Fighting Nun, and we immediately started yelling inane words at each other, like arugula and mestication (well, those were my words really) over e-mail. It was fun. I don't know why we stopped. Oh yeah, that's right, work and stuff. Darn work. Always screwing stuff up.

With that said, today has turned over two doozies that I must broadcast to the world. Well, not the world because I have like no readers and therefore am merely posting where the world can see it if the world so chooses, which it doesn't, but anyway.

The two words of the day are:

Goldiglo

Teledildonics

They could also be in contention for awesome band names, but Teledildonics would have to be a really loud, Lords-of-Acid-like band to really pull off the name.

The President's Head is bouncy

I don't know why I find the above link so perversely amusing, but I do. There is something disturbing entertaining about watching a charicature of the W getting bounced and crushed and put through his paces in a wierd little bouncy ball world. And you have mouse control, so if the president gets stuck, you just pull him through or over an obstacle. I have found that I'm taking too much pleasure in putting this guy through his paces. Let me tell you, you have not lived until you've watched the Commander in Chief forced through a tiny opening doing the full standing splits. I also like that when W is stuck somewhere, his little character body is heaving, like he's breathing heavy as if he's just had to think incredibly hard or was straining to comprehend foriegn policy or something like that.

I wonder if Barbara Boxer or, like the founding members of move-on are playing around with this right now all "And this is for the War in Iraq, and this is for your policies on public education, and don't eeeeven get me started on this new immigration bill." Heh!

Turtlegate

I'm not sure if its obvious, but apparantly I'm hardwired to buy a bunch of kitchy crap I don't really need. There are certain things that I'm convinced a company in China made specifically because they new I would by it. Any sproingy, brightly colored toy of varying cuteness or playfulness I will either buy or lament not buying, and in some cases, I will buy multiples of. Take my cubicle for instance. Somehow I have amassed three slinkies, two bean-bag lizards, four strechy rubbery lizard toys, all in various states of decay and destruction (it's not my fault their legs are easy to rip off, really!), at least ten bouncy balls, some of which light, some of which light and make noise, some of which are supposed to light and make noise but whose batteries have died, four jelly rings that light up, a lava lamp glittery thingy and a plastic Godzilla Lizard, and a stuffed Intel Guy. And that's just a partial listing of the toys I can see!

So, point is, if it is cute and amusing, chances are I either have it, have multiples of it, or deeply waaaaaaant it if I don't have it already. Usually, Fighting Nun is able to curb that instinct I have. Our new house isn't cluttered with cute and amusing things, sadly. This is because my need to outfit our house with needless stuff is usually met with a good helping of resistance. A trip to Bed, Bath, and Beyond usually goes something like this:

"Look, it's a soap dispenser thingy with froggies floating in it!"
"You don't need it!"
"But it's, It's a soap dish.... With little froggies.... Floating in it!"

Fighting Nun usually pats my shoulder, rolls his eyes and walks away from me at this point, thus settling the dilemma and leaving me without an amusing froggie-floating dispenser, sadly. But sometimes, just sometimes, Fighting Nun can't walk away from my stunning powers of persuasion mixed with the desire to have amusing things, such as our latest outing to the hardware store. Yes, I realize that a hardware store is hardly the place to find something that suits my cuteness needs, but this last time, there was just the thing.

Bloody Munchkin: Look, they have a glow in the dark froggie light!
Fighting Nun: *rolls eyes*
BM: No, but look, its a little solar-powered frog that can sit outside in our new backyard and it can be an extra patio light. We need another one! You said so yourself...

At this point, Fighting Nun walks away from me, but the beauty of a hardware store is that nothing is where it is suppose to be, so you end up walking up and down the same aisles a bunch of different times, trying to find the stuff you need, which at this particular moment was cloth fiberglass, bondo, a spreader and expandable foam (don't ask) all of which were conveniently not placed anywhere close to each other which meant Fighting Nun and I were forced to walk passed the same spot where the awesome glowing froggies of wonderfulness happened to be. Which meant I could ply my wonderful powers of persuasion on him *cough wearing him down cough*.

Bloody Munchkin: But see, he's so cute and he needs a good home.
Fighting Nun: I am not buying you a glow in the dark frog.
BM: But he'll light up in the patio and he's soooo cute and I'll name him Ralph!
FN: You name EVERYTHING Ralph!
BM: No I don't! I name everything Pepe and that can be blamed on the movie Airborne. The only things I name Ralph are my shoes, and those are only the righties!
FN: *walks away*

After the third time walking past the display and "persuading" Fighting Nun that we needed a lighted up frog, Fighting Nun was at his wit's end.

FN: I AM NOT BUYING YOU A GLOW IN THE DARK FROG!
BM: But, but, but... (Cue pouty lip and big, puppy dog eyes)
FN: ....But I will buy you the glow in the dark turtle.
BM: There are turtles!!! I didn't even see those!!! Those are awesome! I like those better!

So we now own a glow in the dark turtle which I have ceremoniously dubbed Thomas (I couldn't name him Ralph because all my right shoes are named Ralph, and I couldn't name him Pepe because my plant at work is named Pepe, so I had to come up with something else. And besides, Ralph the Turtle? Does not have a good ring to it. Now, if I can just convince Fighting Nun the next time we go to the hardware store that Thomas the Turtle is lonely all by himself in our big, huge patio and needs friends, like say possibly two more glow in the dark turtles and maaaaaaybe a frog? Come on, what do you say?

Made-Up Band Names

Metrosexual Backlash.

I'm envisioning a very grungy plaid wearing alternative band, but not in Kurt Cobain kind of way, more of a Mel Gibson meets Grizzly Adams kind of Way. Zack Galafanakis, I think I have the band name for you!

Screw You Weather, Part Deux

What is going on with the Bay Area's weather right now? I mean seriously. It's April. April for Godsakes! Fighting Nun and I are supposed to be Windsurfing! right now. I am, by all accounts supposed to take my humongoid life raft of a beaten-up board and one of Fighting Nun's beat up sails and I'm supposed to be beating them up right now. Not right now as in right now, but right now as in, we were supposed to start windsurfing back in March. It's supposed to be sunny and windy and Fighting Nun are supposed to be out at one of the handful of windsurfing locations scattered around the bay area right now. Everytime we drive over the bridge, Fighting Nun is supposed to look forlornly out to bay and lament not being able to sail the white caps. Now Fighting Nun just looks out to the bay and laments it not being windy. We're both inside, miserable, watching the rain come down for like the umpteenth consecutive day, listening to the doom and gloom of the weather reports on TV ("Mudslides in Marin, Highway 1 closed forever, more rain for at least a month, more at 11").

And its not just the lack of windsurfing I'm lamenting. It's Baseball. Did you know there was supposed to be a game last night? Had there been a game last night, we would have watched it, but instead, it got rained out and Fighting Nun made me watch the first thirty atrocious minutes of "Saw". Shut Up Weather! You're screwing up baseball and forcing me to watch horror movies with my husband, and that I just won't stand for! Do you hear me weather, or do I have to drone on and on about what you happen to be doing to MY HAIR in addition to the havoc you are wreaking with my social activities? Because I will!!! Just you wait. Except I've already droned on about my weather-related hair woes here before, but I will again if that is what it takes for you to stop raining and turn sunny and windy! Don't think I won't, because I will!! I mean it!! And don't think I don't have an extra special rant about what this rain is doing to all the traffic in this area, because I do. Short form: It's turning people into idiots. Well, even more so than they were before.

Weather, hurry up and do what you are supposed to do: get sunny, get windy and get ready for me to shred!

Paralyzed with Helping, Part I

So a couple of weeks ago, I went into this huge rant about public schools and how we as in the government we is trying to do things to help the school system but it instead hampers them and weighs them down with unnecessary red tape and not enough funding to clear the red tape and help the kids out at the same time. I even wrote quite a lot of paragraphs about it for the blog, but, because what was starting as an articulate rant ended up as an inarticulate gurgle of fury directed at anyone in charge not seeing the problem. Lots of vigorous head shaking and unexplainable frustration weren't really gonna get my point across.

Which brings me to my point. There is an organization that is doing something about helping our kids, and that I enjoy helping very much. Here's the problem. I recently came into a little money as part of my departed grandmother's estate (I haven't talked much about her or that experience either, well I have, just not in this space. I wanted to keep that experience of losing her separate from what I'm doing in this space). So Fighting Nun said that any devices I had for the money were my own. Part of that money went into a project for the house (buying my awesome dog Kissinger a doggie door so he can get in and out of the patio easily). It's a piddly thing to use the inheritance on, but I don't think my grandmother would mind. So now I have 40 dollars left over, and I'm paralyzed as to what to do with it. I've thought about spending it on myself, but I'll just buy crap and I'd like to do something nice in my grandmother's memory, so I'm thinking of earmarking that money for a project on Donor's Choose.

Thing is, I can't decide which project to give my money to. There's so many good ones, and I'm paralyzed with the choosing and the helping, and also asking other people to help and get the project I pick on the ground and rolling for these kids. So I'm leaving it up to my two readers to help me decide. Right now, I'm leaning to these two projects: Marin Headlands Camping and Bay Area Kids Experiencing the sea around them. I'll make my decision soon, but any ideas would be appreciated.

The Mustache Strikes Back

Remember when I remarked about how bad Fabritzio's mustache was? Remember how I also said how I was horrified that the 70's pornstache was making a comeback? Well, this topic came back up in discussion, and I'm still mystified by the fact that there are men out there who think they can pull off the nice thick mustache without coming off sleazy, creepy or not like Ron Jeremy. Because I'm here to tell you, trying to pull off that stache will not work. And I know why.

First of all, the guys trying pull off that stache are twenty-something wannabe hipsters who are trying to come of as ironic or retro or vintage or however they try and spin it as. First of all, if it's the ironic facial hair that you're going for, well that train has passed. The age of The New Sincerity is upon us. The Age or Irony is so 1996. So don't do it. And if you're trying to grow it because you think the perfectly groomed mustache will be a great accessory to go with your vintage "If this Trailer's a Rockin', don't bother Knockin'" t-shirt and Camaro belt buckle, well then you are an idiot. Look, the only think that accessorizes with that t-shirt is a grease fire (although the belt buckle is pretty rocking) and secondly, the porn-stache accessorizes with nothing but orange shag carpeting and the "wakka-wakka" music of impending bone-age.

My friend, the one who is considering a forray into this most unfortanate of trends argued that his stache could maybe be very Sam-Elliot-like. Let me explain something. There's only one person, well two people in this whole wide world that could pull of the Sam Elliot mustache and those two people are Sam Elliot and my dad. But see, Sam Elliot knew how to work that mustache, and he also accessorized it with awesome salt-and-pepper hair and a Harley a la "Mask". My dad pulled off that mustache, and continues to pull it off, because he's rocking the same salt-and-pepper look and also because my dad looks a lot like Sam Elliot, only with a bigger beer belly and a more pronounced bald spot.

And don't even bring up the Sellick. O.k., I respect the Sellick, and, fine I'll relent that he rocked the stache on Magnum P.I., but if you even think you can go Magnum, well then you are delusional and an idiot. Only Magnum can go Magnum and only Sam Elliot and my dad can go Sam Elliot.

My friend also argued that he thinks it would be cool to try for the handlebar. Why? No, really. Why? There's only been two people in recent TV history to sport the handlebar, one of which is pretty much portrayed as an idiot. An idiot with good intentions, but an idiot nonetheless. The other was a guy on a reality make-over show and he was forced at camera point to shave the unholy union of a banana slug and pubic hair off his lip. Why would you even want to try a handlebar? Because you think it might be fun to reenact old vauldvillian schtick or every silent movie involving a helpless damsel and railroad tracks? Because if that job's not already taken, it should be, by Rip Tayler. Because the crazy, and abnormal facial hair are both prerequisites for that job, and he's already got both qualities in spades. I mean, did you see the picture?

So please, for the love of all God's creatures, save us the inhumanity and don't don the stache. Please. For me?

Gum on my shoe

So, I've got gum on my shoe. I'm not sure how it happened, but it happened. It happened earlier in the week actually, but now it's making it's presense known to me. I've also got gum on my car floor mats, because of the gum on my shoe which means that I can't put my left foot certain places when I'm driving, which is consequently the foot with the shoe that has gum on it. My life is one gummy nightmare and I want to wake up. Reason # 232 why I HATE gum. HATE IT! With a fiery passion that is usually reserved for boy bands and Kenny G albums Hate it! I hate gum so much I'd rather listen to said boy bands have a medley featuring Kenny G while I'm getting a brazilian wax by monkeys than chew a piece of gum. Gah! Hate! Evil! Gah! Someday I'll explain the other 231 reasons I hate gum, but for now I'd like to talk about the evils of gum as it relates to my footwear, because...

My poor shoe. It deserves better than this. Seriously. The kicks I'm wearing today are these awesome brown suede and pink leather Pumas I got last February and have held up like champs. I mean, they've been put through the ringer and have held up magnificently. They've survived many a beer-drenching concert, several rainy outings, a trip to Vegas and several packings. And now the guys (Yes, my shoes are guys, The lefty is named Larry and the righty is named Ralph. Like you don't name your shoes. You don't? Oh, well, nevermind) have gum on them. And the gum has gone from the wierd pink-white color it was originally (at least that's my assumption) to the horrendous grey-black color that is faintly tar-like in color and is just evil. Not just evil, eveeeel (Insert Mike Meyers' annunciation from So I Married and Axe-Murderer here). I tried cleaning it with soap and water in the bathroom, but without much luck, which means I have the cleanest gummy sticky spot on my shoe in town. But it is totally annoying. Everywhere I step I feel my shoe slightly stick to the ground, and I vaguely hear that "crk, crk" noise like velcro being smushed together and pulled apart over and over again. HATE! Hatey-Hate-Hate! Just, Grrrrrrrrrrr.Evil (Insert Inarticulate Hate Gurgle Riiiiiiiight Here). I know Larry and Ralph will survive this as they have many other trials and tribulations I've put them through, but they shouldn't have to deal with the sticky evilness that is gum.

Somebody's Making a Videogame of my hopes and dreams

Bob Ross: The Videogame. This might possibly be the Best. Idea. Ever!! No, I have no idea what the premise would be about or how they could possibly pull it off, but if the videogame in some way, shape, or form involves the phrases "Happy little cloud" or any other of his little catch phrases, I will happily play this game until my thumbs fall off and my eyes bleed. And I don't even play videogames! Such is my love for the departed yet immortal in my heart Bob Ross. Bring on the Bob Ross love in videogame form, is what I'm saying!!!