The 1st Annual Random Examiner Awards

Welcome to The Random Examiner Awards! I started this in part for my own satisfaction and to voice my own opinion, but also as an alternative to the Academy Awards, Golden Globes, and to a lesser extent, the MTV Music Video Awards and the Nickelodeon Kids' Choice Awards (most of the awards are chosen by those with little to no merit; those of smarmy, douchey Academy, the mostly-pre-18-year-old demographic of MTV, and kids that still watch Twilight and iCarly). At least I come out and tell you it's a matter of opinion. My awards offer nothing beyond a pat on the back. We don't even offer a real trophy (yet). So sit back and enjoy The 1st Annual Randies!

The Chester A. Arthur Award for Best Facial Hair

So much emphasis is being placed on facial hair these days, both sincerely and ironically. The title of this award was named for our unarguably hairy 21st President of the United States, Chester Alan Arthur.

(and he was in competition with Martin Van Buren)

The first winner of this prestigious award was difficult to choose, as among the nominees were my hero Brian Wilson of the San Francisco Giants, who rocks the mountain-punk beard, and Stan Andrus, who has long donned the intellectual Satan look. But the indisputable victor this, the very first, year is Mr. Peter Beckstrom, formerly of Simi Valley, CA!

That Michael "Bronson" Peterson mustache and Chuck Liddell mohawk combination won the bout via knockout.

Movie Gem of the Year

Another difficult choice, as I have discovered so many movie gems this year. But where Piranhaconda doesn't come out until next year and Thankskilling is stuck somewhere between "so-bad-it's-good" and just "self-consciously bad," the winner had to be;

The 1959 Mexican cinematic adventure, Santa Claus! I watched this movie on Netflix with my OPK brethren. Basically, all you need to know is that it stars Santa Claus, Merlin the Magician, and Lucifer! Okay, well technically, it's Lucifer's chief demon Pitch, but they all look alike. That's not a slant on demons. We don't endorse any negative stereotypes here, be they Asian or demonic.

Oh yeah, and Santa plays the organ... while watching the children of the world... all of them racially-driven stereotypes... most of whom wield guns... and Santa looks at them like this;

(he sees you when you're sleeping...)

Special kudos go to the 2004 remake of Dawn of the Dead. It's not that it's a particularly great movie so much as the shock value in seeing a zombie baby get shot. I nearly died laughing.

(don't judge me! I'm no more sick than the rest of you, just more openly so! and don't even pretend you wouldn't shoot this little bastard, too)

My-Personal-Opinion Man-of-the-Year Award

This has been the hardest decision yet, as I haven't yet decided on the credentials. However, it seems somehow inappropriate to give awards posthumously, so I cannot give the award to Christopher Hitchens or Patrice O'Neal, although both were considered. It also seems that the person in question has to have accomplished something of worth within the past year (beyond dying), so I couldn't give it to Brian Wilson, no matter how much I want to. But even disregarding that, I don't think I could in good conscience give the award to someone has already been nominated for another award, and as Brian Wilson was previously nominated for the Chester A. Arthur Award, he couldn't have it anyway. And there is no chance in Hell I can give the award to myself, although I considered that narcissistic move as well. And although the discovery that the band t.A.T.u. disbanded earlier this year pains me, that doesn't seem like something worth celebrating. Therefor, the winner of the first-ever Randy Award is Amber Heard. Now, I realize the technicality that Amber Heard isn't actually a man so much as a wo-man, but those are basically men with a few minor biological differences, right? She's a rising star, and I've been a fan ever since seeing her in Pineapple Express. In 2011, she starred in two motion pictures; one with Johnny Depp (who is talented and great), and one with Nicolas Cage (who is bland and stale). However, she managed to make a crappy Nic Cage vehicle (Drive Angry) suck a little less. And she starred alongside Mr. Depp and Aaron Eckhart in a Hunter S. Thompson movie adaptation (Johnny's second) in The Rum Diaries. So, here's to you, Amber Heard, you sexy, sexy man!

(the MPO Man of the Year is, in fact, a foxy woman. and she totally deserves the recognition)

Advent of Angst #4: And Now for Something Completely Different...

So, Christmas is upon us. I hope you've all learned something, and I'd like to think I put forth my best effort to inform you on it. But this, the final Advent of Angst of the season, will not be dedicated to the birth of Jesus (or rather, the Christian-friendly pagan holiday, for those of you paying attention), I'll be focusing on the birth of another important public figure; me.

Today is my 24th birthday. Not that that's worthy of much celebration - in fact, I don't really understand celebrating birthday anyway. I mean, it's basically just congratulating someone for going another year without dying. Not that I don't appreciate special attention, and I love gifts (whoever says they don't like getting presents is either a liar or stupid), and I definitely won't turn down a free dessert at a restaurant, but the way I see it, we shouldn't be celebrating the completion of years, but of life in general. What better time to do that than the New Year? New Year's Eve is kind of like a big birthday party already, only with more focus on the group than the individual. Everybody wins. Some more so than others, but that's life. All I'm gonna say is that I bet more children are conceived on New Year's than probably any other time except Valentine's Day (I haven't read any statistics on it, but it sounds entirely accurate in my head).

The past few years have felt numbingly familiar. I'd say years 21-23 all felt roughly the same, which in turn felt a bit like 18 or 19, so I was expecting it to happen again this year. But you know something? It doesn't feel the same. 'Cause I'm ready for a change.

(this is all I really want for my birthday; Carly Foulkes. that would be a welcome change!)

Don't get me wrong; living at home rent-free with your parents has its advantages (such as living rent-free), but it also has its drawbacks (such as living with your parents). I'm ready to move on. Get a real job (preferably something which doesn't involve making sandwiches for morons). Get a little crazy (yeah! this nerdy, virginal white boy is a real party animal - so long as it doesn't cut into his bedtime!).

I must say, this has been a satisfying birthday. The kind of birthday that makes me realize that life isn't so bad, that maybe I shouldn't abandon all hope in humanity (once you've given up on that, all you left is God, and I don't have much hope for that either). I spent some time with with my people, my OPK brothers, filming a skit with an alcoholic Santa before grabbing a bite to eat at Chili's (where my tab was graciously paid for by Tony and Kurt - thanks again, you guys. I owe you, and you know damn well what that means!). And I've enjoyed spending time with my family. My parents got me a nice a shirt and something (?) that has yet to arrive in the mail. My brother Vance got me a comic book called Bone, to which I look forward to nerding out (I always feel like Yoda when I try to speak proper English - dangle your participle, you mustn't!).

Well, I've enjoyed my birthday. And perhaps I've been to harsh on the secular celebration of birth. After all, it seems entirely appropriate to celebrate your birthday by giving life to a new paradigm.

The times, they are a-changin'. Indeed they are, Bob.

Advent of Angst #3: Coming This Christmas...

It's a Wonderful Life. Miracle on 34th Street. White Christmas. These are just a few some of the classic Christmas movies that we have made throughout the years, and the list goes on. A Christmas Story pretty much plays on a loop on TBS. The Grinch That Stole Christmas and A Charlie Brown Christmas are both classic TV specials. I love the Muppets, so of course The Muppet Christmas Carol and A Muppet Family

Christm

as are some of my favorites. But for every g

ood Christmas movies, there are about ten lousy ones.

I'll start the list first with Christmas Shoes. I really dig Rob Lowe, but I hold a strong vendetta against anything to do with that awful song. Besides, Mr. Lowe is far too talented to be making made-for-TV movies on CBS.

(really, dude. you played #2 in The Spy Who Shagged Me. don't live that down)

Next, Santa Claus Conquers the Martians. Two parents (from Mars, mind you), kidnap Jolly Old St. Nick so that the children (of Mars) can enjoy the same fun other (Earth) children do. But some cranky (Martian) guy thinks this is a bad idea, believing that this will corrupt the (Mars) children (freakin' evangelicals, man!), and attempts to kill Santa. I don't want to ruin the movie for you, but let's just say Santa conquers the Martians.

Jingle All the Way. C'mon - it's Arnold Schwarzenegger and Sinbad. What can I possibly say that will make it sound any worse than it already does? I was going to mention that the only plus is that you get to hear Arnie say "rubber baby buggy bumpers," but I can't even say that. That's in Last Action Hero.

("Let off some steam, Bennett.")

Santa With Muscles. Hulk Hogan as a rich, douchey, body-building millionaire (well I can hardly believe that) who, in an attempt to flee cops, dresses as a mall Santa, hits his head, gets amnesia, believes himself to be the real Santa, and somehow ends up saving an orphanage from an evil scientist.

And just when you think the list is over, I recently discovered this gem;

That's right, boys and girls! Santa's Slay, starring yet another bald former professional wrestler, Bill Goldberg! In this craptastic Christmas flick, Santa Claus is the result of a virgin birth produced by Satan (apparently, his surname is "Claus"). Christmas was originally "the day of slaying" until an angel defeated Santa in - get ready for it - a curling match and sentenced him to 1000 years of delivering presents! I haven't seen this movie, but any movie featuring Satan and curling is already a winner in my book! Besides, I watched enough professional wrestling in 1998 to know how this goes. Santa enters the house, starts tackling everybody violently to the ground, throws them around a bit, Gorilla Press Slams them, and then finishes them off with the Jackhammer body slam.

Ya know, based on the track record of quality Christmas movies made, I think I could make one myself. I already have it planned out.

It's based on a dream I had a few years back. You know it's movie-quality because it took form of a movie preview (complete with the green screen "the following preview is approved for appropriate audiences"). To begin with, all the people in the movie were actually muppet-people. It was about some middle-aged guy and an old woman wreaking havoc on Christmas. All I really remember is a lot of explosions and the old lady shooting a guy with a harpoon (!). So I'll have to use my imagination to fill the gaps. Oh, and did I mention it's called Holiday Holocaust?

It takes place in a small, cold town (probably somewhere in Wisconsin or Minnesota), where the townspeople are going gaga over Christmas (think the whos in The Grinch). Everybody is happily taking part in the festivities except for five people. Three of those people are a family of Jehovah's Witnesses, so that doesn't count. The other two are a cranky, conservative, irritable guy and a reclusive, bitter old woman. Coincidentally, they live on the same street and haven't shared much acquaintance with one another, except for their distaste of the Holiday Season. This year, the man (we'll call him "Jeff-Bob") gets a message from the woman (whom we'll call "Beatrice") in the form of a fruitcake. On the underside of the hard, crusty, ancient pseudo-pastry, there is a note detailing plans to destroy Christmas for the community. He calls her and agrees to meet her, and together they hatch plans to blow up Maul-Mart and set the tree at City Hall on fire. Jeff-Bob uses his home-made napalm to set the giant, latex tree ablaze, while Beatrice uses old, German bombs to destroy Maul-Mart.

After their initial success, they plan more destructive activities and share their stories about the hatred of Christmas. Jeff-Bob's father, Zeke, was a mountain man who cut and sold trees for Christmas, but the local hippie community protested, destroying his business. Without his business, Zeke turned to alcohol and lost custody of Jeff-Bob to a liberal couple who lived in a tee-pee and ate organic foods. Jeff-Bob has hated Christmas and hippies ever since. Beatrice says that Christmas has been "hijacked by pagans," and she intended to "put the Christ back in Christmas." However, Beatrice's rage soon turns deadly, as she begins systematically killing those she believes pose the greatest threat to Christmas; the Mayor, who insists on displaying Kwanzaa and Hanukkah decor at City Hall, despite the fact the there is only one Jew and one black person in town, and it is the same person; Ms. Janice, a plump lady who bakes secular pastries and decorates her tree in pink; and Douglas "godboy6613" Howard, a self-made internet millionaire, who posts videos about the occult.

After a heated argument, Beatrice reveals herself to be one of the remaining heirs of Adolf Hitler and Eva Braun (the other being Fred Phelps). As it turns out, as WWII came to a close, Hitler and Eva fled to the South American country of Mandoras, where they lived under the name "Pablo and Olga Gomez." They raised Beatriz with a firm belief in a master race, and on her death bed, Eva/Olga made Beatriz promise to "take the holidays back from the Jew."

After this, Jeff-Bob teams with Sheriff Billy Macbeth and Greek imigrant/mall Santa/Elvis impersonator/convicted felon Niko "Bubba" Papadopoulos to take down the evil heir of Hitler. After several more explosions, a number of gun fights, and a car chase later, Jeff-Bob and Beatrice face off on the roof of City Hall. After pummeling Jeff-Bob nearly to death, Jeff reveals the pin from a grenade he planted on Beatrice, and they both blow up. The movie ends with Billy and Bubba traveling to Kansas in a convertible wearing New Year's party hats to take care of Fred Phelps, Hitler's only remaining heir.

The End.

(roll credits)

Advent of Angst #2: Are You There, Santa?

Awww. Is there anything more sweet and innocent than a child's letter to Santa?

I'm not gonna waste a lot of time on this, so I'll just come out and say it (spoiler alert!); no. Here are some childrent's letters up north (and some down south) that will leave you questioning your faith mankind.

Dear Santa,

Look, I'm not going to lie to you; I haven't been nice at all this year, and I don't intend to be nice this coming year. But year in and year out, you have little boys and girls that b.s. their way out of the "naughty" list. So, listen. I think we both know the right thing to do; get me a present anyway. At least I have the testicular fortitude to confess my vices.

- Scott G.

Tucson, AZ

Dear Santa,

All I want for Christmas this year is for mommy to stop hitting daddy. She's an alcoholic and he's wheelchair-bound :(

- Winston U.

Reno, NV

To Mr. Santa J. Claus,

Last year, my client explicitly asked for a Malibu Bratbie doll. She informs me she was very nice in the preceding months, going so far as to acknowledge the existence of her father and being a little less cruel to the minorities at her private school. Yet, you either forgot to leave the doll under the Christmas tree or denied her access to the doll due to some minor misbehavior or otherwise failed to deliver the doll. So we offer you this ultimatum; either leave the aforementioned doll and another gift of her choosing (a Shetland pony), or we will see you in court.

- Hannibal Gumb, attorney at law

representing the case of Ms. Brandi C.

Beverly Hills, CA

Dear Santa,

In this time of giving and joy, I am in far more pleasant conditions than countless others. There are children starving in the streets everyday, so here's my Christmas wish this year; can't you just kill them and end their misery? Shoot them in the head, smother them with a pillow, whatever. Be creative. It's up to you. Ball's in your court, dude.

- Billy B.

La Crosse, WI

Dear Satan,

The last letter you received from me was actually intended for Santa, not you. Sorry about that. I hope we're still cool.

- Brent O.

Brigham City, UT

Dear Satan,

Quit stealing my look. You're cramping my style.

- Stan A.

Salt Lake City, UT

Dear Satan,

Thanks for your help and support, yo. Never say never.

- Justin B.

Los Angeles, CA (by way of Ontario, Canada, baby!)

Satan,

The DNA test results are back, and when it comes to Rosemary's baby, you are the father.

-Maury P.

Washington, D.C.

Advent of Angst #1: Secular Santa

advent - The liturgical period preceding Christmas, beginning in Western churches on the fourth Sunday before Christmas and in Eastern churches in mid-November, and observed by many Christians as a season of prayer, fasting, and penitence.

angst - A feeling of anxiety or apprehension often accompanied by depression.

Let me tell you the story of a Greek guy named Nicholas. Our story actually begins in Turkey, where Nick was residing. The story goes that there was a poor man with three daughters who couldn't afford a dowry for them, meaning they would remain unmarried and probably have to become prostitutes. Hearing of this poor man's plight, he secretly threw three purses filled with gold coins in through the window.

It wasn't long before he was discovered by some of his friends, who encouraged him to spread the wealth to other countries. So he made the trek from Turkey to Germany, to share kind, Christian giving to the pagans. However, almost immediately, there were similarities drawn between Sinterklaas and the Germanic god Odin. For example, Odin rode the sky atop his grey horse, Sleipnir; Herr Klaus rode the rooftops on his white horse, Amerigo.

(not pictured; Santa)

It was also about this time that Herr Klaus hired a tribe of pygmies to work for him, but the Germans associated that with Odin's black ravens. In an attempt to discourage the worship of Odin, he introduced "Das Christkind," a cherubic child with blond hair and angelic wings, intended to refer to the baby Jesus. In an ironic twist, "Christkindl" would later be bastardized into "Kris Kringle," yet another name for St. Nick.

After spending a few years in Germanic countries, his friends decided to make the journey to America. However, at first, puritanical America was less than receptive to this pagan glory-hound. But Nick had friends that knew the only way to get through to Americans; commercialism! He was sponsored by the Coca-Cola Company, who adorned him in the classic Coke red and white. Macy's gave children the opportunity to meet him as their parents were out shopping. Throughout the years, he has also done advertising for cell phones, credit cards, even Coke's competitor, Pepsi.

But Santa Claus grew tired of the spotlight and took up residence in "the North Pole," or more likely, the cold, desolate Yukon. Today, old St. Nick lives as a recluse 10.5 months out of the year. He is a bitter, depressed shadow of his old self. He has diabetes from years of reckless cookie-binging. He has liver problems from years of spiked eggnog. And he is on his fourth unsuccessful marriage, due to narcissism and mild bipolarity. Most days are spent in front of his fireplace, longing for the time he had as a "Secret Santa" in Turkey.

(Santa and his third wife during happier times)

Shut Up and Eat, Charlie Brown!

Thanksgiving is finally upon us, and you know what that means, don't you? (If you said "Christmas," go ahead and slap yourself.) It means it's time, once again, for the festive gorging on turkey, potatoes, cranberry sauce, and enough gravy to choke a camel (in fact, I intend to - by "camel," I mean me).

Nobody does gluttony quite like America. Ancient Greece may have come close, but America takes that number one spot (just like everything else! suck it, Canada!*). Did you know (and this is a true story) that you can get a Whopper at Burger King starting at 8:00 a.m.? A burger for breakfast! And some of you out there are almost certainly asking yourselves who would want a burger that early in the morning? Well, I'll tell you who. The same people who get meatball subs with jalapeños. The same person who eats leftovers for breakfast. In short, me. And why not? People eat breakfast foods at all times during the day, and nobody says that's weird. But you eat the leftover Chinese food from the night before sandwiched between two pieces of bread, and suddenly you're crazy.

But that's just the tip of the iceberg. Because we've now officially entered "the holiday season." The holiday season is a period of time starting from the Thanksgiving weekend to the New Year. And to quote Lewis Black, "Let's face it, Americans are fat all year round, but the holidays are when we really hit our stride. And you can bet the food we eat will be just as unhealthy as the families we're forced to visit." This is the time of year we can let ourselves go and "blame it on the holidays." But that's crap, and I know it's crap, because Americans can always find a reason to eat. Let's start with "the holiday season";

(oh, the things Americans will do to get pie treats)

Thanksgiving - turkey, potatoes, pies, and in case you don't want to eat your words, you may want to bite your tongue.

Christmas - candy canes, sugar cookies, gingerbread houses (or the easier, more economical graham cracker houses), sugarplums (or so I've been led to believe)

New Year's Eve - assorted fatty foods, junk foods, and also healthy foods such as a relish tray that doesn't seem to get eaten

But it doesn't stop there...

Valentine's Day - candy hearts, heart-shaped chocolates, chocolates that come in a heart-shaped package

St. Patrick's Day - Look, I'm not gonna lie; I don't celebrate St. Patrick's Day. I actually go out of my way to not wear green. I don't have a drop of Irish blood in me. I come from Anglo-Nordic stock. Honestly, my family could use a little color. That's why I need to find me an Indian chick (the most beautiful women in the world). But I digress. So, I don't celebrate St. Patrick's Day. But who doesn't enjoy drinking and corned beef and cabbage?

Easter - nothing says "Jesus" quite like brightly colored eggs and jelly beans

Cinco de Mayo - I don't actively celebrate the Mexican army's victory over the French, but you better believe I enjoy Mexican food. The more authentic, the better. Sorry, Taco Time.

Summer Vacation - barbecues, cookouts, camping trips (I hate camping, but I love a good bonfire, and if you have hot dogs, marshmallows, and Starburst to roast, even better)

Fourth of July - 'Merica! On this one day alone, as many as 155 million hot dogs will be downed, not to mention cakes, pies, root beer, and whatever Chinese gun powder you may inhale.

Peach Days - Okay, so this is a Brigham City thing. But peach cobbler is made en masse and eaten just as readily, along with the various carnival/specialty foods served at various booths.

Halloween - Candy. Candy. Candy. Vomit. Repeat.

And just when the sugar rush dies down...

You're back to Thanksgiving. It's American excess and gluttony, Charlie Brown! Now shut up and eat!

* (I'm kidding, Canada. You know I love you.)

A Post to be Thankful for

Thanksgiving is coming! A time of gluttony, designated airing of grievances, and awkward family conversation. A day celebrated in commemoration of the Pilgrims' land at Plymouth Rock and the feast they had with the Wampanoag indian tribe. But little did you know...

Look, it's pretty much roundly-accepted that the "Pilgrims" were a group of puritanical Separatists that traveled to America to escape persecution. Well, did you know the only reason the Pilgrims (oh, those rascally puritans!) stopped at Plymouth Rock is because they ran out of beer? They were actually originally planning to settle in what is now New York. Massachusetts was just an afterthought (take that, Red Sox!).

(Brian Wilson; the best thing to come out of New England since the Pilgrims)

Also, there is some debate as to the exact origins of the feast. But we know that they may or may not have actually had turkey. More likely, it was sea food (this is New England we're talking about) and assortment of wild fowl and venison. But I do believe this was where the first awkward Thanksgiving dinner conversation started. Kind of like a meal shared between two neighbors that don't really like each other. On their way home, the indians were probably snickering "Boy, can you believe we talked them into planting fish with their plants?" Meanwhile, the Pilgrims were probably laughing "Can you believe they accepted those smallpox-infected blankets we gave them?"

There is another rumor to be debunked. John Smith may or may not have been Pocahontas' lover. If they were, this would make John Smith a pervert; regardless of how the Disney movie makes it appear, John Smith was around 27 years old and Pocahontas was around 12 years old.

But there is still much for which to be grateful (it's proper English, but it does sound very "Yoda"). Through those brave, boozy puritans, we can now celebrate by gorging ourselves on turkey (which probably wasn't served at the first Thanksgiving) and pumpkin pie (which definitely wasn't served at the first Thanksgiving) and watching football (which should have been played at the first Thanksgiving; Patriots vs. Redskins). The Detroit Lions have played on Thanksgiving every year since 1934 (which is probably the only reason anybody living in Detroit has to be thankful). Not to be outdone, the Dallas Cowboys have played every year since 1966 (because they're kind of douche bags).

If football's not your thing, I recommend yet another of my movie gems; Thankskilling. Really, there's not much to explain. It's a ridiculous, low-budget horror-comedy about a foul-mouthed killer turkey (or is that fowl-mouthed? eh? eh?... I didn't think it was funny either) named Turkie. It's obscene, profane, and festering with over-the-top violence. Kudos to OPK bandmate and best hillbilly ever, Tony Sparrow, for showing this to me.

(yeah. this.)

Red Hot Platonic Love

SCENE: In an uncharacteristically bold move, and at the prompting some friends, I am at a club. Strobe lights, fog machines, thumping techno music, the lingering smell of Axe body spray - in short, if I had style, it would be severely cramped. Across the room, I see a fiery latin girl dancing sensually with some of her girl friends.

Me: (Holy balls! She's gorgeous! She's like if they spliced the genes of Shakira, Penelope Cruz, and Angelina Jolie into one perfect hybrid being!)

From across the room, I see a faux-hawked douchebag approach her with an appletini.

Me: (Oh, expletive. A bro. If I'm going to make a move, I better do it soon.)

As I walk towards the unattainable beauty, I first feel confident, then uncertain, then a little bit nauseous.

Me: (But wait! What am I supposed to say? What am I going to possibly going to talk about?)

I draw nearer. I slow myself.

Me: (Okay, man. You can do this. Well, maybe you can't, but you've never done this before, so you'd better start some time.)

I walk at a geriatric pace.

Me: (What am I going to say? I'm a 24-year-old nobody who lives with his parents. Maybe I should just lie. I'll tell her I'm in a band. It's sort of a Jonas Brothers-meets-Menudo pop rock band. It's called Suicide Abortion.)

I stop.

Me: (Suicide Abortion? Are you sure she's going to know you're being cute and ironic? You can't get too far being subtle these days. So what do I say? Hey, wink wink. I'd like to, wink wink, get intimate with you. Ugh, that's no good, either.)

As I stand contemplating, I catch her eye. She smiles.

Me: (Oh, my. I can taste that look. It tastes like Hawaiian Punch. Even her looks are sweet. Okay, Brent. Don't fear the reaper. Here goes nothing.)

I approach her.

Hot Chick: "Hi..."

Me: "Uh..."

I promptly walk away and out of the club.

Me: (Whatever. She wasn't going to like me anyway.)

With that, I walk to the nearest Subway and take solace in a meatball sub, sobbing softly as big, salty tears garnish my sandwich. I'm bound to be a virgin forever.

That's not actually a true story, per se, but it is uncomfortably true-to-life. It's not easy to connect with people when you don't like people. However, in the lack of a romantic life, I have pursued another form of interpersonal relationship;

Bromance.

For those of you who may not know, bromance is a "close but non-sexual relationship between two or more men." There are no overt homosocial practices involved in this type of relationship (although there may be certain Freudian psychology beneath the surface in some cases). Rest assured, it is a normal, healthy relationship shared between close male friends. Han Solo and Chewbacca. The Dude and Walter Sobchak. Freddie Mercury and David Bowie. Wait, not that last one. In any case, there are things to take into consideration.

First, pertaining to the bromance itself. Bromantic love cannot be shared between just anybody. Think; if someone is romantically linked to numerous people, said person is thought to be a whore. As such with romance, it is with bromance. Be careful in choosing your compadre (the English "companion" seems too formal, and frankly inappropriate).

Next, man-crushes. Not be confused with typical, sexual attraction, a man-crush is a heterosexual (or at least asexual) infatuation with another man. I myself have a not-so-secret man-crush on the Giants' closing pitcher Brian Wilson. Every man is allowed at least three. I would argue that every guy should have at least one, but no more than three. Then it just seems a bit awkward.

Finally, man-dates. There is proper etiquette on man-dates, just as there are with normal dates. Where in dates one party (usually the male, but I'm not so closed-minded to rule out feminists and gays) pays the tab for the other party, in man-dates, one should not pay for the other unless a tab is being kept or if it's a birthday or a bachelor party or otherwise celebrating.

On man-dates, one can be too courteous. Opening doors, pushing in seats, holding hands - these are all inappropriate man-date behavior. I mean no offense to my gay friends, but we're discussing man-dates. There reaches a point where it stops being a man-date and becomes a date-date. Bromance and romance ought to be kept separate. It would be like if your wife/girlfriend was also your drinking buddy. It's just weird. In short, if your man-date ends in sexual arousal, you're doing it wrong.

(G.I. Joe; they're doing it wrong)

The last thing to remember is that these things can't be forced. Forced romance is called sexual assault. Forced bromance is called "that idiot who's trying way too hard to be accepted." Don't worry, though. Unless you're a serial murderer or Dane Cook, bromance will find its way to you.

Until next time, keep on lovin', loverboy!

Ten Things to Hate About Me

There are only ten things you need to know about me;

1) I dislike dolphins. They are dumb, no matter what some hippie says. But they taste good on a sandwich.

2) I often use "dude" (and sometimes "guy") unisexually.

3) Jeff Dunham is not funny. Dane Cook is unfunny.

4) I had (have) a crush on the Pink Ranger, Amy Jo Johnson. She was my first real crush (I had a prior crush on the animated version of April O'Neil, but that hardly counts). After that, it was (is) probably Tiffani Thiessen/Kelly Kapowski.

5) I hate doctor/cop shows. They are all the same Dr. CSI garbage. The most original shows on television are those that mock existing shows, i.e. NTSF:SD:SUV::, Childrens Hospital, and the upcoming The Heart, She Holler.

6) I love movies, good and bad. But I have a hard time watching movies once they've been hyped up. Once they become too popular, if I still haven't seen it, I don't want to see it, because I've already heard all about it. As such, I refuse to watch Avatar or Inception.

7) Through excessive use of sarcasm and anti-humor, people sometimes don't know whether I'm serious or kidding. But although I'm sarcastic, I am also blunt. If you have an ugly baby, I might not tell you it's ugly, but I won't tell you it's cute.

8) I love writing. I hope to one day write and publish novels. I know I have mentioned this a few times in the past, but I'm telling you everything you need to know. So get off my back.

9) Urban Dictionary sums Brent up best as "A male who, at first glance, seems to be a douchebag, but upon further study will turn out to have a heart of gold."

10) I can be quite indecisive, but I am very opinionated. Although I claim to be speaking the truth, I believe nobody really knows "the whole truth," they just see things differently. Call it subjectivity.

Also, I make a mean sandwich. So, I guess that's eleven things. My bad.

Hijacking the Batmobile

Back in high school, I never really had a "clique." I never fit in with any certain group of kids. I loitered with the rockers. I made fun of the punks. I daydreamed of cheerleaders. I was on good terms, if nothing else, with the jocks (at least the wrestlers and some of the football players; I thought the basketball team were jerks and the baseball team was cocky). But at lunch, I always sat with the geeks. And although I didn't watch anime and I've never been tech-savvy (it's by the grace of God that I can actually operate a computer, insomuch as turning on, blogging, and turning it off), I feel this is the group with which I mix best. It's time to claim my rightful position amongst the geek population. I know that's a position that has to be earned, but I believe I'm qualified. Besides looking the part (sorry, if I don't fit the bronzed, chiseled specimen you were hoping for, ladies - assuming there are any females in the audience), here are some of my credentials;

(this is what I would look like with a beard)

1) I'm a comic book geek. But I don't care so much for Batman or Spiderman as I do for some of their seedier counterparts, i.e. Usagi Yojimbo (a rabbit samurai), the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (trust me, the comic books are way better than the cartoons or the movies), Amalgam Comics (an amalgamation of the DC and Marvel universes; clever, right?), and Deadpool (please disregard the version portrayed by Ryan Reynolds in X-Men Origins; the "real" Deadpool is like a demented, sarcastic, masked version of The Punisher).

2) I'm a Star Wars geek. That's not to say I know every nook and cranny and obscure character in the saga (especially taking into consideration there are many novelizations thereof which are considered canonical). But don't let that put you off. Let me put it this way; I could write a thesis on the complexity of relationships using the characters from Star Wars. That being said, I think the prequels could have sucked considerably less if Qui-Gon Jinn had just let Jar Jar Binks die.

3) I am movie geek. My love of movies extends far beyond a galaxy far, far away. I tend to be the guy people look to if they're trying to remember who played who in what movie (Q: Who's the guy that auditioned to sing at Drew Barrymore's wedding in The Wedding Singer? Jon Lovitz). And I like good movies; I've seen Casablanca and Mr. Smith Goes to Washington and a number of other classics. But I love bad movies. Not so much the movies that try to be good and end up bad, but the ones you know are going to be awful from the get-go, i.e. old Japanese monster movies, '50s science fiction, low-budget horror films (esp. from the '80s), and any Syfy original movie.

4) I am a philosophy geek. Increasingly often, I find myself trying to categorize people into branches philosophy. For example, Emperor Palpatine is clearly a Machiavellian realist, whereas Han Solo appears to be more of a pragmatic skeptic. I consider myself a postmodern transcendental idealist. Only a geek could be that obsessive over social theory.

5) I am a documentary geek. I often find myself drawn into documentaries on the History Channel or the Travel Channel or, more often than not, the Food Network. Aside from casually watching them on television, there are documentaries I actively seek out, particularly those about serial killers, the Soviet Union (I've recently developed an obsession with Communism; weird, I know), or Nazi occultism. While we're on the subject, what is with America's obsession with Nazism? It seems that the only thing they play on the History Channel is crap about Hitler. Don't get me wrong. I like playing video games, killing Nazi Zombies as much as anyone (probably more so). And I enjoy the occasional campy Nazi-related movie. But can't we do something about Commie Zombies? Somebody should look into that. Get on it, fellow geeks!

Duality of Man

The following conversation is dialogue from the movie Full Metal Jacket.

Pogue Colonel: You write "Born to Kill" on your helmet and you wear a peace button. What's that supposed to be, some kind of sick joke?
Private Joker: No, sir.
Colonel: You'd better get your head and your ass wired together.
Joker: Yes, sir.
Colonel: Now answer my question or you'll be standing tall before the man.
Joker: I think I was trying to suggest something about the duality of man, sir.
Colonel: The what?
Joker: The duality of man. The Jungian thing, sir.

The duality of man refers to the two opposing sides of human nature (i.e. good and evil). Everyone is bit of both. "Good people" can do "bad" things and "bad people" are capable of doing "good" things.

Clearly, human nature is very contradictory.

This particularly clear in the practice of government and politics. That's why the Tea Party can protest "big government" regulation while using government subsidies such as welfare, social security, and medicaid. This is why the Occupy Wall Street protestors riot against corporations while eating McDonald's and using their mobile phones (way to stick it to the man, fellas). Maybe you're saying, "You just don't get it." No. I get it. And I'm explaining it to you.

You first, Tea Party. I support what they call "small government," but I understand the necessity of government regulation. Public schools? The postal service? Police officers and fire fighters? All part of government funding.

Now I'm looking at you OWS. I am a capitalist. I am pro-corporations. I think somebody who contributes something to society and works his way to the top deserves recompense. I don't support greed. It's beyond ridiculous that the top 1% control 42% of financial wealth. I think all this calls for is reformation. Not a revolution. Immediate debt forgiveness and guaranteed wages for the unemployed are not the solution. They're just going to make the financial situation worse. And I don't trust any group that includes socialists, anarchists, hippies, and Geraldo Rivera.

In my unbiased opinion, with so much friendly fire, life can get pretty ugly. But that's old news.

See what I did there? I used oxymoron, a figure of speech which combines contradictory terms. How clever of me.

So why the confrontation? Can't we just admit that we're all confused?

(derp!)

I am a man of contradictions. I like my hot dogs burnt and my steak rare.

(Aaron Eckhart knows what I'm talking about)

All Hallow This!

October 13, 2011 - Day 13 of the Five Dollar Foot Long Epidemic. The zombies (customers, for those who don't understand subtlety) just keep coming. They crave cheap food and they won't be satisfied until they get it. Their numbers grow larger every day. They have begun to multiply and mutate. I have identified some of these infected (as plagiarized from Left 4 Dead);

1) The Tank - Generally physically fit (or at least not obese) zombies who buy into Subway's "health food" facade. They opt for "healthy" sandwiches. They fool themselves into thinking that they're eating well, when any uninfected person would be a bit skeptical after seeing my chubby butt is the one serving them.

2) The Boomer - A bloated zombie who doesn't kid himself/herself with the "health food" nonsense. They want the Chicken Bacon Ranch, and they want it with extra ranch. The term "boomer" comes from the fact that they eat until they explode, and somehow inevitably end up attracting more zombies.

3) The Hunter - An agile zombie that pounces and seizes the opportunity to buy five dollar foot longs by buying them in bulk.

4) The Witch - A passive zombie that will become aggressive and start screaming when you make a simple mistake on their sandwich or leave them waiting for too long or if you're out of Italian Herbs and Cheese bread.

Honestly, it seems appropriate that Five Dollar Foot Long Month should land on an October. As the children anticipate going door-to-door asking people for free candy, so the adults among them anticipate harassing the local Subway.

I am not a big fan of Halloween, myself. I hold no grudge against candy (clearly not), but I don't like it any more on Halloween than I do any other day of the year. And I can certainly appreciate the creativity some people put into it. I know of a married couple who have come up with some very clever costumes. One year she was Michael Jackson (albeit a very pretty one) and he was a 12-year old boy (this was before Jacko died, so it wasn't untimely). The next year he went as Barack Obama (in full blackface) and she went as Sarah Palin. One of my brothers and his wife went as a Ghostbuster and the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man respectively. You see, I like that. That's creative. But for most people, it's just an excuse to dress up as whores. I don't think they make non-skanky women's costumes anymore. Sexy pirates, sexy nurses, sexy angels - hell, I wouldn't be surprised to find out they have a sexy Amish girl costume available. I don't want to sound like a prude, it's just that I find inventive costumes more impressive than themed prostitute outfits. Besides, like candy, I don't like pretty girls any more on Halloween than I do any other time of year. And then there are the teenagers who go Trick-or-Treating, most of them dressed as slack-off losers (i.e. themselves). Don't you guys realize you're literally taking candy from children? Don't you have some underage drinking to do?

(I only wish I could pull something as scary as this off*)

Halloween, or "All-Hallow's-Eve," originates from the ancient Roman holiday of Parentalia, which is held in honor of deceased relatives and ancestors, and the Celtic harvest festival of Samhain. Dead people and harvesting foods, mixed with a little modern commercialism. This sounds great for marketing! Even with the condescending, often puritanical theology dictating our country, nobody embraces paganism quite like America. I'm looking at you, Christmas! But that's another story for another day...

(prepare yourselves)

*If Mike Tyson ever happens to read this (no matter how unlikely that may be), allow me to say I was only kidding. You are a boxing legend and you seem like a pretty cool guy. Please don't hurt me.

If You're Working Right, It'll Be Like You're Not Even Working at All

Throughout my years in the K-12 public schooling program, people used to ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up, and the the answer was always the same; I don't know. And as I've gotten older, wiser, and more mature, my answer has become even more blunt; "I doubt I'm going to grow up any more."

There are basically to trains of thought; do what you love and do what is practical. It is my goal today to disprove both of them.

If I were to do what I loved for a living, I would be;

1) a political cartoonist/political commentator

2) a radio show host/talk show host

3) a writer

4) a film critic

5) a dinosaur

I know what you're thinking; "But, jinkies, Scoob, that doesn't sound too bad!" Maybe not, but I'm not sure how to go about doing any of that. Not everyone can be a Thomas Nast or a Johnny Carson or a Michael Crichton or a Roger Ebert. And I would probably make a better dinosaur than any of the other things on that list. I already kind of resemble Earl Sinclair.

If I were to do what was practical, well, let's just say college would still be an option. But seeing how it's not currently an option, I have a hard time seeing practicality in anything. I could stay at Subway, but that hardly seems practical. And therein lies the issue. Not everybody is going to be rich and successful. Some of us are going to be the guys who make burgers or shine shoes for the rich. There's no shame in that; it's necessary in capitalism. But I don't believe I'm destined to be a burger flipper, partially because I don't believe in destiny, but mostly because I would never be content at a Jack in the Box or a Del Taco (unless I owned it).

The simple truth is you gotta do what you gotta do, regardless of practicality or enjoyment. Do you think the guy who scrubs up whale vomit at Seaworld for minimum wage enjoys what he does? Some of them probably do (I sure don't want to meet that guy), but most of them probably don't. But unless you inherit it from a dying relative, you're never going to become the head whale vomit-cleaner without working your way to the top from the bottom. Most successful comedians start out working small clubs for about $20 and free beer (if that). Mike Tyson was once just a troubled youth from Brooklyn before achieving success as a boxer (albeit controversial) and later as the best part of The Hangover.

Do what you will, and you will make do.

I Am Hater, Hear Me Hate

This may surprise you, but I'm not big "people person." What may surprise you even more is I'm pretty good with people (a trait I picked up in part at Subway, where sometimes the only way to keep yourself from killing the customer is putting yourself at their level). I really consider myself part of any given group of "people." I hardly even consider myself a "person." Humanity frustrates me. But it also intrigues me. As such, I've observed them. I observe and analyze people (perhaps the one thing I'm better at than feigning intelligence). That's why I call myself "The Random Examiner." I study habits and patterns within communities and individuals. Think of me as an amateur anthropologist. I think humanity is doomed to repeat itself, resulting in gradual devolution. However, I also believe that people are technically good, regardless of their own unique selfish ways.

So, to reiterate; I'm an observant misanthrope. I may not understand everything, but I hold strong opinions about life as I see it. And I usually get along pretty well with most people, in spite of being me. However, there are three groups of people that truly annoy me. Maybe I'm the bad guy here, maybe I just don't understand, but hey - haters gonna hate.

Hipsters

style: lensless glasses, ironic T-shirts (some of which I admit to owning), sweaters, stuff they bought at a thrift store

musical preference: crappy indie music, i.e. "____ before they got famous" (although they can also "ironically" like other, more "mainstream" music)

activities: sulking around, drinking coffee (Starbucks used to be a big hipster hangout, but I recently saw a hipster mug that says "Friends don't let friends drink corporate coffee." I guess Starbucks got too "mainstream"), talking about bands that used to be good until they got popular

Bros

style: fauxhawks, wings/flippies, backwards-sideways-or-off-kilter hats, pre-torn jeans

musical preference: Nickelback, Jack Johnson, radio-friendly hip hop, and the stuff hipsters used to listen to (before it went mainstream)

activities: watching Family Guy, listening to Dane Cook, sports (regardless of whether or not they have any emotional connections to the teams playing, bros will cheer wildly when a team scores another point), pretending they are black (so that they can use the "N" word without all that white guilt)

Juggalos

style: "hatchet man" logos, clown face paint

musical preference: Insane Clown Posse, Vanilla Ice (non-ironically), Tech N9ne, other Psychopathic Records artists

activities: I admit I know very little about juggalos. All I know is they're incredibly passionate about the music they listen to. I guess that's what annoys me; the fact that I don't anything about them beyond the music they listen to (and they drink Faygo soda, although I'm not sure if this is supposed to be ironic). All I know is I'm not crazy about Insane Clown Posse.

Poseurs

style: varies

musical preference: whatever they're not listening to

activities: pretending to be someone else. The point is (cue piano), don't be who other people want you to be. Be who you want to be. Otherwise, you're just a desperate douche bag. And now you know. And knowing is half the battle!

My Life as a Walking Series of Awkward Situations

I love writing. I like blogging. I like to think I do it well. But the truth is, I sound much smarter on paper than I do in real life. That's because I can pick and choose what I write. In life, I have no such filter. I have a disturbing tendency to say what I think. Plus, I'm rather large (a big, burly 6'4", and a hefty one at that). On top of that, my motor skills are limited. This makes me quite awkward.

(no, this isn't me. I make this guy look cool)

Realistically, I could list awkward moments starting from my birth to five minutes ago, but my memory doesn't serve me quite that well. So I will just tell you about a few of the most recent standouts.

Situation #1 - Waist-High in Whatsit

I served a Mormon mission in Brazil, where I spent most my time in the northernmost states of Pará and Amapá, an area where the sewage system runs above ground (I can't speak for the rest of the country, I honestly don't know). In northern Brazil, it also rains almost every day. There are two seasons in northern Brazil; summer (which is very hot and rainy) and winter (which is very rainy and hot). One day, after a particularly rainy lunch, my companion and I were walking some sisters home from lunch. We were used to jumping puddles, but today there were full ponds of poo to cross. When we came to a certain, large puddle, one of the sisters sarcastically suggested I "step on that white rock." The said "rock" was actually a piece of styrofoam, and I knew that. But I thought there was something to support it beneath it. So I stepped on it and immediately fell into filthy rainwater and human excrement. Feces.

I walked to our apartment cussing under my breath, whereupon I threw away my pants and shirt, left my shoes out to dry, and took a long shower. I was in no mood to preach. What's important to note, however, is that my companion and I were teaching a nice family, and we had an appointment set up with them for that evening. As nice as this family was, they had their grandmother living with them, and she hated us. This isn't all that rare an occurence, but she downright loathed us. We're talking Westboro Baptist-style hate. She'd already doused us in a couple of liquids (milk and this liquid vitamin that tasted like combination of urine and butterscotch) and even pulled a knife on us. So as much as she hated us, I hated her.

After much persuasion, my companion and I nervously went to go teach. And true to form, after about 2 minutes, she doused us in ear medication, getting some in my eye. I got up and walked out, screaming obscenities. I may have overreacted, but to be fair, I had just fallen into human waste. After a minute of coaxing, my companion (ever loyal and the voice of reason) got me to settle down enough to finish the lesson, under the condition that he would do the talking and hurry it along. After the lesson, I told him we were done for the day. He obliged.

Situation #2 - Suppose it's a Suppository

Another mission story. Fast forward toward the end of my mission. I was within a month of going home. I had been plagued with illness from the beginning, but I had made it this far, and I was doing pretty good, all things considered. Until I noticed blood in the toilet. Note: I am not a woman. It is important to note this, as it ties into the story later. So, considering I wasn't on my period, and considering my diet was high fiber (rice and beans every day for the past two years), I called the doctor to see why there was blood in my stool. He said it may be an ulcer, and gave me the name of a medication to buy at the pharmacy. He gave me the specific name, and I wrote it down carefully. He warned me, however, that it was a suppository. So going into the pharmacy, I was already not very enthused.

After I made my purchase, I returned home, opened the package, and... it was in a tube. What kind of suppository was this supposed to be? I exchanged confused looks with my companion who said, "I'm not going to help you apply it, dude." I imagined sticking a tube up my rectum, and said "I don't want your help!" and called the doctor back. I regaled him with what had just happened. After a thoughtful pause, he said, "It sounds as though they sold you vaginal cream."

Now I was truly angry. I called my mission president and the first thing I said was, "President, I'm gonna ask you something, and I want you to be honest. Do I look like I have a vagina?" After a brief explanation, president was laughing at my misfortune. In a final interview before I left Brazil, he told me "Elder Orgill, I know you've been through a lot, but I just want to let you know... I've really enjoyed it." And he laughed his contagious laugh.

Situation #3 - Dark Times

As I've mentioned, I work at Subway. And I like to think I'm a pretty decent Sandwich Artist. But I'm just as awkward at work as I am anywhere else.

I was closing with a certain coworker one night. We share a similar sense of humor, which makes it so much more enjoyable. We talk about things as complex as relationships or as simple as The Dark Crystal. She's fun to work with.

On this particular night, we were discussing out mutual love of Dave Chappelle, especially his too-short-lived Chappelle's Show. We were quoting the famous "Charlie Murphy Hollywood Stories: Rick James" sketch back and forth. She had suddenly stopped talking when I yelled "Darkness!" (Rick James' nickname for Charlie). I turned around and saw a small group of black women entering the store. Dammit. I don't know whether or not they heard us, as they were very nice and fun to talk to, but it felt incredibly uncomfortable all the same. I mean, what are the chances? Black people in Utah?

Situation #4 - Sometimes I Can Be Retarded

Did that last Subway story make you cringe in discomfort? Wait till you hear this one.

One day, we had just finished serving some young men with Downs Syndrome, accompanied by a caregiver. I was working on making a sandwich for another young man, and had just finished making my third or fourth mistake when I yelled "I'm so retarded!" I instantly realized what I had done, and was met by a sour look from the caregiver sitting in the corner.

I went back to the fridge, presumably to catch my cool (actually, to sob as I ate my stockpile of meatball subs). I felt bad, but when I use a word like "retarded," I don't use it to refer to the disabled or handicapped. It's the same way I use the word "gay" to describe something unfortunate or unseemly or somehow otherwise regrettable. I mean no offense to my homosexual friends by it, and they know it. But for some crazy reason, "retarded" is taboo. And that's just retarded.

Situation #5 - Thpeech Pathology

The following is a Facebook exchange, posted on a friend's wall, for the world to see;

Friend's wife: Love you.
Friend's sister-in-law: No "I"?
Friend's wife: No, no "I"
Me: What she meant to say was "Brent love you." And that's just bad grammar.
Friend's wife: My mom's a speech pathologist, I'm allowed to have bad grammar as long as my mom's not around.
Me: Yeah, and thpeak with a lithp, haha. My thithter'th a thpeech pathologitht, too.
Friend's sister-in-law: Her sister has a lisp.
Friend's wife: My sister has a lisp.
Friend's wife: Speak of the devil.
Me: ... Well, don't I just feel like a giant douche. I'm going to go into hiding for awhile.

Really? This one seems very ironic. I mean, a speech pathologist that has a daughter with a lisp is kind of like a firefighter having a kid that's a pyromaniac.

I assure you, this post could go on for days. But I'm done embarrassing myself today. I'm going to go to the basement and weep into my pillow for a while.

Intelligence for Dummies

In 1991, Dan Gookin wrote an instructional book called DOS for Dummies, and ever since, many other titles added to the For Dummies catalog, ranging from crosswords to chess to Norwegian cuisine (that last one may not exist, but it probably will someday. There's gotta be some idiot who wants to learn how to make lutefisk). I myself have one about screenwriting that I have yet to read. Of course, by "dummies," they mean the general American public. But somehow, Obscure French Films for the General American Public just doesn't have the same ring to it. Each book features a triangular-headed little dummy that looks like this:

But that doesn't seem like a very accurate picture of the typical American, now does it? I believe these guys better represent Americans:

(they do wobble, but they don't fall down)

As many of these that have been supposedly written for stupid people, I find it hard to believe no one's wrote one on intelligence, or at least feigning intelligence. If there's one thing I know, it's how feign intelligence. The following is a guide for you, my fellow Americans.

First things first. If you want to seem smart, there are a couple of things you must not do to appear less stupid. You must;

a) avoid wearing anything with the Hatchet Man or anything associated with Psychopathic Records on it. With all due respect to juggalos (and I say this from the outside looking in, so maybe I just don't get it), if you really want to look smarter, please avoid this. It just comes across as tacky. It's like wearing a pot leaf symbol to a job interview. If you have any hats or clothing with the Hatchet Man on it, gather them up and burn them immediately. If you have a tattoo, the same rule applies.

b) stop watching Dane Cook. He takes potentially funny material and makes it less funny. Consequently, if you have any potential for intelligence, watching his act will greatly decrease any likelihood of you ever developing any intellect or a winning personality. Then again, if you listen to Dane Cook to begin with, the only thing you probably read anyway is the back of cereal boxes.

Now that we've determined what to avoid doing, here are a few things you can do to fake it when your brainpower just doesn't cut it.

Wordpower
There is no denying the power of words. Anybody can speak, but if you know how to really use words, you will appear much smarter. People often confuse articulation with intelligence. First, engage in a conversation about current events (note; do not talk about the latest Twilight movie). Then, at opportune times, stroke your chin and say "indeed" as though you actually care what the other person is saying. Also, try to use big/complicated words. If you don't know any, here are some of my favorites you can borrow (also note; be sure you are using these words correctly, otherwise you'll just look dumber):
indubitably - undoubtedly; kind of like indeed, but harder to pronounce.
loquacious - talkative. I'm not gonna lie to you, the opportunity to use this one doesn't come up very often.
onomatopoeia - the naming of a thing or action by the vocal imitation of the sound associated with it (think See 'n Say, i.e. "the cow goes 'moo'"). This one comes up even less, and if you can use it without sounding like your trying to come up with an excuse to use it, you deserve a medal.

Multilingualism
As in English, so it is in other languages. If you can speak two or more languages, people seem to think you are incredible. The more languages you speak, the smarter you are (seem). I speak English and Portuguese and a limited amount of Spanish, so I seem smart and a half. But I realize not everyone can speak multiple languages, to I'll give you a few simple words and phrases you can use in your day-to-day lives:
guero (Spanish; pronounced "wear-oh," with the slightest roll off the r; guera feminine) - white or fair-skinned person
l'chaim (Hebrew; pronounced "luh-[loogie-hocking sound]aye-im") - to life!
hajima (Korean; pronounced "haw-jee-maw") - don't do that/knock it off
Kashyyyk (Star Wars Universe; pronounced "ka-sheek;" also known as Wookiee Planet C) - the planet where Wookiees live, but not Chewbacca.

Appearance
For those of you who have been indoctrinated to believe otherwise by shows like Barney & Friends (no wonder we're so stupid), appearance does, in fact, matter. That's the first thing people notice about you, and as such, you will be judged accordingly. If you want to seem smart, you must look it. There are many variants of dressing the part. Facial hair can seem smart when properly groomed (males only). But for those of you like me who cannot grow any credible facial hair, the most important part is... the glasses. People see me and assume I know a thing or two about math and/or science. I don't, but that's not the important thing. The important thing is that people think you know it. That's what this is all about, after all.

If, after all this, you still struggle to make yourself seem smarter, know this; you are not alone. There are alternatives. Find a support group. Hang out with dumber people. Or, you can just learn to accept it and go back to listening to Dane Cook.