You know, you’d think that with today’s economy, airlines would try to offer a little more hospitality. I try to light a cigar—the stewardess tells me I can’t smoke on planes. I love smoking in cramped areas full of people. I demand we watch Fievel Goes West as the in-flight movie—the stewardess tells me nobody likes it. It’s my favorite movie! I run down the aisle and tackle the drink cart for another round—the stewardess says she thinks I’ve had enough. So what if I had seven Bloody Marys and we’re still fourth in line to take off? I’m not flying the plane! What kind of service are these airlines providing? If United Airlines won’t let me bring my scissors collection onboard, I’ll find someone who will (like those JetBlue hippies). Why can’t airline hospitality mimic the old days, with the pastel outfits and knee-high boots and stewardesses lying across seats? I’d fly to everywhere—supermarket, car wash, airport—if I had that to look forward to. With my scissors.
The trailer for Inception kicks ass. As does the cast (Leo DiCaprio, Joseph Gordon-Levitt, Michael Caine, Cillian Murphy). But what the hell is it about? If you had to answer that question without seeing the trailer, what would you guess? Sex, right? It’s called INCEPTION—like P in the V and make a B-A-B-Y Inception. Right? OK, go ahead and watch the trailer. Now what do you think it’s about? I still have no idea. Water in a glass. People running on walls and fighting (are they drunk?). A skyline that happens to be shaped like a maze. Oh-kay. Obviously with Christopher Nolan directing it should be fantastic (he did Memento and The Dark Knight), but he swore the entire cast to secrecy. Ugh, it’s like he wants to drum up excitement for the movie or something. Who does he think he is, J.J. Abrams?
These pictures of the underground Russian sewer system in Moscow are impressive for a couple reasons. Firstly, you don’t see any dead bodies lying around. That’s either the work of countless graphic designers Photoshopping the hell out of everything or an indication that Russia is trying to clean up its act (in a sewer! Clean up its act! Wakka wakka! Actually, Fozzie Bear sucked. With his stupid top hat and polka dot bow tie/ascot THAT HE DIDN’T EVEN TIE PROPERLY. He makes Larry King look like Kanye West). Secondly, whatever they’re flushing down the pipes there is creating these sick stalagmites that are different colors and cause fun diseases. It’s like that girl in grade school that was always ugly and had frizzy hair and buck teeth and wore OshKosh B’Gosh. Then 11th grade rolled around and it was like OH MY GOD I WISH I WAS NICER TO YOU. But then you found out she also had the clap. Thanks, Jackie Moscow.
The biggest problem with Twitter (and certainly not the only—if I see the Fail Whale one more time I’m going to break into an aquarium and punch holes in the tanks) is the limit—how much can you really accomplish in 140 characters? It leads to ridic ridiculous abbreviations, an ADHD culture and bad grammar, and if there’s one thing I enforce in “NBN,” it’s gooder grammar. Woofer alleviates any of the anxiety from watching the “140” slowly dwindle down as you try to finish typing out HOW GREAT the sandwich you ate for lunch was by making each woof a minimum of 1400 characters. Think of how much more productive the Twitter society would be if they had to write 10 times more just to make a tweet. It’s a world I hope I live in some da…hang on, Diddy just wrote his 3,000th tweet, BRB!
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It takes me three days to write “NBN,” so there’s no way I’ll ever write a 1,400-character post. Twitter.com/BradPareso will continue the incoherent blurbs, ‘cause I sat too close to the TV as a kid. And could only watch the channel that shows what’s on other channels.