I love Japan, really. Sushi? Delicious. Video games? Mario and Luigi are my BFFs. Geta? Who doesn’t love a pair of wooden sandals? Form over function! But my love for the Land of the Rising Sun comes with a caveat—I can’t understand a word of Japanese. Blame it on my inability to grasp other languages (after six years of Spanish, the only phrase I know is “arroz con pollo,” and that’s because I like to eat), blame it on their spoken language sounding like someone taking a sledgehammer to a full dishwasher. “But Brad, that’s stereotyping!” you say from your soapbox. Listen, stereotypes come from somewhere. I wasn’t the one who first said everyone from the South owns a gun or people named Brad excel at everything. It’s the world we live in. Translation Party bridges the English-Japanese gap by translating phrases back and forth between the two, until equilibrium is reached. Grab some friends and food and have at it. Just don’t order Japanese—they always forget the foks forks.
I have no problem giving our founding fathers some respect. We got a whole week off in February during grade school to do…something for them (was there some ritual we were supposed to do for that week? Dump tea in the Long Island Sound? Copy a book by hand?). Their names are on the Declaration of Independence. Their heads are chiseled into a mountain. Do they really need to be on our printed money, too? I’d much rather have cartoon characters and cheesy celebrities on them. George Washington is the only president in history to get 100 percent of the Electoral College vote. Is that not enough? How awesome would it be to have a crisp one with Cobra Commander or the Planters Peanuts guy on it? No wonder the dollar is worth like two-thirds of a euro—foreign countries don’t respect our paper money! Out with the dead old men and in with the movie heroes! Clu from Tron on the five? Leonidas from 300 on the 20? THIS…IS…AWESOME!!!
The trailer for Pirate Radio starts off with movie trailer narrator No. 4…narrating. He says: “It was loud. It was rebellious. And in 1966, the British government banned rock and roll…” WHOA WHOA WHOA. What the F is Britain’s deal with being oppressive and ruining everything? We try to start a new nation, they put up a big stink. We create the muffin, they perform some Satanic crap and create the English muffin. We give Simon Cowell like $100 million per season of American Idol, he wears T-shirts from Baby Gap. Last weekend, my British mum mom promised she would make Chicken Piccata. I got home and sat down to dinner, and what were we having? Pork! And not even Pork Piccata! So whether it’s Philip Seymour Hoffman in Pirate Radio or George Washington or Len Wiseman, stick it to those limey bastards! Get it, Len Wiseman is married to Kate Beckinsale…stick it…just ask your parents.
I bought a book (I know, right? A book? What is this, 1950?) when I was in high school called The Modern Gentleman. It has some useful information, like how to match ascots with monocles and what height top hat is acceptable seasonally. Nestled in the chapter about personal hygiene, the book says a modern gentleman should take one day each year and get a complete makeover. Fingernails, toenails, Brazilian wax facial, the whole nine. I’m not saying I need a bidet shooting heated Aquafina up my ass, but my hands are pretty beat up. I’ve got calluses and scars all over them from working at Baskin Robbins (YOU try making large chocolate shakes for fat middle school kids who just finished their stupid band concert). This nail art is a little excessive—how am I going to write NBN with Hello Kitty figures on my digits—but a nice mani-pedi wouldn’t hurt.
Follow me on Twitter!
I’m setting up a Twitter account for my 3-year-old niece. Here is a preview of her first Tweet: Twitter Twitter Bo Bitter. Bo Nana Fana Fo Fitter. Me Mi Mo Mitter. Twitter! I’ve got to introduce her to the Internet ASAP. Watch me corrupt her at twitter.com/BradPareso.