Meccanized

And something from my home state that really grinds my gears.

A lawyer, James O. Ruane, defending a man charged with a DUI is arguing that the man’s breathalyzer results be suppressed. Why?

Well, obviously because breathalyzers are “KKK in a box.” Good analogy, sir.

Apparently, the lawyer is arguing (and has an actual doctor to support this) that the breathalyzer discriminates against blacks because the lung capacity of a black man is 3 percent smaller than a white man. The conclusion here is that the diminished lung capacity will result in a breathalyzer result that inherently varies from the sobriety standard set by the device.

Remind me to use this argument if I ever get pulled over for a DUI. “I’m short, Ocifer, so, you see, my lungs are too small to registrate a correct result on the breath thing.”

Some part of me mourns the life that could have been — if I had gone to law school, I, too, could be wasting our legal system’s resources to argue cases just like this one.

James O. Ruane, you are Meccanized.

Or, in this case, bites.

Once again, stupid people are griding my gears.

A Chinese college student broke into the enclosure of Yang Yang, a panda bear living at the Qixing Park zoo.

I think Liu, the 20-year-old victim (tho I might argue that Yang Yang was the real victim here) sums it up nicely: “Yang Yang was so cute and I just wanted to cuddle him. I didn’t expect he would attack.”

Yes, I too like to cuddle … with cute animals … that weigh over 250 lbs … and are probably feeling a little restless and stir-crazy from being kept in a cage while twerps like Liu ooh and ahh. Liu, consider yourself Meccanized.

Now, in our great homeland of the United States, someone breaking into your house is just cause for homicide. Apparently, that same protection is not offered to pandas subject to stupid people. Everyone is up in arms about the Zoo’s security measures and whether they did enough to prevent the incident.

But consider the zoo’s position: “We cannot make it like a prison. We already have signs up warning people not to climb in,” he said. “There are no fences along roads but people know not to cross if there are cars. This is basic knowledge.”

I totally agree! I am all for security and taking extra precautions to make sure that zoo-goers are safe, but why should the zoo have to stretch their budget and drop down to accommodate the lowest common denominator of human intelligence?

And if you don’t agree with me, I offer this

“In 2006, a panda at the Beijing Zoo bit a drunk tourist who broke into his enclosure and tried to hug him while he was asleep. The tourist retaliated by biting the bear in the back.” Really?

More than hearing that Liu will be fine, I, personally, am thrilled to hear that Yang Yang was behaving normally after the incident and “did not seem to suffer any negative psychological effects.” Don’t worry, buddy — I’ve got your back.

At 9 am this morning, this was sent to me. This doesn’t really grind my gears, but I find it incredibly entertaining on two fronts…

1) This is what my friends are reading
2) …really?

… and so I thought it was important to post.

A few things stand out:

“Long story short: a man pleasuring himself with a jar of pasta sauce led cops on a low speed chase in Australia.” I’m not really sure this is the kind of thing you should ever make a short story, but fortunately, this is remedied.

“A man caught near Nobbys Beach with his penis in a pasta sauce jar led police on a 20 km/h car chase. Police drew their weapons when they suspected Keith Roy Weatherley, 46, was armed. Instead, they found him partially clothed with his genitals in a jar.” Nothing to add here — I think this speaks for itself.

What was in the car, you might ask?

“A search of his car uncovered pornography, a home-made sex aid, women’s stockings and a Jack Russell terrier.” I…I…

I am rarely speechless, but here I just don’t think any comment I make would add value to an already valuable story, so I simply state:

Keith Roy Weatherley, you are Meccanized … and gross.

Start ‘Em Young…

Calling someone “hot” can refer to a few things: sexiness (physical attributes and attractiveness), popularity, a fever. I ask you — do any of these possible interpretations of the word hot sound good when applied to a toddler?

Let’s consider this:

Sexy: Toddlers are awesome, but I think most people not Michael Jackson would agree that calling a toddler “hot” and referring to their attractiveness is the best way to get yourself a one way ticket to Prisonville. Unless you want to spend the rest of your life trying to nonchalantly let your neighbors know that you are a sex offender, probably better to avoid referring to a child like that.

Popular: Maybe your kid is the toast of the day care town, but it would be pretty lame to classify a toddler as hot in the “Hansel…so hot right now” sense. For one thing, most things toddlers do are objectively lame anyway (no one would bat an eye if I waddled a few steps and then fell down or managed to eat a meal without spilling food all over myself…well, maybe that second one would inspire some excitement), so it’s not like there is a cool – to – lame scale in play here. Second, while I will agree that there are definitely some pariahs in the young childhood sphere (you know, the weird kids who eat worms on the playground and put their pants on backwards), besides those outcasts, everyone falls in to the same pool of coolness.

Fever: This is just medically bad. Call a doctor.

So given this, how is it ok that Forbes, a supposedly respected publication, published pictures of the “10 Hottest Tots” and no one finds it creepy, offensive, a sad commentary on our society, or all 3?

Forbes, you are Meccanized. And for the sake of the two Pitt-Jolie kids NOT included in the slide show, Shiloh, Zahara, and Pax, you are also Meccanized.

It’s a 2-post day. That’s like a 3-alarm fire, only less hot. Or a 5-dog night…only less…fuzzy.

I was just informed that TiVo has added Domino’s Pizza delivery to its list of offerings.

Where do I even begin?

I will start with this. Part of me got really excited when I read this. You know which part? The obese, lazy part (which I keep well hidden using an elaborate system of girdles and a rigorous social schedule).

And I will continue with this. Domino’s? Really? Not only is it the worst pizza in existence (I feel like one Evan Solomon is going to give me hell for making that point), but also the company is run by that whack-job Tom Monaghan. Perhaps you remember him from his antics a few years ago to fulfill his lifelong dream to create a town compromised entirely of orthodox Catholics — you know, the kind of wholesome, salt of the earth place where pharmacies ban contraception and little boys are encouraged to grow up and join the priesthood.

So I feel the need to Meccanize two things here:
1) The enormous (literally and figuratively) part of the population that is excited about this announcement, for whom picking up the telephone is too much effort.
2) TiVo, for encouraging this laziness and for inflicting the world with a double-lame: bad pizza and indirectly supporting radical religious ideals.

Almost as disgusted right now as I was last night watching Bear Grylls rip apart a sea cucumber with his teeth… or this morning when I found out his son’s name is Marmaduke.

You know what really grinds my gears? This.

I know the Internet revolution has blurred the lines between reality and virtual reality, but really?

A woman caught her husband’s avatar having sex with a virtual prostitute in Second Life and she divorced him. Of course, this is after they got married in a Second Life ceremony that was a far bigger deal than their real wedding. She even hired an online private detective to follow him around. “He never did anything in real life, but I had my suspicions about what he was doing in Second Life.”

I expected the accused to set this crazy lady straight, offering at least a “Woman, what I do online is my own business.” But no, instead, he jumps right onto the ridiculous bandwagon: “We weren’t even having cyber sex or anything like that, we were just chatting and hanging out together.”

And sure, I know that emotional cheating can be as real as actual cheating, but this isn’t even emotional cheating — this woman is pissed because she feels like her husband really cheated on her. To these people, Second Life is so real that what happens in directly correlates to what happens in real life.

And you know what, I’ll dive into the crazy for a sec — they aren’t even actually divorced yet and she already is involved in a new relationship with a man she met playing World of Warcraft. Talk about www.tacky.com.

People who can’t separate the reality from virtual reality, you are Meccanized.

And yet another thing that really grinds my gears: Michael Bay.

I was at the movies last night, taking in Saw V (go ahead…judge), and I saw something infinitely more disturbing than the image of a man getting torn in half by a pendulum with “inferior blades”: a preview for next Michael Bay film. And what kills me the most is that, based on the trailer, I actually want to see it.

This is why I hate Michael Bay — his ideas are great, and they are usually enough to suck in unsuspecting (or, in my case, suspecting but always gullible) viewer. The problem is his execution. Imagine you have in front of you a really delicious filet mignon — tender, juicy, delicious. Now, imagine taking that filet, burning it beyond recognition, and covering it in mayo (and cilantro). Then smear your shoe on it a few times, beat it with a rusty bat, and lay it in the street and let a garbage truck roll over it a few times. Then go and pick it up from the pavement. What used to be a filet that would have made a damn fine meal now is something so gross and deformed you wouldn’t even give it to the homeless man who sleeps outside your building (or pees on your building, as the case may be). This is what Michael Bay does to a good idea.

Take “The Island” for example. What was an interesting bio-ethical dilemma became a loud, totally incongruous, totally unoriginal 2 hours that were saved only by the fact that my friend had a credit on the movie.

And Pearl Harbor? Well, I won’t get into the details, but I had to choke back vomit several times, as did several WWII vets who actually left the theater in disgust. I was happy beyond words when I heard “The End of an Act” in “Team America: World Police.”

(And sure, point out my hypocrisy — I love “The Rock” and “Bad Boys.” But I would argue that those are the types of movies Michael Bay should be tackling — ones where plot holes make absolutely zero difference, where explosions every 20 seconds are ok, and where Nicholas Cage dropping to his knees and screaming “Noooooooo!” while waving flares fit perfectly into the story.)

Of course, ultimately, this is my problem and not Michael Bay’s — I know full well what his movies are like, and yet I keep buying tickets, essentially saying with my $10.50 “It’s ok, Michael, I know you hit me because you love me.” However, this is my blog, and Michael Bay, rolling in dough out there in L.A., just pisses me off.

Michael Bay, you are Meccanized. (But I will still go see “The Unborn” when it comes out, and I expect at least a few of you reading to come with me.)

It is a rare group of people that can truly ruin a morning. But you, the crowd on the 1 today, really outdid yourselves with your total lack of consideration and complete obliviousness to the safety and comfort of all others around you.

A few people I would like to acknowledge specifically and publicly thank, who I feel really helped to make 7:45 am to 8:05 am truly outstanding:

- To the man who brought the bag of garbage on and stood right next, mumbling to some unseen third party, a poorly-secured plastic bag drip drip dripping a substance unknown onto my expensive, Cole-Haan leather shoes. Thank you, you scrap-toting lunatic.

- To the woman who just had to stand towards the front of the bus, creating a bottleneck and causing the eleven of us that got on at the last stop to cram in the front because you wouldn’t move yourself back any farther. I was really hoping to spend the 20 minutes vertically spooning with the stranger standing next to me, so I am so grateful to you for allowing me to fulfill that goal.

- A special thanks to the woman who refused to take off her backpack (despite being asked directly to do so by three different people), thereby taking up valuable space next to the vertical bar so I had to pop my shoulder out of joint to reach the horizontal bar a good 4 feet above my head.

- To the guy who quite literally pushed me out of the way to get to the last seat. I really hope that knocking me off balance with my two full bags and high heels made you feel like a man.

Thanks, San Francisco, for making my ride in to work so memorable. Consider yourself Meccanized.