Hallowed Be Thy Halftime Show

FantasicSam: Who do you think God wants to win the superbowl?

M.: Well I would’ve said the saints, but they didn’t win, so definitely the colts.

FantasicSam: Seriously? Lovie Smith is the first black coach in the superbowl…you don’t think that is part of some grand design?

M.: Maybe. Like, maybe this whole thing is a ruse to get Manning to the superbowl, only to snatch victory away from him at the last minute. Then God would be like “See? That’s what happens when you don’t pray hard enough.” And the Andrea Kramer would interview people about half time injuries, totally missing the whole “there really is a god” story.

FantasicSam: Andrea Kramer sucks.

M.: Yeah, but to be fair, God is kind of a media whore.

I Wish Everyone Were Dead: Music Edition

In the past month, the following three things have been said to my FACE:

1. “You are a music poseur.”

2. [Three SECONDS after giving my sister my headphones to listen to a song]
“This is the same shit you’ve been listening to since High School.”

3. “I just, um, think you have strange taste in music.”

First: Fuck all of you.

Second: When did it become acceptable to shit all over someone’s personal taste in music? To be fair, I don’t foist my music on anyone. And to be doubly fair, it’s all pretty mellow, inoffensive stuff.

I’m absolutely baffled that, in this Era of Good Feelings – where we don’t tell work-place-Charlie that he has fucking disgusting B.O. because we don’t want to hurt his “self esteem” – somehow MY music tastes have been declared in-season. What could my response have possibly been to any of those insults above? 1. "I am not!" 2. "It really isn't." 3. "Oh fuck you." See? It's an impossible position I'm being put in! And why am I even in that position in the first place?

Listen, I don’t pretend to be Pitchfork. I like what I like if I can sing along to it/jump along to it when I’m really drunk. Or, I like what I like if it soothes me on a Sunday morning, drinking coffee and reading. Either way, fuck off, because I LIKE WHAT I LIKE.

Therefore, on this 25th day of January, year-of-our-Lord 2007, I declare an NTC-Law that no one will disparage, eye-roll, or generally poo-pooh anyone else’s music.

[Octogenarian guy in corner with big NTC book]
“mumble, mumble, NTC-LAW.”

Cue The Long Winters... you fuckin’ haters.

Really, White House Speechwriters?

You were searching through your big bag of heroes to compare to that guy that jumped onto the subway tracks to save someone's life and you came up with this?


I guess i could see that.

Awoken From Slumber, Dulles Realizes It's 2007

"Man, I’m glad that’s over. That security line was a bitch! Did you get strip-searched too? No? So strange that it always seems to happen to me.

I’m glad we left 4 hours before our flight. If we run, we just might make it to the gate in time.

Where are you going? We have to get on the what? The “mobile lounge?” What the fuck are you talking about? But our flight leaves in ten minutes!

I don’t want to lounge in this thing – I want to get to my gate. None of the terminals are connected? I see. Maybe someone could update this airport from the 70’s. Someone is? Wait, can I smoke on this thing?”



-- Shaken by the knowledge that Carter is no longer president, Dulles has decided to bring us the “AeroTrain,” which is coming in 2035, or whenever all the illegal immigrant construction workers finish it or whatever. I’m glad that my grandchildren won’t have to go through what the rest of us do to get on a plane at Dulles. "Aero" Train? Seriously? Even the name of the "modification" sounds like something out of Airport '77. Who the fuck is running this place? My money is on the organizers of the 1904 World's Fair. Or Joe Cotton... it could be Joe Cotton.

The one question no one is asking, however, is: “What will happen to all those Mobile Lounge drivers?” Will they become restroom attendants? Baggage handlers? Nascar drivers?

Welcome aboard the 20th Century Express, Dulles... your “updates” are late, over-budget, and underwhelming... and Tampa airport beat you to it in, like, 1987... but WELCOME!

Pencils down, please

My hand really hurts. I just spent twenty minutes writing with a pencil and my hand really hurts. The writing is atrocious: pencil is smeared over the entire southeastern portion of the page (thanks to the coffee induced shaking which has persisted for 3 days . . ), the 'eraser' (nice try Thom Yorke) did nothing but smear my mistakes across the page like a child fingerpainting, and each sentence gently slopes downward because I can't write in a straight line. AND, my hand still hurts.

My handwriting is a hybrid of capitals, cursive, italics, and 'regular' letters. Someone once said my handwriting looked like comic book handwriting. I hate that person. But I really like my handwriting and take (some) pride in it. To be totally honest, I cross t's and scribble ing's better than you.

My hand still hurts. I guess that's why computers are good. They make your wrists hurt, but just a little.

Damn it. The pencil shavings just spilled all over the carpet. Where are the cleaning peoples when you need them? Hola? Donde esta?

Well Played, Dakota Fanning

It's not that i don't fucking care about Dakota Fanning.

Okay, it is that i don't fucking care about Dakota Fanning, but then this happened:


And you just fucking KNOW that SOMEWHERE the Olsen twins are all like: "Thank god we never did shit like that." And then the anorexic one is like "Yeah, thank god. That is so career ending." And then the other one is like, "I'm hungry."

So i don't really care about Dakota Fanning, but I totally support things that make the Olsens binge eat. You show 'em , 'kota.

Do you know what time it is?

I am often called upon to speak for my race, probably because there are a lot of stupid white people in this world (See: Anyone that went rock climbing in 2006).

While i normally decline to comment, i find myself feeling generous on this day of all Black Holy Days. That is why, dear reader, i think it extremely important to point out that Martin didn't die for shit like THIS:




I think i speak for all black people everywhere when i say "Fuck you, VH1, for making this possible."

iProblem

Steve Jobs?



How is it that you can turn Apple into a zillion dollar enterprise, but you can't figure out that mock turtlenecks are not considered appropriate attire...ever?

Shut the flap up

Some would argue ocean levels were on the rise as a result of global warming: I think it's just the result of my leaking toilet.

Here's how NTC fixes a leaking toilet:

1. Identify Problem: Leaking Toilet (noticed 3 months previous).

2. Tools Needed: 3 months of laziness, two Stella Artois, Andrew Bird's 'The Mysterious Production of Eggs' LP (whistle while you work), new toilet flapper, NTC attitude.

3. Tools not needed: Bob Villa (umm . . . you still have a beard, sir).

4. Estimate Cost:

Two Stella: $4
New Toilet Flapper: $5
Andrew's LP: $12
1 hour: I usually charge between $130 and $150 an hour

Laziness = 3 months of leaking toilet x 4 weeks x 7 days x 24 hours x 3 (20 minutes to empty the tank) x 1.6 gallon tank equals 9,676.8 gallons of water leaked.

There are 3.8 Litres per gallon and 1 litre of Evian is $2 (could you imagine using Deer Park H2O as toilet water in Arlington?). So, 1 gallon of Evian is $7.60.

Total cost of water from leaking toilet over the previous 3 months = $73,543.68

Total Cost: $73,694.68

5. Procedures: After procuring the new toilet flapper from your local hardware store, put in music, and grab one (1) Stella. Turn off water to toilet, remove lid, and flush till tank is empty. Remove old flapper. Attach new flapper. Turn water back on and replace lid.

Open the remaining Stella, turn down the music, and celebrate the silence you've longed for after three months of hell because your apartment no longer sounds like a waterfall.

Fuck Yeah, '07

While NTC was busy ringing in the New Year all classy-like ( read: no jeans) Pink was busy gearing up to start ’07 off right in the only way one really can start off a new year…with an ad for PETA.



Before I continue, I should probably offer some sort of sheep disclaimer like “Oh, I’m not talking about the sheep, I’m talking about Pink” and “Pink is awful, but those poor sheep."

Fuck that noise. Listen up, PETA.

I’m all for the sheep (seriously. Big sheep fan.), but you, much like the misguided NBC execs of ’06 (you are dead to me, Sunday night football) are seriously hard up for celebrity spokespeople. I’ve been thinking, and I’ve come to the conclusion that you just don’t know who is available. Below, please find a list of acceptable alternatives to Pink that can start immediately:

1. Chevy Chase
2. Joe E. Tata
3. Markie Post
4. That Welch’s grape juice girl with the incredibly round head
5. Willie Nelson
6. Any one of the Goonies
7. Scott Baio
8. Anyone from the Facts of Life
9. All the Smurfs (except Vanity Smurf—he’s in Queer as Folk this season)
10. ALF

Neither one of the Wahlbergs are busy, the entire cast of That 70's Show is available, and I’m almost positive that Lisa Kudrow is looking for something to fill the endless void....all of these individuals (and any incarnation of Menudo) are acceptable alternatives to Pink.

So here’s the deal: I stop buying wool. You stop hiring Pink for shit. Only then will the fight for the ethical treatment of animals and a better NFC East really have meaning.

Fuck yeah, ’07.