Liveblogging a Richard Gere Movie

It’s Saturday afternoon and that can mean only one thing: Time to tune into the CW to see what classic cinematic gem the little-network-that-could managed to buy the rights to.

This week is the ol’ chestnut classic “Bee Season” starring the man, the myth, the person hamsters use to scare bad children: Richard Gere.

3:00
This movie is clearly from the 90s (I’m not even going to check I’m so sure) and everything is supposed to be super meaningful but nothing makes any sense and there is no plot.

No plot.

No plot.

There’s a mom, a Richard Gere dad, a son, and a daughter that wins spelling bees. 

3:20
Ok, so everyone in this family “has a secret.” I thought the son was gonna be gay but turns out he’s secretly Hindu. Who the hell is secretly Hindu? Get a real fucking secret dumbass. He even made up a phoney “permission slip” so he could trick his parents into thinking he’s going on a camping trip with some school club but really he was hanging out at some Hindu rec center and like dancing and shit. I have no idea. How is this a real secret? I mean, teenagers don’t tell their parents anything, but joining a religion with the fourth most adherents in the world is not rebellion. Unless conforming is the new rebellion?

3:31
There were two back-to-back commercials for baptist churches. Gotta step up the marketing this time of year? Do they compete against each other? Oh, I guess I should mention I’m visiting my family in the South. It probably makes more sense now.

3:33
I guess the wife’s crazy? Is her secret that she’s crazy? This is…and she steals? She steals things like broken glass? Richard is now crying in the back of a taxi. At least he decided not to drive to his breakdown. Safety first! 

SideBar
So everyone is acting like Richard Gere is like this terrible husband and father, but he’s the only one who isn’t lying and seems to care about anyone at all. He keeps talking to them and asking questions, and they lie and then say “You never talk, we need to communicaaaaaate.” 

This.Makes.No.Sense.

Does Richard Gere have a job? He’s just running around dealing with everyone else’s problems.

3:37
Ok, now the wife is in the hospital for stealing things (in a meaningful way) and walking aimlessly and generally avoiding her family. Now she’s saying she doesn’t want to come home and is yelling at Richard. So it’s his fault she hates her family?

3:38
Richard is pulling the son out of the Hindu rec center and they’re yelling at each other and the son is all “YOU CAN’T CONTROL ME! MOM IS CRAZY BECAUSE YOU CONTROL USSSSSSSSSSSS!”

Now the daughter is praying. Or something. 

3:42
Richard is hugging his daughter and telling her she was great in her spelling bee and none of the wackadoodle stuff going on is her fault. Cut to: the son telling the daughter Richard is just using her like he “USED US ALLLLLLLLL!”

What a bunch of fucking ingrates. 

3:44
The daughter found something Richard was writing? Or reading? Anyway, now she’s repeating “light” over and over again and there’s some stuff about God and now it appears she has taken some acid. 

And now she’s having a seizure.

I’m not making any of this up. Clearly, this is why I’m not a big time hollywood writer, I can’t think up things like meaningful seizures after a movie about driving around for 45 minutes.

3:49
Establishing shot: They are in Washington, D.C. Oh right, she’s in the national spelling bee. I remember now, this is the only thing close to a plot point I’ve seen so far.

3:50
I need a drink. 

3:51
UGHHHH! They are doing that played out movie trope where the character splashes water on their face and looks in the mirror. It’s the daughter, if that matters. Then she whispers to herself “We can fix what has been broken.” By that does she mean whatever went wrong with my day that I’m watching this?

3:52
The mom is watching the daughter on TV with a look like “I’m so proud even though I’ve had nothing to do with her success, in fact, she only succeeds despite my hostility and neglect.” Because she’s a terrible mother. Not sure I was being clear there.

Ugh, she is such a smug bitch. She is watching this on TV because she ran away from her family and refuses to come back, but yeah, your family is aces all thanks to you motherly devotion.

3:55
The daughter lost on purpose. Because it’s meaningful. Now Richard is crying. Now he is hugging his son. I guess all they needed was for an 8 year old to lose a spelling bee to learn the true meaning of family?

OMG! The mom is smiling and crying and just told someone “She’s my daughter.” Like she’s all proud and shit. Fuck you lady fictional character. Just fuck you. Almost anyone can spit out a kid. You can’t just give birth, completely ignore your whole family, run away, and then go “didn’t I do such a great job. I’m #1 mom, I’ve got the mug to prove it.”

3:59
Credits. Salvation.

I’ll give that movie one thing: For a movie with no plot, or coherent character motivation, or real conflict, it sure did make me feel angry. I wound up hating almost all of the characters, except Richard who I just felt really sorry for. So I guess since it made me feel any emotion at all (including deep regret that this is what my life has come to) it’s art? Ok, sure.

In Conclusion
I have no idea if any of this was funny, but it sure was an adventure. An adventure we shared together. Like Richard Gere, I don’t do this for your praise or appreciation, I do this for…some reason. Umm, a reason you are just not intellectual enough to understand. When you learn how to truly appreciate art and the vulnerability of man, you come back. This will all make sense. We can all hug and convert to religions that would piss our parents off. Because that is what grown ups do.

 

THIS IS A POLL! YOU SHOULD TAKE IT!

 

Why do you hate everyone downwind of your head?

A few months back, I was taking a cab home after hanging out in houses of ill-repute with some friends.  The driver was very nice but he had those things in his ears…what do you call them?…oh right, HUGE GAPING HOLES!  Like so big I could fit both fists through one.  When I got out of the cab, I tipped very well and SOMEHOW resisted the urge to say,

“Use this to buy staples and fix your unfortunate ear flap situation.”

I don’t know what this practice is actually called, but I’ve always called it “absolutely disgusting beyond all measure.”  And a little while later I was proven EVEN MORE right (I know, I didn’t think it was possible either).  One of my roommates is obsessed with only the worst reality TV has to offer.  Like not the stuff on actual networks, the stuff on TruTV (“it’s not reality, it’s actuality” and actuality is another word for totes fake).  So, we were watching World’s Strictest Parents on CMT (Country Music Television for those of you who are woefully uninformed on where to find the best reality TV), which, guys, if you haven’t seen it is…well…it’s pretty ok.  Bordering on good in a trainwrecky sort of way.  It’s a show where wayward teens (read:  spoiled brats) are forced to live with another family that has strict parents (read:  parents that actually make their kids do things like chores and shit).  It doesn’t have the dramz that other, larger budget shows (Operation Repo) have, but if you hate kids as much as I do, it is intensely satisfying to watch the entitled worlds of these little jerkwads fall apart around them as they realize that FOR SOME REASON not everyone thinks they are a precious little snowflake who deserve to just be handed money for nipple piercings and cigarettes.

So we’re watching this show and one of the “misunderstood youths” has those big holes of bad decision making in both ears.  The parents are making him and the other girl that’s there work at this rec center they own for a charity event that night (because they are clearly the devil and if poor kids need money for piercings why don’t they just get rich parents?  DUH!  It’s not that hard!  This kid managed and he literally has several gaping head wounds.  GAWD, poor people are so whiney).  The parents tell them both they need to take out all of their visible piercings to work with the public, because their business has an image to uphold (the image of being totally old and lame, amiright?).  The boy takes out his huge loopidy-doos (totally technical term) and the mom walks buy to get something out of the sink AND ALMOST PASSES OUT!  No shit, her eyes roll to the back of her head and her body starts swaying like she’s about to fall over.  The dad catches her and asks what’s wrong,

“There was this smell.  It was really over powering.  I think a raccoon must have died in the pipes and the smell is coming up from the drain.”

Dad goes over to the sink,

“I don’t smell anything.”

“I didn’t make it up.”

“I’m not saying you did, but it’s not coming from the sink.”

“Maybe under the house?”

“*SIGH* I’ll get a flash light.”

And then the boy chimes in,

“Uh, guys.  It’s not a dead raccoon, it’s my ears.”

To which the parents respond,

“…”

The kid explains,

“No really, when you pierce and stretch your skin like this, it smells for some reason.”

So the dad goes over and takes a whiff, howls, and says,

“That’s the smell of death.  Your ears are literally rotting on your head.”

“Yeah.”

“Did you know that would happen when you got them done?”

“Yeah.”

“Then why…you know what?  Never mind, just put the plugs back in and let’s go.”

After watching this I HAD to call my sister because she has these stupid things in her ears too.  Granted, hers aren’t huge, but they are still fucking idiotic.  So I call,

“Hey Toasted Mini-Wheats, it’s Toasty…so how are thingsssss?”

“Gooood.  But for some reason I have the feeling you are about to mock me and you are just stalling to make the sweet taste of my shame linger on your lips for as long as possible.”

“You know me so well.”

“Well we are cut of the same cloth.”

“When did you move you 1862?”

“Shut up and get to why you called.”

“So you know those stupid stretcher things you have in your ears that tell the world your brother and I failed as parents and that you clearly hate us for failing so miserably in your upbringing?”

“Yup.”

“Did you know the skin around them is dead and if you take out the plugs they smell like rotting flesh?”

“Yup.”

“Wait what?”

“Yeah, if I take my plugs out they smell really gnarly.”

“Ok now we’re up to 1982 in our lingo but back to the issue at hand, did you know when you made this obviously terrible life decision that they would make your head smell like a corpse?”

“Yeah, a couple of my friends already had them and I had smelled them.”

“…ok maybe I’m missing something.  I try very hard, on a daily basis, to do everything in my power to not smell like death.”

“Think about it this way:  it could be used to repel boys.”

“Unless they also have plugs.”

“Yeah.”

“So you’ve made it so only stinky douchebags will be attracted to you.”

“Apparently, though I am uncommonly pretty so I bet I’ll still attract normal douchebags too.”

“I hate you so gawddamn much.”

“This kinda backfired on you didn’t it?”

“I can’t hear you over my mind screaming and the waterfall of whiskey falling into this glass.”

“I win this round.”

*click*

 

Wal-Mart is just another word for nothing left to lose

Hey y’all!  I need to get my southern slang on because I’m getting ready to go home for Easter.  All this packcrastinating, not doing the heap of laundry I need to do to stop packcrastinating, and maniacally searching for bottles under 3ozs is reminding me of the last time I went home, which was for Christmas.  Which in turn reminds me of going to Wal-Mart with my dad three days before Christmas.

It was a barrel of monkey laughs (totally a real saying y’all!).

So I go to my dad and am like, “K here’s the sitch, I have presents for everyone except mom because her and I have literally opposite tastes and she will hate whatever I get her so I’m going to go to Wal-Mart and buy whatever CD I would least want to own.  I chose a CD because who the fuck owns CDs anymore?  And I realized my horror signaled it was the perfect gift for mom.  Also, I need to buy Toasted Mini-Wheats (my sister) an iPod and since you guys live in George Washington’s house in a super historic town that is too historic for commerce, Wal-Mart is the only option.”

Dad responds, “So when do you want to go?”

“Now.”

“It’s after sunset!  We do not leave the confines of the estate after dark for we are old and feeble and there are roving gangs waiting for us at any place of retail commerce.”  Ok, for serious, SOME of that is paraphrasing, but my dad has seriously warned my sister and I of the “roving gangs” that want to kidnap us from the local Target, Wal-Mart, whatever.  AND my dad goes to bed at like 8pm so anything after sunset is like snorting cocaine at 4am at CBGBs with some guys you just met, i.e. totally insane and yet teaches you what it is to truly live.

“Well this is the only time I’m going to really have time.”

“*sniffle* Godspeed to you, my eldest.  I hope one day that we are reunited, but if this is indeed the last time I see you I just want you to know that I told you so.  I told you so so hard.”

“I was kinda hoping you’d come with me.”

“Guffaw! Guffaw AND chortle!  Yeah, not happening.”

“PA-LEEEEEEEEZE!”

“Don’t do it Toasty, come on.  I mean it, don’t.”

*Lip quiver puppy dog eye combo ATTACK!*  “Please…daddy.”

“I already have my coat on for some reason.  Let’s get this over with.”

“Pwned.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing dad, LET’S DO THIS THING!”

We drive the 10ish miles to the other end of town where the Wal-Mart is.  Ok, before we go on I want to make clear that I hate Wal-Mart.  They are an evil corporation that is helping destroy America.  I KNOW GUYS OK!  No need to tell me I get it.  But seriously, where my parents live is pretty wrecked already.  It’s this tiny suburb with a section of town that is just large retailers like Safeway and Wal-Mart.  There is nothing else, no cute boutiques or local owned anything (except for a couple restaurants and they know us there because we’ve been keeping them in business for decades so clearly we support what local business there is and maybe you could get off my back?).

Moving on.

We get into the Wal-Mart and the only way I can really describe it is, “Vast hellscape of empty desperation and anarchy.”

 

Toasty’s School of Life.

“I feel like crap on toast.”

That is my favorite quote to describe a really bad hangover.  It was originally said by Michelle from the Gilmore Girls (a male character, but he’s French so it doesn’t count).

Dear readers, I have some vital advice for you today.  If you have people over, and your roommate brings home a half gallon of Jack Daniels (the greatest of all beverages ever), and someone sets up a bitchin’ game of Guitar Hero, do NOT think, “I will drink this tasty whiskey and be a total bad ass on Guitar Hero, but I will not eat any dinner.  WILD STALLIONS!”  Especially don’t do this if you have to be awake for your terrible job that literally (and I say this with no hyperbole, a first for this zlog) makes you think about killing yourself every.single.motherfucking.day.

Yeah…I did.  I woke up at about 4:30 in the morning (two and a half hours before I had to get up for my stupid shit, soul crushing job) and thought I had died.  Not that I was dying, that I had literally died and that being dead hurt a WHOLE FUCKING LOT.

Fortunately, one of my roommates had made noodley stuffs for him and the two other people that were still up.  Unfortunately for one of those people, I stole most of their food.  Well, stole with consent.  They looked at me and said, “Ohhhh, you look sick.”  “Uhhh.”  I then grabbed the bowl out  of his hand and ate it while apologizing.  To which he replied, “No problem, you obviously need it more.”  I ate about three quarters of it (I am SO FUCKING GENEROUS) and went right back to bed.  Those noodles saved my fucking life (something that has happened more than once to me in my time).

So yeah, I spent my day at working wanting to die, for physical on top of just the normal, cubicle related reasons.  I would have fucking killed for an opiate.  Killed anything, not just a human.  If some guy was like, “Kill that elk over there and you can have this handful of oxycontin.”  That elk would be going the fuck down.  With my hands, because fashioning a weapon would take away oxy time.

So yeah, my message today is:  eat.  Eat often and well.  Don’t eat stupid flavorless shit just because it’s supposedly “good” for you, don’t eat only crap because you think it makes you cool, don’t not eat because you think people actually care what you look like, and definitely don’t refrain from eating because Mr. Jack Daniels (or any other commercial brand) tells you it’ll be totally cool if you don’t.  It will not be cool.  In fact, you will feel the opposite of “cool.”  What’s the opposite of cool?  Oh yeah, whatever is happening in my stomach right now.

 

I’m Cautiously Optimistic You Couldn’t Get Any Stupider.

The long awaited haiku results are finally in and the winner is…POONTANG83.  Like it was even a competition, he’s named after my favorite food.  Princess blah blah blah wasn’t even in the running because she’s a vegan and vegan’s fail at life.  Even vegans hate vegans.  That’s why they deny themselves meat and dairy.  That’s a level of self-loathing I can’t even begin to comprehend.  Ok ok, I know what she’s going to say, “But I’m a VEGETARIAN now.”  Just because you fail and failure doesn’t make you a success.

Moving on.  The economy, am I right?  Eh? Eh?  Ok, the economy blows, but you know what blows just as much?  Everyone writing about the economy.  I swear if I read the term “cautiously optimistic” one more time, I’m going to punch a baby in its spine.  Every fucking market “expert” is “cautiously optimistic” about their respective industry.  “No one can buy houses, but I’m cautiously  optimistic 2010 will see gains.”  “Lending is frozen, but we’re cautiously optimistic the banks will rebound in the coming months.”  “The top car industry executives are cashing in cans and sexual favors to buy food, but I’m cautiously optimistic the new era of the American auto industry is upon us.”  “Cautiously optimistic” apparently means “SHIT FUCK BALLS we’re screwed.”

No.  The Toastygod is here to translate, YET AGAIN.  “Cautiously optimistic” means “it can’t get any worse.”  Seriously guys.  We don’t need a bunch of fucking MBA douchebags to tell any of us that either the economy is going to get better, or we all better start training for Thunder Dome.  It’s either be “cautiously optimistic” that civilization will continue, or start hording water in your underground bunker.  And we all know that most business executives are worth less than ball sweat on both the slave labor and sex markets.

And that’s advice you can take to the bank.

Actually, don’t go to the bank.  Those places are money death.  Money under the mattress FTW!

 

Contest Time.

Hey there loyal readers (the loyal ones are the prettiest by the way).  The Toastygod is hungover tired today and so I’ve decided to host the very first Comment Contest of Cozy Delight.  Today’s challenge:   haiku!

Here’s how it works, leave your haikus in the comments and I will pick the one I like best.  The judging criteria is nothing more or less than my arbitrary whim and whatever mood I’m in when I read them.  The winner will get the much coveted Mad Props of the Toastygod (redeemable for praise, admiration, and the divine right to rule small island nations) , a get out of lame free card (perfect for those unfortunate acts of accidental lameness), and a pie.  Unless I don’t know you in person or you don’t live in my town, in which case you get Props, card, and picture of a pie.  I assure you it will look delicious.

Let Battle Haiku begin!

Allez Cuisine!

 

Toast is Fucking Evil.

I need to clear something up for everyone.  Toast is fucking lame.  Toast was sent to the world by the evil forces of frigidity to give my name a bad reputation.  It takes something as innocuous as bread and something as pure and right as warmth and transforms them into MOUTH SHREDDING TERROR!

And think about it:  toast is just overcooked bread.  When someone overcooks chicken everyone is all, “Oh this chicken is overcooked, it’s dry and tasteless.  I would prefer not to eat chicken like this again.”  But when bread is cooked to the point of being dry and tasteless, everyone is like, “OMG, I think I just came.  Let’s eat this EVERY FUCKING MORNING!”

…I hate everyone so very very much.

Did people really think this up on their own?  Of course not.  It’s a plot, by those that would oppose me.  I’m pretty sure dentists had something to do with it.  Who wants your mouth to be in blood-soaked agony?  Dentists.  I hate dentists.  One yelled at my little sister (Toasty Mini-Wheats) once and I have to drill out his eyes.  True story.

So toast has propagated itself to every corner of the globe.  What pisses me off the most is when you get no warning of a toast attack.  I’ll sit down at a restaurant or deli and order a tasty sammich.  I’m sitting there all thinking, “Oh man, I can’t wait for this sammich.  It’s going to taste so good.”  Then BAM, they throw down what should be my delicious symphony of meat and cheese (let’s face it, the bread is only there as packaging) and instead it’s a steaming pile of burnt bread.  What the fuck are you supposed to do with that?  It’s sadistic.  You can only stare at the savory sammich insides, trapped in a prison of impenetrable, stone-like bread.  You are left with few options:

1)      Starve.

2)      Take the insides out of the sammich and eat it with a fork, totally defeating the purpose of a sammich.  Also, because toast is so fucking dry and selfish, it soaks up a lot of the sauce and juice, leaving shriveled husks where juicy morsels of cholesterol should be.

3)      Beat the toast monstrosity against the table, breaking it into pieces small enough to fit in your mouth, which you can then suck on like a piece of hard candy.  Bread flavored hard candy.  Fucking yum.

4)      You can TRY to bite into the thing.  That can only end in tears.

Restaurants that ask, “Would you like that toasted?” crack me up because it’s like asking “Would you like me to stab you in the roof of your mouth?”  or “Your gums aren’t bleeding, let me help you with that.”  Yeah no guys, thanks I’m good, your girlfriends insist I keep my mouth in perfect working order.  But at least they ask.  Even if it’s on the menu I can lead a preemptive strike of, “Seriously don’t toast that shit.”  But when there is no warning at all.  This is why, no matter where I go or what I order I tell them, “Not toasted.”  “I’d like a PB&J, not toasted.” (Yes I order those at restaurants) “I’ll take a Whopper with Cheese, not toasted.”  “Vanilla malt please, not toasted.”  Mmmmmm, malts.  I haven’t had one of those in forever.  It’s the perfect mid-morning snack.  Ok, I’ll see you guys at the ice cream parlor.  I’ll be the one ordering my milkshake, “Malted, but not toasted.”

 

Get a Real Job.

So everyone needs to get off my nuts about posting. I’ve been in prison and the internet there was spotty at best. “Prison Toastygod?” Yes, prison. “What for?” Glad you asked. I had to kill a man. I’m not exaggerating, I HAD to kill him. He clearly did not want to live. How do I know? Because he was one of those fucking guys that stands on the street corner trying to get your credit card number to save the whales or trees or children or some other ambiguous group that you will never see and can therefore not validate 1) their existence, 2) their need for your money, or 3) the effect your money is or (more probably) is not having on their plight. Taking this job is tantamount to shoving a gun in your mouth. It’s beyond a cry for help, nothing can help now, it’s a cry for someone to fucking kill you.

I used to just tell these people, “Get a real job.” And when they’d be all, “What do you mean?” I’d break it down for them:

“Real businesses offer goods and services that people want. They market themselves and then interested parties seek them out for said goods and services. Customers come to them, they don’t force themselves on anyone stupid enough to go outside. You try to hock the intangible commodities of ‘good karma’ to people who are at best apathetic to you and your cause and at worst hate you for your intrusion into their lives. You are nothing more than snake oil salesmen mixed with panhandlers. But at least most pan handlers will dance or sing or make a sign or say ‘please’ so they have somehow earned my meager contribution. You earn nothing but my scorn and are a blight on all of society. Your existence shames humanity.”

At this point they are speechless from the ruination I just dealt them so I tip my top hat and walk away with a jaunty spring in my step that says, “I’m so much better than you in every way.” My treatment of them has probably led to many an inevitable suicide (I inspire people with the courage to kill themselves), but, admittedly, I have never had to resort to actual murder before. And this was murder. I didn’t just kill him, I murdered him. Premeditated style.

He would not stop talking to me. I tried to walk away, he blocked my path. I told him to fuck off he said, “I will, just sponsor a child, fish, acre, unicorn first.” Then he did the unthinkable. The sin for which no one escapes my realm unscathed. He hugged me. He was some stupid hippie fuck that thought everyone should just get along. He was all, “Here have a hug for your trouble” and the next thing I know he’s leaning in to FUCKING TOUCH ME.

I don’t know what happened next. I went into blind smiting mode. I woke up in a jail cell covered in blood. They tell me there wasn’t enough of the guy left for the family to bury. They’re going to have to fill the coffin with his black light wall art and Grateful Dead CDs. I said nothing, because everyone knows you never talk to cops. EVER. You hear me loyal readers. Let Toastygod give you this life lesson. NEVER TALK TO COPS. For any reason. They could be behind you in line in the Krispy Kreme, and they’d say, “Nice day isn’t it?” and you’d say “Yeah. Sunny.” And the all of a sudden you’re on the floor, coming to after a taze to the temple. True story.

Ok so now you may be wondering, “Well then how DID you get out of jail?” Why do you have to be all up in my kool aid? But I’ll tell you anyway. I waited until they charged me and I went to court. The judge asked for my plea and I said “Not guilty by reason of that guy was a hippie douchebag with a clipboard who wanted my money and a hug.” And the judge said, “Wait, from Children International?”

“Probably.”

“Case dismissed!”

And now I’m free and back on the streets to spread my even-handed justice and make this world a better, more hippie-free place. You’re welcome.

 

Star Trek TNG = MARRIAGE!

I have recently discovered Hulu.  Be glad I post at all.  Now that I have almost every TV show imaginable (no Mr. Belvedere WTF?) I have no need for anything else, like food or sunlight or gainful employment.  I can watch any Survivorman, in any order, without commercials whenever I want.  THAT IS THE TRUE MEANING OF POWER.  Survivorman is the cute little Canadian guy that goes out and is all badass on nature.  He makes outside his bitch.  He’s like Mcgyver, but without technology and with something to lose.

Survivorman (aka The Rugged) is not to be mistaken for not-survivorman, Bear Grylls (The Pussy).  Just because you name yourself “bear”, doesn’t mean you’re a “top.”  Notsurvivorman hosts the show “Man vs. Wild” which should be renamed “strolling with a faggot.”  Where Survivorman survives 7 days in the harshest environments on the planet, notsurvivorman (no we don’t capitalize his name, he hasn’t earned capitalization) just kind of strolls around and after about 10 feet he has his crew take him home.  Granted, that 10 feet is always straight up.  Because apparently if he gets stranded in a survival situation, he wants to die in any manner of the lamest ways possible.  Get caught on a mountain or other high elevation?  Clearly, you should start climbing.  Because all societies build their villages at the tip top of a mountain, where there is no air or resources.  Also, climbing is a great use of your energy, as opposed to the much more strenuous controlled falling.  Got it.  Dick.  I picture that he gets his skinny, pale (probably nude) ass to the top of the mountain and looks around at the desolation (panting as the air is incredibly thin).  He then turns to a mountain goat (the ONLY other living thing up there) and says, “Excuse me, do you have any sailor semen, as that is clearly the only thing I eat?  No?  Then could you point me to the local Man Holes establishment?  It’s been hours since I had a Seabreeze!” (though only minutes since he’s had dick, he carries it with him wherever he goes, I won’t tell you where).

Survivorman has an impressive resume of being a badass.  His resume literally says, in big letters, BADASS.  Not many people have earned that title.  Notsuvivorman was a french girl scout, as far as my research can find.  He also failed out for pouting and taking his clothes off at completely unnecessary times. 

Notsurvivorman show formula:

Talk about how though it may LOOK like he’s at a Wolfgang Puck’s, the conditions (he assures us) are brutal. 

Start climbing a mountain for no discernible reason with nothing more than a columbia jacket and a pair of sketchers. 

Make some big deal about eating something that’s only mildly gross.  “Oh no, i must eat this earth worm”  *face that mimics what one would look like if one had to eat one’s own mother’s liver that had just been ripped violently from her as one looked on in horror and is 8 years old, cuz seriously, that guy crys like a little bitch*  Btw, any kid that went to grade school ate a damn earth worm (willingly or no).  YOU’RE NOT COOL!

Crew brings sammich from Kraft services.

Nakey (swimming in leach invested water, wander around snow covered moor, fish for sharks with his tiny worm penis).

Also, he gives TERRIBLE survival advice. 

Notsurvivorman:  Sometimes you have to drink your own pee.  Mmmmmm man pee.

Survivorman (in perfect baritone with burly chest heaving):  NEVER DRINK YOUR PEE!!!!!!!

Then Survivorman would show you a way to get the water from your pee using nothing but saran wrap and pure manliness.

Hulu has all of this to offer and more.  Including all seven seasons of Star Trek:  TNG.  If you don’t know what this is, or if you haven’t seen every episode, then you have not truly lived and society should shun you until you are a real person.  I firmly believe that if I ever get roped into marriage, I don’t want a wedding ring, I want all 7 seasons (plus extra scenes and commentary) on DVD.  A ring is like, “Oh look, there’s that ring again, it’s kind of shiny.”  Whereas Star Trek TNG is like, “OMFG!  I forgot about the one where Riker bones Troi AND Roe.  Mad props to your skills, player.”  The ring gives like a few random seconds of nostalgic stirrings for what adds up to several minutes of something that approximates joy during your whole life.  TNG gives you HOURS AND HOURS OF AWESOME.  Personally, I’d want my spouse to associate me with the orgasmic joy and pure awesome TNG offers over the appreciation of slight aesthetic sparkly that a ring has to offer.  But maybe that’s just me.

Ok, I’ve been away from Hulu for like an hour now.  I’m starting to shake and sweat and the Silver Spoons theme song is softening in my head.  SILVER SPOONS WHAT A GREAT IDEA!  I’m full of those.