It's Friday, and Adel Brings Nothing to the Party

By, Adel

Here it is; another Friday. Fridays are typically when I post something painfully witty and undeniably hilarious. I had some great ideas... to be swiped by Roode and Tresckow. First, Roode takes a bloody five finger discount on my idea to decree "Boondock Saints" as the official movie for Saint Patrick's day. Then, Tresckow takes it upon himself to slap a critique of "Hell's Kitchen" on the FWTC. OK. Fine. I can roll with the punches.

Jackasses

So, whatever. I'm happy I could provide such inspiration for two columnists who apparently don't have an original thought in their heads. I'm not bitter. I'm happy. Very fucking happy. I can't wipe this grin off my face.

I can't take anything away from those two. This week's articles were great. I'm glad I could be a part of it. I'm not bitter. Really. I'm happy for the site that could provide the public with such hilarity. It's great that the three of our heads could crank out two stories. Besides, both surely are eager to give me credit where credit is due. But, just to make sure, I gave them both a chatting to.

Tresckow is on the other side of the country. So, baring a face to face conversation, I had to settle for a call to his cell at 10 at night, his time.

Tresckow (answering the phone): You better have my fucking money Mario!
Adel: Tresckow?
*SILENCE*
Adel: Um, great piece on "Hell's Kitchen." It's almost as good as the one I pitched to you three weeks ago.
Tresckow: Who is this?
Adel: Me. You know? Adel? The one who pitched the "Hell's Kitchen" idea to you three weeks ago. You said it was a shitty idea and to do something about the "Watchmen" movie.
Tresckow: Oh yea. Lucky you didn't do that article. That idea sucked. How did you get this number?
Adel: Sucked so much you took it for yourself and published it two days ago? I've had your number for eleven years...
Tresckow: No no no. My idea was completely different. It was on "Hell's Kitchen." It had nothing to do with purses.
Adel: Purses? No, Tresckow. I pitched an idea on writing a critique about "Hell's Kitchen." Remember? How there is really no one to root for like there was last year? Except, somehow, you related everything to Eliza Dushku again.
Tresckow: Mmmmm. Eliza Dushku. You know, when I see her on "Dollhouse" I want to take my pants off.. if I was wearing pants... but I would take them off..
Adel: Tresckow! No. Focus. The "Hell's Kitchen" article you posted this week.
Tresckow: I mean I can't really wear pants when I watch her in that show...
Adel: Hey! Come on. Concentrate. "Hell's Kitchen."
Tresckow: .... like a rock, baby. Erection!
Adel: "Hell's Kitchen." The article. On the blog. HELL'S KITCHEN!
Tresckow: Yeah, did you like it? I thought of it a couple of weeks ago while downing a bottle of bourbon.
Adel: No. Tresckow. I pitched the idea to you three weeks ago. You told me it was a bad idea. I had to see "Watchmen" so I would have something to write about. WATCHMEN, Tresckow. Fucking Watchmen!
Tresckow: Yeah, you liked it or hated it, or something. I haven't read your article yet.
Adel: It was about all the bare ass in the film. Remember? Girl ass. Blue ass, etc.
Tresckow: Who is this?
Adel: Can you at least share a credit with me on the byline?
Tresckow: Haha. Blue ass. You should write something about that.
Adel: Are you drunk?
Tresckow: Of course you can borrow my blue ass idea. Just share the credit.
Adel: You're such a wanker.
Tresckow: Look, I have to go. I think Adel is going to call me later.
*CLICK*

Right. Tresckow and his raging alcoholism were a dead end. I live close to Roode. He all but admitted lifting his Boondock Saints idea from me. Hell, he almost gave me credit. If I corner him, he'll likely buckle like a belt. I am, after all , a force to be reckoned with. So, Thursday afternoon, I took it upon myself to visit Roode at his office. For the sake of privacy, I won't reveal who he works for. Let's just say this group is nationally renowned for being over paid, lazy tossers.

*Knock knock*
Adel: Roode?
Roode: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Adel: ROODE. Wake the hell up. It's 2 in the afternoon.
Roode (jerks awake, nearly falling out of his chair): I'm on it.
Adel: What?
Roode: Oh, Adel. Shit, I thought you were someone important. Did you bring me crab ragoons?
Adel: Um, no. No. I didn't. I want to talk to you about your Boondock Saints article last week.
Roode: So.... you'll bring the crab ragoons later?
Adel: There are no bloody crab ragoons. This is about the website. The blog. Remember? The Fuse Was Too Cold.
Roode: Oh yea. That thing. Sorry, I had a shitty morning. This asshole driving a Volvo with a Sheridan College window sticker kept fucking with me on the way to work this morning. Son of a bitch!
Adel: Roode. I know. You posted an article about it two days ago.
Roode: That really happened? Shit, I thought I was writing an email.
Adel: Alright. Well, you took the idea for the Boondock Saints Saint Patrick's day thing from me. You were over my place the weekend before. I told you how the Boondock Saints should be the official Saint Patrick's day movie. You stole it from my DVD cabinet.
Roode: I don't recall that. I'm working.
Adel: Roode. You were asleep when I came in.
Roode: Conserving energy for the afternoon rush. You know? My daily run to Starbucks.
Adel: Come on, Roode. I see my DVD on your desk.
Roode (knocking the DVD onto the floor, then kicking it under his file cabinet): There's nothing here? Just official business. Very busy. (Randomly going through stacks of blank papers feigning work)
Adel: All I'm asking is for some direct credit on the article. I'm happy to help you with ideas. Just give credit where credit is due.
Roode (picking up his phone): Security? There's some redhead in my office waving around a gun. Get in here right away. And bring some crab ragoons.

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When not attempting to write for The Fuse Was Too Cold, Adel can be found plotting her revenge on Tresckow and Roode. She doesn't know what it's going to be. But, it might involve Exlax.

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More Road Rage, Less Road Dumbasses

By, Roode

I think everyone the world over has to deal with stomach churning morning commutes. It's a way of life. It's pretty much one of the deciding factors that will ultimately destroy mankind as we know it. And you know what? I'm glad. Thousands and thousands of years from now, alien civilizations will piece together our society and come to the very accurate conclusion that the majority of human vehicle operators were dicks.

Can you see, Lorgus, Interplanetary Prefect of Rigel 7? You can tell by this artifact that humans were driving fuck ups.

I don't care who you are or where you live. Your commute to work sucks. It's not necessarily the drive. I used to have a 50 minute commute to one of my old jobs. It took me through sparsely populated areas of the state, rarely interacting with other commuters. I had to deal with snow, the occasional big horn sheep standing in the middle of the road, and long periods of time with my stereo stuck to easy listening.

I swear, dude, if that's Kenny G I hear, I'm so going to fuck your car up.

But, a few years ago, I changed employers. With a new position and a new series of ridiculous benefits, came a shorter commute that leads me through much of the populated area of the city. I've braved blizzards, sheep, and easy listening for years in my previous job's commute. I would go back to that in a friggin heartbeat!

It's people. People are the worst. Everyone; mother, son, father, daughter, is an asshole behind the wheel. I swear to all that is holy, most of these fuckers are intentionally being dicks. Last minute lane changes, sudden stops for no apparent reason, and some of the slowest mother fuckers I've ever had the sorry chance to be stuck behind.

I don't give a shit, sonny. I'm three minutes from death.

But, I'm not here to complain about everyone. My situation is not unique. Right now, as we speak, someone in China is yelling colorful Chinese obscenities at an ox cart that's blocking traffic. My beef is with one of these agents of suck. As with everything in life, once you put a name to your enemy, things become clearer. The hate becomes purer. The name of my enemy? Volvo driving Sheridan College alum guy.

Oh, how I HATE Volvo driving Sheridan College alum guy. He is the epitome of dickdom. He manages to fuck my drive up each and every damn day. Somehow, the forces of all that is motorway evil work in unison to place this dick bag in front of me. It's not even sporting any more. Sure, I used to say, "Hey, what a coincidence. There's that same Volvo with the Sheridan College window sticker forcing his way in front of me so he can jam on his breaks and bring all of us to a grinding halt. What a world." But, I see the truth now. This fucker is out for blood. It's no longer by chance this swing bag ends up next to me in traffic only to jam his car in the two feet of available space between me and the next car. It's me he wants. It's my day he want to ruin.

Redden the head lamps and add a demonic laugh and you have what I deal with on a daily basis.

I've wronged him in some way in a previous life. His sole purpose in life is to get me in such a rage that my day is obliterated before I walk in the office door. There he is, slyly looking in his rear view mirror with his stupid Sheridan College window sticker... laughing at me each time he hits his brakes. Getting a raging chubby every time he cuts in front of me at a stop light just to take a full two minutes to move when the light turns green. This is evil, my friends. It's Hitler. Hitler is obviously driving this car. And Hitler went to Sheridan College.

Switch the Mercedes with a Volvo and the resemblance is damn uncanny!

I'm on to you Volvo driving Sheridan College alum guy. I see the game you're playing. I know that as soon as we part company in the morning you drive around the block several times giving my car the finger while you slap babies in the face. I wouldn't even be surprised if you rubbed your bare ass on my car when no one was around. Shit! That would explain those ass shaped smudges on my rear doors. Diabolical!

It's on now, fucker. IT'S ON!

Sincerely,
Roode

Hell's Kitchen Season 5. It Doesn't Matter Who Wins, They All Suck

By, Tresckow

As much as it pains me to be in the same category as Roode, I too watch Hell's Kitchen. I'm not even really sure why I started to watch it. I'm not really sure why America watches it other than to feed its already overflowing reality show slop bucket.

If you look close enough you can see Keeping Up With The Kardashians in there.

I started watching in Season 4, long after America had already begun it's Chef Gordon Ramsey love affair. But still, I couldn't give a shit less about shows like this. Seriously; people competing to "earn" a position at a restaurant that, in reality, ends up being no where near what was advertised.

Did we say "head chef" at the Borgata? We meant mop jockey at the bus station.

But, season 4 brought me back to watch season 5. The fat loud mouth with the bad weave was trounced. The "runner up" Patrozza made an excellent lovable loser and the winner Christina.... was extremely cute.

See? Friggin adorable.

And then there's her celebration photo....

We wish her chef's uniform was of like design.

There's something missing from season 5. I was sitting in front of the television with my Hell's Kitchen glass of whiskey thinking about it pretty hard. After the fourth glass of delicious Irish nectar, a few things came to mind. First off, no one in this season is a lovable underdog. Everyone is equally douchebaggy. Every contestant possesses a quality about them that makes you want them to lose. Think about it. Who are you rooting for? No one. Not J (the fact that this jackhole uses the letter J to spell his name and refers to himself in the third person stack the deck against him). LA? Get the hell out of here! I've seen less militant butchism at a college LGBA anti testicle rally. Ben? Really? Ben? He's a dillhole. A big, mouth breathing, square headed dillhole. Something tells me he spent a little to much time eating paint chips as a child.

But, he sauteed the paint chips in a lovely burgandy sauce.

What about big 'ol lovable Robert? That white middle class man's answer to Fat Albert? Eh, maybe. He's seems jovial and jolly enough. But, on the other hand, no. No. I can't say I give a shit about him either.

Right now, Robert is wondering how Chef Ramsey would taste with a delightful truffle reduction.

OK, it's safe to say that the men are a lost cause. Alright, Giovanni isn't too much of a screw up, but again, I don't give a shit about him. I have nothing invested in him. Nothing about him makes me care enough to root for his stereotypical Italian ass.

What about the ladies? Well, LA..... wait, I already pretty much summed up my thoughts on that ball of joy. OK, how about that little annoying pushy firecracker, Andrea? Actually, I think most of America is hoping she accidentally gets locked in the freezer over night and has to leave the show after her mouth miraculously freezes shut.

Lacy? Truthfully, I'm still waiting for her team to beat her about the head with frying pans, Three Stooges style.

There's always Colleen. Wait. No. She was booted a couple of weeks ago. I just mention her because she has this MILF quality I totally dig.

Everyone at the FWTC would be very OK with a stern talking to and a spanking from Colleen.

Maybe Carol. Yeah, I think so. I'd root for her. But, let's face it, I only wouldn't mind her winning the contest, because she's the only attractive one left on the show (sorry, Gordon). I don't particularly root for her as the underdog or even really care how she fairs in the over all contest. She's cute. That's pretty much it. That's all it takes for me at this point.

Momma always said, when in doubt, root for the cutie.

If/when Carol gets the axe, I have no reason to watch (but, I'm sure I will out of pure habit). Every show, be it drama, reality, or comedy takes a nose dive when the cute one leaves. This season was struggling for cuties from the start. I hope, beyond hope, that my hunch that the big FOX conglomerate is really in control of who wins and who loses and demands that Carol stay in the running to keep the horny guy demographic. Don't get me wrong, the horny girl demographic will help too, but it's just not as powerful as the horny guy demographic. We're the group that pretty much keeps demanding FOX find vehicles for Eliza Dushku.

Come on. You knew it was going to come back to her.

The Ultimate Saint Patrick's Day Movie

By Roode

Dear soon to be drunk off your asses celebrators of Saint Patrick's Day,

Sure, there is a plethora of movies for Christmas, New Years, Halloween, and Arbor Day. What is out there in Net Flix's already bloated DVD hole for Saint Paddy's Day?

This Leprechaun horror shit doesn't count.

What is there? Nothing. There's nothing for nobody, no how. That's it. Pack it in. This shit is done.

Wait.

Or is it?

Shit yes! Of course. THE official movie of Saint Patrick's day!

"Now you've lost it, Roode. What the hell are you smoking now?" you're saying to your monitor. Hear me out. The only thing we really associate with Saint Patrick's Day is getting pissed drunk and vomiting all over our best friend's sister. That and herds of drunken Irishmen punching each other in the face.

Oh yea. That fucker's loaded.

But, after all that Guinness, whiskey, and vomit, you're left with an empty feeling. Well, that and the taste of vomit and socks. Don't ask me how you got the taste of socks in your mouth. You're better off not knowing.

What can fill that hole? Violence! Violence and Williem DeFoe in drag. Violence, Williem DeFoe in drag, and MORE VIOLENCE! That's it! That's what this made up drunken holiday is missing. Saint Patrick's Day just hasn't had enough gun violence until this point.

Ahhh... this is what was missing.

OK, so you don't get the connection between The Boondock Saints and Saint Patrick's Day. What the hell is wrong with you? The connection is strong...strong like bull (in a weak sense). The entire movie begins on Saint Patrick's Day. One of the first full scenes you see is a drunken bar fight between a bunch of loaded Irishmen and angry Russians. If that isn't Saint Patrick's Day, I don't know what is!

"Hey! It's Saint Paddy's Day. Let's go kill some mobsters."

This is where it's at, friends. You have guns, cigarettes, alcohol, death by toilet, Willem DeFoe in drag and David Della Rocco. Oh yea, and a tenuous connection to Saint Patrick's Day. You don't need anything else. Trust me. Roode knows.

So, in closing (if I ever really opened), The Boondock Saints is THE movie for Saint Patrick's Day. There are Irish accents... that lends some legitimacy to it, right? OK, there're Americans using Irish accents, but you have to give me some leeway here. Oh yea, and a sequel is coming out sometime this year. It's not on Saint Patrick's Day, but close enough. It might be close to Christmas, which would make it THE Christmas movie.

If all that wasn't enough to PROVE BEYOND A SHADOW OF A DOUBT that The Boondock Saints is THE Saint Patrick's Day movie, maybe a little something by the way of Ron Jeremy will sweeten the deal.

Oh yea... that's it...Ron Jeremy..

Sincerely,
Roode

P.S.: This Roode note in no way shape or form is due to lifting the idea from Adel while secretly stealing her copy of The Boondock Saints while she wasn't looking.

How Much Bare Ass Does It Take To Make A Comic Book Movie? A "Watchmen" Review

By Adel

Originally, I was going to post an article dealing with the many faces (one face) of Nicholas Cage, but apparently that has already been done. I suppose it's just as well, considering I was bumped for the Friday post due to some wanker's need to go on about electric companies and cactus rape.

So, instead, I just went about my business and didn't give The Fuse Was Too Cold another thought. I figured that I had enough to do (and nothing really interesting to write about) that I could wait another seven days to get back to my weekly article. I put it out of my mind and set my eyes on entertainment. That's when the boyfriend put forth the possibility of seeing a showing of "Watchmen" at the cinema.

I'm a girl. I don't give a shit about comic book movies. But, I did like 300 and I'm sure that had nothing to do with dozens of bare chested, ripped men in capes. Or Gerard Butler's dreamy abs. Wait. What was I saying?

Finding a showing to attend was an ordeal in itself. After several communication issues and misunderstandings we ended up not getting to the theatre until the 7 o'clock showing. I was trying for the 4 o'clock showing in hopes that there would be fewer mouth breathing teenage tossers in attendance. I deal with the sad future of civilization on a daily basis. I don't want to deal with them on my own time.

After some simply awesome previews (One cannot go wrong with a bare chested Hugh Jackman) the movie began. I could feel the nervousness from my boyfriend. Dragging your significant other to a movie such as this is a risky venture. You run the chance of her hating it, calling you a fan boy, and kicking you in the bollocks for making her watch grown men and women in capes parade around for over two hours. He had courage, that's for sure. Every now and again, I could see him glance in my direction to try to gauge my mood. A light, interested expression meant there was a slight possibility he was getting laid. A bored, aggravated look, on the other hand, meant there was a fair chance of a ball kicking. To be safe, he put the bag of popcorn over his manhood in an attempt to shield his own bag.

The truth is, I didn't really mind the movie. It was interesting and entertaining. I wasn't checking my watch in an effort to speed up time. The characters were intriguing and I had a pretty good time getting lost in the plot. It wasn't terribly complex or complicated and I didn't need to bone up on the graphic novel in order to understand what was going on. This was good for the boyfriend, since the odds of the two of us "boning up" improved.

However, I did notice an unsettling trend throughout the movie. There was a lot of bare ass in it. I mean A LOTof bare ass. I even overheard another patron utter "Doesn't anyone wear pants in this movie?" Amazing, that very thought crossed my mind.

There was tons of bare ass. There was:

Girl ass:










Doughy, pasty guy ass (although he looked pretty good in the Nite Owl suit)











And plenty of blue bare ass (as well as more than enough blue man junk flopping around)

I searched long and hard in my memory to try to dredge up other comic book movies that showed so much bare ass. Batman? No, Tim Burton did us a favor by sparing us Michael Keaton's whiter than white ass. X-Men? No, I don't recall a lot of ass shots in that series. Although, I do have this strange need to see Patrick Stewart's ass.

Show me that money maker, Captain.

Nope. I couldn't think of a more ass packed comic book themed movie. Ass packed? Wow, that sounds too much like... nevermind. Forget I mentioned it.

All that ass didn't hurt the film. But, it did make one wonder why the director needed so much bare bottom in his work. Is he expressing his need to bare as much ass as possible? Does he have a desire to moon the world with his ass- hearty blockbuster? What about his ass? Is he always pushing it in people's faces? Come on, Zack Snyder. Is this all a deeply rooted desire to bare your own assets?

Oh. That's what he looks like? Umm, OK. I think I can deal with that. Go ahead, Zack. Show me your ass. I can take it.
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When not attempting to write for The Fuse Was Too Cold, Adel can be found weeping for mankind's future during the week and hitting Tresckow on the head with a tire iron on weekends.

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Electric Companies, Leagalized Rape- A Retrospective

By Tresckow

Yes, Adel has the Friday slot as far as The Fuse Was Too Cold articles. But, this was too important. An injustice is happening everywhere in the United States and Adel's little chick articles about relationships and domestic emotional abuse will have to be put on the back burner. I explained this to her last night. After I came to, I started typing like I've never typed before.

I'm not sure what she hit me with,
but I found this on the floor next to me when I regained consciousness

Rape is a bad thing. I think the majority of us can agree with that. The minority of us needs to re-examine their lives before I use the tire iron of justice pictured above on them. But, yes, rape is a general no no.

Then why are electric companies allowed to rape us monthly? Each and every month I get a form of rape delivered to me from the US Post Office. It's the latest bill these ass jockeys send out to their victims. There I was; having a good old time watching "Sanford and Son." Then WHAM! You don't see it coming. The electric company jumps out of the bushes, throws you down, and proceeds to rape you and your bank account in the ass with a cactus.

It's usually a saguaro cactus too. They hurt most of all.

The power companies are like the mafia. A big, cactus thrusting, government OKed mafia. We're all at their mercy and they know it. They laugh every month, tallying our bills. I'm sure the billing department reeks of urine, considering they piss themselves with joy with each and every criminal bill they churn out.

Standard company issue for power company billing departments.

In the past few years, state governments have been deregulating electricity fees in an orgy of self serving rectal burning stupidity. Without at least some government regulation, every power company will run rampant through the world, hiking rates like Paris Hilton hiking her skirt at a Hollywood shindig.

[**I didn't want to run the chance of finding a pic that could illustrate the above point.**]

I can't open my electric bill without needing CPR anymore. They are so far on the side of extreme, it's laughable. In three years, electric bills have doubled, tripled, and quadrupled for your average family home. The reason? The power companies will tell you that it's the true cost of electricity (or coal, or nuclear fission, whatever). I took it upon myself to visit these wallet rapists and get some real answers. When I pulled into the parking lot, I was blinded by all high class cars. Cars with names like Mercedes, Lexus, Audi, and Jaguar dotted the scene. Then, on the other end, there were your basic 10 to 20 year old Cutlass Sierras, Ford Tempos, and such. Guess which level of management owns what.

This sure as hell isn't Larry's from the mail room.

Then, it all became clear; this is just another case of economic jackassary. As with Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac, these wondertards are completely pinching off the cash at the choke point. The income is top heavy in these companies. Actually reallocating funds and looking for efficient and logical ways to bring rates down for the consumer would get in the way of deepening their Scrooge McDuck- like swimming pools of money. I don't blame Irene from human resource. I blame Chet, the vice president of accounts receivable. Chet, you fucker!

You're pissing Ben Franklin off Chet. Electricity is his thing.

Sure, some power companies gleefully tell you that you can always choose where you get your power from. Feel free to find a local nuclear plant or dilithium crystal mine. Oh wait. Did I forget to mention that you still have to pay the power company within whose realm you fall into for CARRYING that electricity? That's right, you're fucked coming and going.

I think these guys have the corner on the whole dilithium thing.

I know what you're thinking: "But, Tresckow, maybe if you didn't use all those fancy disco lights and insisted on using a bulb from a lighthouse to illuminate your living room... maybe you would save some green." My response would be, "fuck you." I would totally deserve the financial anal raping if I was powering a small city inside my home. But, jerkass, I know how it goes. The more you use, the more you pay. There are only two of us in the house. We use the bare minimum. We do everything but wear coal miners helmets to avoid using the ceiling lights. We're talking $400 to $500 to achieve the bare minimum. That's shit like, keeping the appliances running, water pump for five minute showers, heat and air (every chance I get I crank that damn thermostat down to 65 in the winter to save a few cents). I refuse to not use the air conditioning. I must have standards.

Everyone needs to make a buck. I'm right there with them. But, when you're talking about charging your average Dick and Jane exorbitant rates for just the bare minimum for survival, you're talking about an outright crime against humanity.

Stalin would be so proud of you fucktards. Throw in a couple of racial slurs and you could make it to Hitler!

Retarded Child Names; An Investment in a Porn Career or Constant Beatings in School for Lunch Money

By Tresckow

Children have the deck stacked against them enough in today's world. War, terrorism, water shortages, food shortages, Aids, computer porn, junk mail, hippies, American Idol....

Just one big crime against humanity

The absolute LAST thing a newly exposed fetus needs is two strikes against them when they come screaming out of their mother's once fine looking down there place. If the kid isn't born with 11 fingers or with an extra ass, all systems are go. But, despite the fact that their child has come into this world all innocent and shit... some parents punch them in the face with a ridiculous name the kid will have to explain, live with, and eventually get hooked on heroin to try to forget.

No amount of this stuff will ever let Moon Unit Zappa forget that her name is, in fact, Moon Unit.

It's a form of child abuse, plain and simple. The kid can't even defend itself. In an effort to be "creative"and oh so clever, the parents forever screw their own flesh and blood. Who really knows why these shit stains do this. Is it to truly be different? Is it to eliminate future confusion with other child names when their kid is in a herd of free range children, running around aimlessly in a concentration camp.. I mean day care. Or is it because they are assholes?

Really, what are the odds there are two kids in this crowd named, Soda?

Celebrities are, perhaps, the worst offenders. The squirming, crying, messy fruit of their loins becomes another public relations piece. These fucktards never cease to amaze with their egos' demand for attention. Just because they are shallow and egotistical doesn't mean their children have to suffer. I'm looking at you Gwen Stefani, Gweneth Paltrow, and the entire fucking Zappa clan.

Thanks for naming me "Kleenex", asshole.

Since our society is basically monkey see monkey do.. the problem has escalated to colon blowing proportions. Take a look. Here are the names I've heard just in passing while out innocently purchasing high grade explosives (shit, I'm not on an FBI and Homeland Security list).

• Dakota: Nothing says intelligent like a kid named after one of the dumbest sets of states in the Union.
• Camden: When I think of newborn innocence and hope, I think of a shitty city in New Jersey.
• Abba: If you find that you have been named after a shitty band whose songs play almost exclusively in drag shows... make yourself a hangman's noose.
• Andrew's: The apostrophe isn't a typo. It's part of the name. It's like the mother had to use it to remind her who the baby daddy was.
• Alaska: Continuing the dumb ass trend of naming kids after large, vacant areas of land.
• Virgin: That is just scarring a kid for life. He/she will either never get laid or feel the need to prove their name wrong at every opportunity, eventually resulting in a genital scorching venereal disease.

This shit has to stop. Your split second fit of "creativity" damns these kids to a lifetime of wedgies, swirlies, and a spot on The Girl Next Door. Mark my words, these babies are going to figure this out. Then, we'll have a rug rat revolution that will make the Bolshevik Uprising look like a barbecue at the beach.

We're coming mother fucker.

Family Guy: Two Feet in the Grave

By Roode

Way back when... before FOX became monumental shit bags and got heavily into reality shows, Family Guy was aired. It was a glorious time. A time of funny, irreverent comedy. A time of never before seen animation in prime time. A time that for an edgy, funny, bladder busting good time. That time has passed. As with the every increasingly preachy Matt Groening, Seth MacFarland has abandoned comedy to force feed his beliefs and dogma to his viewers.

That's it. Taste the preachy goodness...

I know who I am. I know what I believe. And I believe comedy should be funny and not a soap box. I want funny! I don't want rhetoric. Why aren't prime time cartoons funny anymore? Family Guy. What have you done?

I don't care about your particular political leanings, social beliefs, or lifestyle choices. If I wanted fanatics from either side of the aisle I would watch FOX News and CNN while systematically hitting myself on the head with a brick. I have to think at work. I have to think about the world's issues when I want to take a vacation with my wife (I'm a Canadian national, being America light has some benefits). I tune into prime time TV to get lost in fiction. MacFarland, you're an ass.

Funny, this is a douche bag, but it doesn't look Irish enough to be Seth MacFarland

I guess over the next four years (if Family Guy lasts that long) we can get back to the funny. MacFarland won't so feel compelled to write scripts slamming lines of thought that don't juve with MacFarlandism. Maybe we have episodes as funny as the first few seasons pre FOX cancellation. We won't have to endure 25 minutes of MacFarland at the pulpit. Oh, I pray for that day.

Hear me television watchers! Hear and be converted to MacFarlandism!

It's not only the political and social "teaching" this nut bag slings that puts this series on a gurney heading towards the ER (although I think it will be DOA before the medical staff has a chance to resuscitate). More often than not, it's just not funny anymore.

I can't be the only one that thinks this way. There are two types of prime time animation watchers in the world. The first kind will take the Simpsons and Family Guy on a pedestal and adamantly believe that they can do no wrong' no matter how much pain they endure. We call them Stockholm Syndrome suffers. These people have started to exhibit sympathy for their captors. Now they don't want to... no .... they CAN'T leave!

There was no way I could find a picture of the Stockholm Syndrome. Enjoy this aerial photo of Stockholm, instead.

The second camp, which has its share of stones thrown at it, is made up of evolutionists. Only the strong survive. In the prime time cartoon world, funny is survival. If you abandon clever funny then you opt for shit funny. What's shit funny? Oh, I don't know... maybe writing that Peter catches a "case of the gays" for 20 minutes. It wasn't offensive. It was just stupid. Or how about that gem, "Prom Night Dumpster Baby?" Magnificent piece of comedy. Oh, wait, Stewie's gay. Yup. He is gay. MacFarland can't stop beating that dead horse. Subtle jokes about Stewie's closet homosexuality were funny. They were clever. MacFarland said "Fuck that! I needs to get paid and I don't feel like thinking. Let's just show scene after scene of Stewie at a glory hole. Isn't that clever and subtle enough?"

MacFarland took the bar he raised seasons before and slapped the audience in the nuts with it. This camp wants funny or wants cancellation. Come on FOX. Deal or no deal?

Case 17 contains the only known funny episode of American Dad

I get it, you have some sort of god complex. Hell, I bitch about your show and still I tune in. It's out of hope, Seth. Pure, Obama like hope. I hope that you will find the funny. I hope I will be there, watching a Family Guide episode and not have to fast forward through a particularly unfunny scene (s). As Red said in Shawshank Redemption... I hope.

Hey, Red. I hear you're a man that can get things.
Can you smuggle me in some funny Family Guy episodes?

Yeah, I'll keep watching like a NASCAR fan hoping for a car crash. It's beyond my control, at this point. Seth MacFarland. Your guy got into office. Both Houses are on his side. The Republicans have been reduced to a bunch of midgets biting at Obama's heals. Can we please have the funny again?

Sincerely,
Roode

PS: Hey, Simpsons! You've sucked since Phil Hartman was murdered. I guess I have two things two hate Brynn Hartman for.

An Open Letter to FOX

By Roode

Dear, FOX Network

I hate you. I'm sorry. That must have come off rather rude. But, I sincerely hate you. Why, you may ask. You've hurt me, FOX. You've hurt good old, hard working Americans with your jackass decisions.

You've cancelled promising shows like:

• Harsh Realm
• Brimstone
• Arrested Development
• Futurama
• Sliders
• Wanda at Large
• Family Guy (but you brought that shit back as soon as Adult Swim started raking in the ratings with reruns-- after which the vast majority of episodes reinvented suck)

That's right, Jason. Be brave

And you're getting ready to axe:

• Dollhouse
• Terminator, The Sarah Connor Chronicles

Now this is a terminator I can work with.

Why do you do this to us? Do you get some sort of sadistic pleasure from providing us with some RARE decent television just to slap it out of our hands like a cookie from a small child? you meddle with the writing process, making ridiculous demands. You make ridiculous programming decisions like moving struggling shows to impossible time slots, then throw up your hands and moan "We tried." Bullshit.

I know what this is all about. We all do. It's about that steaming shit pile American Idol. That's it, isn't it? Shows that make the viewer think are too hard to maintain, right? Scripts? Writing? F that. Run more American Idol. That's gold, Jerry!

You are a bag of dicks. I want to punch you where your face lives. Too many times have I seen you deliberately sabotage shows just to give American Idol more airtime. Assholes!

There is a war in America. Every time you slaughter another decent show, the terrorists win. Not the jihad type terrorists. No. I'm talking about a much more sinister brand of nut slapping terrorists. The reality show terrorists. We've already lost ABC and CBS. We're losing ground.

So, in closing, FOX, I would like to kick you in the nuts. I want to hurt you. But, I could never hurt you like you hurt me.

Sincerely,

Roode

PS: Hell's Kitchen is OK.

What To Get Your Man on His Birthday

By Adel

I will be the first to admit that I completely suck at getting birthday gifts. My sucktitude is ten fold then that birthday gift is for a significant other. I'm not really sure why, to tell you the truth. All I know is that I bloody suck at it.

My boyfriend's birthday was this past Tuesday. Being the perfect girlfriend, I waited until Tuesday afternoon to search for a gift. It's not that I put off the search until the last minute for the fun of it. I've been attempting to come up with ideas, but to no avail. What the bloody hell do men want? Besides the obvious, of course (beer, sex, and a nap). In an effort to broaden my possibilities, I sent out the question to the semi public. What should I get my boyfriend for his birthday. Here are some of the suggestions.

1. Tie a bow around myself and yell "surprise!"
   
2. Take him out to dinner (knowing full well that my cooking leaves much to be desired)
   
3. Jelly of the month club
   
4. Cheese of the month club
   
5. A gift certificate to Borders
   
6. A series of nude pics (not necessarily of me)
   
7. A stuffed animal. Not a toy. Something from a taxidermist
   
8. The entire series of Small Wonder on DVD
   
9. A tool belt (I guess because all men like Home Depot... even though he is far from a handyman)
   
10. Tell him that every bloody day with me is a present. He should get on his knees every morning and thank God that I grace him with my presence.
    

It's not that the suggestions weren't good. It's that the majority were terrible. I already tell him that he's lucky that I admit to knowing him, let alone date him. We've covered that. He knows that it's a privilege, not a right, to be with me. I can replace him on short notice. I just think it's only fair to let him know where he stands.

But, since it is traditional to buy a gift for one's significant other, I figured I would have to bite the bullet and risk utter humiliation. This is his first birthday with us as a couple. The first birthday gift is important. It sets the bar. I try to set the bar low so all I have to go is up. It's called being practical. The problem is that if I have trouble coming up with an idea, I get discouraged and end up doing nothing at all. What sort of message does that send? "Happy birthday! I couldn't think of a gift so you're shit out of luck." That's a bad girlfriend.

So, I was back to the list of ten. The gift card to Borders was out. He is completely illiterate. He's just managed to coast through life getting a series of government jobs that don't require him to read. The complete season DVD set of "Small Wonder" was out as well. That little Vicki bot freaks him out. To this day he panics and throws empty beer bottles at every 8 year old brunette he sees. That damn show is his Vietnam. We don't talk about it much.

Jelly and cheese of the month clubs are the gifts that keep on giving. But, I know him; eventually he would lose interest and stockpile the jelly and cheese. I'll be over his house sometime during the summer and find a terrifying collection of rancid cheese and coagulated jars of putrid jelly with that waxy film on the top. That's cash down the pan.

The "put a bow around myself and yell surprise" one was out too. Firstly, I don't know where to get a bow that will do my hotness justice. Secondly, where exactly would this unveiling happen? At his house where his roommate, two dogs, and three cats? Or, perhaps, at my house where I have a two year old running around? Suffice it to say, I lack the venue for such a stellar gift.

I looked to see if I could find nude photos of Bea Arthur, but to my surprise, none exist. I thought that would show the amount of dedication I have to find him only the very best (horrifying) gift imaginable. I would be impressed if he somehow managed to fine nude pictures of Truman Capote for my birthday. Horrified, but impressed.

That just left me with a stuffed (taxidermist) animal, a tool belt, and dinner. Remember? I covered number ten already. I live in mountain country; just a stone's throw from the Pacific Northwest. Trust me when I tell you it is not difficult to find a taxidermist at anytime of day. It's the second leading form of employment in the state [citation needed]. I was running out of time. He was coming out of work and I was aimlessly wandering around town with my son looking for taxidermists. Luckily I pass at least seven on the way home. I went into one, son in tow and promptly asked for a stuffed groundhog with a tool belt around his waist. It took five visits to five different taxidermists before I found a compromise; a stuffed porcupine with a gun belt, in a "quick draw" pose. SOLD! I then took him to dinner at McDonald's and plopped the stuffed porcupine, gun belt and all, onto the table. I didn't know what else to do at that point, so I told him he was still bloody lucky to date me.

So, in closing ladies, it's not the thought that counts. It's the realization that we already control the source of any joy our men will get in our relationships. There's no point in going out of our way for holidays and birthdays. Wear a tight sweater, skirt, and high boots. That's enough of a present. Don't let him touch though. Every present must suck in it's own way. It's God's law.

________________________________________________________

When not attempting to write for The Fuse Was Too Cold, Adel can be found mentally abusing college students on weekdays and threatening sales clerks on weekends.

________________________________________________________

AOL Chat: Home of the Mental Giant

By Tresckow

Like all people, I sometimes jump on a chat site when I'm bored or procrastinating. After a few years of attempting to pass the time chatting to people who have interests similar to my own, I came to one conclusion. Ninety-nine percent of the people in AOL chat rooms are simply too stupid to exist in the real world. Now, either these potatoes leave their personalities and common sense at the door before they enter a chat room or they are really that stupid to begin with. If it's the latter, then AOL provides a convenient place for chuckle heads to hang out without over exerting themselves. In either case, AOL chatters, for the most part, are too stupid to breathe.

Typical AOL chat user.

Let's just agree that NO ONE in an AOL chat room is who they say they are. I mean, come on, why would you be the same boring ol person in an anonymous world? Grab a pic off Google and make it your own. Instead of being male, 5' 4", and 250 pounds you can be male, 6' 2" 200 pounds. And be well endowed. VERY well endowed. On AOL, your junk can have its own zip code. Wait, let's not forget the ladies. Let's say you look more like the old lady from "Throw Momma from the Train" than Eliza Dushku... well screw that! Get Eliza's pic and photo shop the hell out of it. It's all about effort, people. We all know it's a lie. But we will give points for creativity.

Eliza Dushku

You

OK, it's all in good fun right? After all, if two, three, or more people can find some cyber fun in this crazy, mixed up world great for them. I think the problem lies with 5 of the most common asshats on AOL chat.

Chatter. James Chatter
1. The chatter that insists his lie is real
OK, like most Americans, British, and Aussies, I love a good cyber lie. AOL chat lies are simple. You're not a single guy living in your mom's basement. You're a hot, sexy surfer dude (or dudette, as is often the case) who owns his own chain of laundromats. You even have some screen caps of real people (not you) as "proof." But, uh oh, the jig is up. You were caught in your lie. All of a sudden that "hot 20 something lesbian" you've been chatting with in an attempt to get all moist catches on. Hey! You're not a car show model at all are you? Human nature dictates that all chatters must maintain the lie. No matter what. Stick with the story. Make it grander, create a back story. Name fictitious friends and such. Cling to it like a James Bond cover story! When all is said and done, you've spent more time developing your online character than getting actual cyber sex. Congratulations, you're a tool.

Be werry werry quiet. I'm hunting pics.
2. The quintessential pic hunter
This avid collector of internet photographs is a royal pain in the ass. They will stop at nothing to add to their collection. Perhaps, you've come across this person and their witty "Got pics" instant message? That's right. "Got pics?" is the new "got milk." They try to pretend that they are just trying to put a face to the screen name... or that screen name's wife, husband, sister, goat, whatever. But, in reality, they must feed that ever growing collection of pics. Who knows what they're going to do with those pics? The smart money is that they will use them in an attempt to occasionally become asshat chatter number 1 above. Of course, there are much worse things the pic hunter can do with/to the pic. Beware!



3. The stakes raiser
The stakes raiser is joined at the hip with the quintessential pic hunter. Should you placate the pic hunter with a photo or two (of a person that may or may not be you or even someone you know) they instinctively raise the stakes. Often, after a friendly exchange of pics you'll get "Got more?" OK, maybe you do have more. So, being the nice cyber neighbor you are, you send a few. Batten down the hatches for "Got nudes?" There is just no way this person can function in real life, right? Right? Seriously. Right?


4. The lazy chatter/one word response guy
This person is a true gem. We all know the art of conversation died with Al Gore and his internet invention. Typing is hard. Too hard. Especially if it's being done with one hand. Eh...eh.... You will recognize this genius with the classic responses of

Hot
Cool
Neat
Ha
LOL
Nice

The general rule of thumb is to kick this poor bastard to the curb after the third "nice." Imagine if we did that in real life. Wait, some people do. They're called assholes.


5. The dumb question guy
People are even dumber on chat than they are in real life... if you can imagine. Mainly, it's because they don't have to deal with the consequences of their sphincter tightening stupidity. So, what the hell? Be as stupid as you want. You can just close out the chat if your puzler hurts.

Case in point, let's say you've created a chat room entitled "My girlfriend is so damn hot you will blow a load in your pants just by looking at her" Pretty simple and straight forward, right? You would think so. Inevitably, you will get an influx of IMs that read "Is she hot?" Yes, friends, these are living, breathing people. It's all spelled out for them, but for some reason, they can't get their two cylinder brains wrapped around it. If people aren't going to pay attention in the real world, they're going to pay even less attention in the cyber one.

Oh, there are so many more mental giants of the AOL chat world; more than can be summed up in this article. The downfall of human society has never been so fun!