Jeremy Piven: Give Momma Back Her Droz

By Ren

Jesus. This is like the third week in a row I've been the author of a FWTC article. Is it because I am just that damn good? Or is it because the other three columnists are lazy fucknuts hazing the new kid? Guess which one I think.

Something like this, except no where near as hot. Suddenly I'm all tingly.

I've noticed that Jeremy Piven is all the rage these days. Don't get me wrong, I love the guy. He was an absolute genius in PCU! I love that friggin movie almost to a fault. Alright, I was 10 when it came out. But, it made me laugh then and it makes me laugh now. What red blooded American college student didn't want to be Piven's character, Droz? Shit, I know a couple of real life Drozs who wore the fact that they had three sophomore years like a badge of honor. No, like a FUCKING badge of honor. I could never get it right. I kept passing my courses and wanting to get the fuck of out Dodge. The rampant keggers, sorority tickle fightes, casual sex, and occasional coke parties got in the way of my Droz emulation. Although, I did share certain traits with my film college hero.

I didn't get as close to this as I would have liked.

Instead, this was the crowd I fell into. A shame, isn't it?

Shit, now all I can think of is sorority girls in tight little tops and ridiculously short skirts. Where was I?

Was it about this? Hot blondes in football jerseys in the snap position?

Or...

... maybe it was a bunch of sorority girls in nighties?


Shiz, that's right! Jeremy Piven. Damn my wandering, perverted, sex obsessed mind!

No one rocks a plain green tee like Droz.. NO ONE!

I'm sorry. I digressed the proverbial shit-ton. Piven was the Superman of understated funny. Even his cameo in Singles stole the show. I remember being all like "Holy shit! That's the dude from PCU!" Then, just as quickly as he came his bit part faded away like the career of Hootie and the Blowfish.

Absolutely goes ape shit when he hears Elvis Costello and Public Enemy mixed together.

The dude was hilarious. Yeah, he tended to play the same character: PCU-> Singles-> Judgment Night (got his ass thrown off a roof, though... which was a new direction for him). But, it worked. The sarcasm, the dry wit, the male pattern baldness. It all worked. Here's another formula for you:

Jeremy Piven + Christian Slater + hooker bludgeoning x multiple murders = Very Bad Things

______________________________________________________

Pants pissingly funny!

Then, something happened. All of a sudden he's on Ellen. Unfortunately, I don't mean he was boning Ellen Pompeo from Grey's Anatomy.

I'd tap that ass.

No. I mean this Ellen.

We see you!

Then Smokin' Aces came out. We were all the victims of TV commercial fraud. It looked like it could be an American version of Snatch. Oh, why wasn't it an American Version of Snatch? Instead, it was a heaping turd of a movie that left you with that "Why the fuck did I spend money on this instead of porn" look on your face. It was bad. This isn't just personal opinion. The iron clad Internet proof (contradiction in terms?) can bee seen on Rotten Tomatoes where it has all the freshness of a decomposing corpse. What's the general consensus of the learned reviewers about this used tampon of a movie?

Consensus: A violent mess of a movie, Smokin' Aces has some Quentin Tarantino's style but not much of his wit or humor.

Translation: Ben Afflect can turn any movie into a cinematic Kristallnacht.

What else needs to be said about such a motion picture abortion whose prequel is going straight to DVD?

It hurts.

So what? Piven had ample help from a cast of cooche napkins to torpedo this movie. It's more than that. I've noticed a trend. I'm sure you have too. What's different about Piven these days? Other than the fact that he lost the funny. But, why?

That's it! It's the hair! It's the fucking hair!

In a reverse Samson and Delliah, Piven's power weakens with the "growth" of hair. I'm guessing his funny strength is solar powered via storage cells in his scalp. The more hair he... um... grows, the less fuel his funny battery receives.

Hurry! Someone pull the rug off! Quick!

There's more. Much more. Piven has gotten buff. Hey, I get just as wet as the next girl for a hard bodied hunk with a six pack (of Guinness), but, there's something so... off about it. It looks forced. He was never a fat load, but he wasn't Carrot Top jacked either. Look, all I'm saying if you're going to pose for a Men's Fitness cover with a cocky "I went from not to hot" smirk, some things have to be sacrificed.

*Sigh* I miss Droz.

For instance, sometimes in order to sport a new... well new hair... and hire a personal trainer funny gets replaced with douchy. Somewhere along the line he lost his roots. I'm not saying I don't like him now. I just liked the old Jeremy Piven a lot more. You know, the funny one. Ever since Entourage Piven has buried Droz deeper and deeper in designer hair piece hell. He's become Ari Gold. I fucking hate Ari Gold. I'm sorry, I know there are kajillions of Entourage fans out there, but I just can't get into it. I've had law classes that were more entertaining. Sue me. It's television aids.

I don't know if we'll ever see Droz again. I hope. I pray. Just one more time. I miss him. We all miss him. That's Okay. I'll keep the fire burning, the champagne chilled, and my edible panties warmed up for you, Droz, in case you ever come back to me.

I wonder if he ever hears Droz screaming from the inside.

Oh, what the hell. One more pic of hotties I'd totally give a tongue bath to:

A Half Assed Alcoholic's Guide to Invading Canada

by, Ren

You know where Canada is, right? It's that giant wasteland north of Montana where they try to pass curling off as a sport and ham as some sort of exotic bacon. Yeah, that maple leaf flag place with pictures of the Queen on their money. It also happens to be where Roode is from. Yuppers, Roode is Canuckian. We all knew there was something wrong with him. I mean other than the whole rage-a-holic who sneaks into the women's bathroom categorizing cartoon women he would lay watercolor pipe to thing.

The janitorial version of hockey, I guess. Next, the sawdust on puke competition.

Before some pug nuts accuses me of being anti-Canada and writing hate speech, let me set everyone straight. I like Canada. I've visited often. Some of my best friends hail from the Great White North. In fact, I love how some of Canada's citizens celebrate their patriotism.


I'm an alcohol enthusiast. I dare say I can give Tresckow a run for his money; which is to say drink his Eliza Dushku obsessed ass under the table. Sure, he drinks a bottle of bourbon while watching Hell's Kitchen. That's kid stuff. My people refer to whiskey as "water." You got it, my family is right off the potato boat. My Irish ancestors invented the bar fight, alcohol poisoning, and booze fueled domestic abuse. In short, Momma can drink like a champ. So, why not exercise my drinking muscles once in a while? Hey, I drink responsibly. I always cut myself off when I lose consciousness.

No, this isn't me. I don't drink shitty beer and I'm a fuckload cuter.

Not too long ago, my merry little band decided to go bar hopping. It's the tried and true tradition of crashing a bar, drinking to the point of arguing with one of the bar stools, then moving on to the next pub before the cops arrive. It's never a good idea to wing your itinerary. To hedge your bets, you really should plot out your drunken flight path with Google maps. It just helps avoid the inevitable geographical catastrophe. What about your cell phone's GPS? Forget it. You can barely dial drunk, let alone operate any application that requires more than just yelling at the phone.

And this is just using the key word "bars."

Fridays bring out the worst in drunks. Especially if that drunk is a booze swilling, obscenity spouting, potato farming Mick. Hey, I can say that shit. I'm Irish. Not just Irish, but NORTHERN Irish. It's not a racial slur if you're talking about your own people. Your own smashed, whiskey gulping, fighting mad drunk people. Éirinn go Brách! Póg mo thóin!

We're not exactly in the cradle of civilization over here. It's an arctic tundra during the fall, winter, and spring and a sadistic Easy Bake Oven in the summer. As with most of this part of the country, civilization is completely spread out. If what you want isn't located in the town you're in, you're pretty much shit out of luck. You're going to have to sit there and live without a Snuggie. If you can call that living. Or, you can suck it up and drive the two hours to the next town with a fully operational Bed Bath and Beyond.

Yes, I know this is just a backwards, terry cloth version of a Jedi's robe
and it just might be the most retarded "As Seen On TV" product known to man.
Don't ask a girl to explain. I just fucking want one!

A good, hardcore pub crawl in this area is only for the dedicated. I can completely use up all the bars worth going to in one city with ease. It'll take your professional bar hopper no time to vanquish the worthwhile watering holes. Where do you go from there? You take your wasted show on the road. That's precisely what we did.

Take that shit on the road!

Someone had the brilliant idea to just "head north." Why not? Like I said, everything in this God forsaken state is a hundred miles away from everything else. Bars (the acceptable ones, anyway) tend to cluster in decent sized towns and cities. I've learned to keep the fuck out of back road shit holes with a flickering sign that simply reads "BAR." I'm way too girlie, have too many teeth, and 200 pounds too light for syphilis rampant road houses.

Sorry, dude. Still no deal.

The only one of us not investing in a future case of Sclerosis of the Liver was the designated driver. That poor son-of-a-bitch had to drive our belligerent alcohol soaked asses from bar to bar. Before you start feeling too sorry for him, take this into consideration: 1) He's one of those Canadian people, 2) he got to watch a couple of the girls play a drunken game of "make out and giggle," and 3) I'm pretty sure I let him cop a feel a few times. That last part is a little hazy.

Bar by bar we worked our way North, hitting a string of towns and the only "city" in that area, Great Falls. Being nice and liquored up, it was decided that the trek North shall continue! Hey, our DD knows a pretty awesome bar a little further North. We totally should go! Fuck yeah! NORTH! BAR! GO!

Point that arrow thingy to N and move out!

This is when it all gets a little muddy. I remember a strip club that had some pretty rock'n wings. I want to say one of the girls ended up dry humping the stripper pole on stage (Jesus, I hope it wasn't me). Someone brought a monkey, because the monkey knocked over the drink cart. What I clearly remember is our DD getting obliterated on shots of grain and Captain Morgan. Alright, whatever. So we'll have to find a place to crash and sleep it off. After kindly turning down an offer for shelter from a nice man in a trench coat and sunglasses, we all decided to get a hotel room, collapse, and each engage in our own, personal vomiting ritual.

Post a sign all you want, society. I'm still going to do the technicolor yawn in your bushes.

As pleasant as it may be to pack 5 people who smell like stale alcohol, vomit, and vanilla cupcakes (that one has me baffled), the first thing you want to do when you rejoin the world of the living is get the holy fuck out of that room and get some fresh air. Okay, I did take a few quick seconds to take a a couple cell pics of the rest of my party in strange, passed out positions. What kind of friend would I be if I didn't?

Having no recollection of where we were, what hotel we were in, or why my underwear was now blue instead of green (I could have sworn I put on green undies before this whole thing began), I stumbled out of the building. Thank God. Finally, somewhere that doesn't smell like a bus station in Belfast. Sun? WTF? Oh yea, I have a hangover. I scanned the area looking for someplace to get a few dozen cups of black coffee and more whiskey (hair of the dog and all). My poor eyes were just slits. They hated the sun too.

The sun is such a dick when you have a soul crushing hangover.

I started walking around looking for a combination Starbucks-liquor store. Hey. There sure are a lot of cars with Canadian license plates. Damn Canucks, always coming to this state, eating our food, breathing our air... Damn, Alberta? Most of the tags were from Alberta. What, is there some sort of Albertian invasion of Montana? Dude, take it.

I noticed something else that seemed strange to me. The speed limits in this town are absurdly high.

Holy vehicular homicide, Batman!

Oh, wait. The sign continues. Hmm, there is more writing under the numbers. Shit, I hate lowering my head. My eyeballs hurt. My neck hurts. If it was important it would be in my line of sight. Holding my chin with my hand, I slowly lower my entire head, using the least amount of neck power possible. I have no doubt that I looked like a little blonde mental case. This shit better be worth it.


KM/H? Canadian car tags? Alberta? The smell of cooked ham on pizza? Did I hear someone say "Aboot?" Aboot? Eh? Alright, let me do the math. Ugh, my head. No. Concentrate. Whose thong is this in my pocket? STOP! THINK. KM/H. Canadian tags. "Aboot." This all sounds familiar. God, I want a slice of pizza. Maybe one with Canadian bac..... FUCK! It can't be! How the shit did this happen.

I thought the US flag looked strange. It's all maple leafy...

We went North, alright. The damn hoser DD did know of a kick ass place to party. He just left out the part about crossing international borders. Canada? The four of us from a country that's had a flag for more then 50 years were a might concerned. Not so much about Canada; I mean who's concerned about Canada? It was more about re-entering the United States and dealing with border security, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and the fun time guys in Homeland Security. Did I mention none of us had our passports? I should have mentioned that none of us had our passports. Who the fuck takes their passport along when going on a bar crawl? Apparently, I should have. Come on. We managed to get into Canada without papers. Five sloppy drunks drove over the border without so much of a "Hey there,hi there, ho there, Eh." How hard will it be to slip back over?

shit.

Canada is the roach motel of North American countries. I'm not comparing the nation to a poisonous roach infested trap, so don't get your panties in a bunch, Canada. It's more like Americans can enter, but they can't leave sort of thing. Obviously, no one gives a flying fuck who enters Canada. But, when you want to turn around and drive the other way, there's a problem. You see, the US is all bent out of shape about terrorism and terrorists sneaking past the border from Canada and doing harm unto us. Hey, that's a legitimate concern. The problem is that its nye im-fucking-possible to secure a 3,142 mile long border. In the good old days, if you lived close enough, you could pop into Canada and back, no questions asked. Today, fuck you! You're a terrorist until we can prove otherwise. I sure as shit fit the profile being 5' 2" 100 pounds, pale, and blonde. I'm part of the little known Al Qaeda cell made up completely of angry Mick leftovers from the PIRA (IRA to you slaves of movie pop culture).

But, when the Irish found out that whiskey and Guinness were forbidden by religious law, they promptly gave everyone the finger and went to the nearest pub.

After the last of us came to, we decided to make a break for it. Our Canadian DD couldn't remember exactly how we came in. It seemed like every secondary road was blocked from the Alberta side. Awesome! They're just waving people through! We might just pull this off!

Fuck.

Before I knew it, a couple of officers from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police knocked on our window. Our ship was sunk. We were caught. Maybe it was because the car reeked of vomit and Irish Car Bombs. Maybe it was because I said the phrase "Irish Car Bombs." Whatever it was, the Horsemen nabbed us and impounded the car. Why? Fucking racial profiling, man!
Once again, four out of the five of our little posse came from the States. Out of that four, exactly ZERO could provide any sort of paper work to the RCMP, let alone US border patrol. Our state drivers licenses were useless. My attempt to seduce my way out of Canadian custody fell flat. Great. Now I have self esteem issues to boot. Fucking Mounties.

For the record, we were "detained" not arrested. There's a mile of difference. Being arrested involves jail and a cavity search. Being detained entails a lot of retarded questioning, bad coffee, and constantly reaffirming that when you said "Irish Car Bomb" you meant the damn drink.

Don't you Sasquatches mix drinks?

It was a chicken and the egg routine. In order to get past the border, we needed our passports. In order to get our passports, we needed to get past the border. Our options were:

1. Have someone mail them to us while we wait in Calgary, in custody.
2. Get shipped to the US Embassy in Ottawa.
3. Have someone drive to the border checkpoint and bring them to us.
4. Undertake a Steve McQueen type "Great Escape."

We didn't have enough shovels or Charles Bronson to complete number 4. Number 1 and 2 would just take us deeper into Canada; the OPPOSITE direction we needed to go. Not to mention staying longer than humanly possible. Number 3 seemed the most possible. I knew precisely who to recruit. My big brother! That's it! He lives where this whole carnival of dipshittery began. That was only a mere... 1... 2... 4... 6 hours away! That's practically down the road.

After some convincing, pleading, and threatening to tell everyone that he secretly watches iCarly when no one's around (oops), he reluctantly agreed. It took him over an hour to locate and secure all four of the needed passports. A friend of his tagged along for the ride to watch the hilarity ensue. Joke's on that asshole. He doesn't have a passport, so the border patrol made him wait on the US side while my brother drove through. HA!

I was free! Even though, I'm damn sure I was entered in some sort of Albertian-Canadian-Canuckian watch list.

I'm sorry, Ms. Ren. You appear to be a person of interest...

I suppose I should be grateful that it was the RCMP that kicked up a fuss and not Homeland Security. I'm not sure I could take a stint in Gitmo. I guess I should be grateful that my brother made a 12 hour round trip to bail his little sister out of an international bind. But, dude, some of those strippers at the club were HOT!

Facebook: The Slum Lords of Social Media

By Ren

At some point in our lives, we've all lived in a shit hole. Whether in the projects of Boise or the academic ghettos of off campus housing, they all have one thing in common: the people who own it don't give a shit if the toilets flush in reverse or a family of possums set up shop in your underwear drawer. If you don't like it you can leave.

Pay your rent on time or you will be evicted from this paradise.

This is the 21st century (no shit). Slums aren't limited to real life anymore. There is "virtual" everything- virtual dating, virtual marriages, virtual mafia, virtual prostitutes, and even virtual homes. That's right, many of us have a particular place we "live" on the web. MySpace used to be the best neighborhood to hang your hat, but it's degenerated into the Old Detroit of social media.

Badly in need of ED 209.

The only really universal web community anymore is Facebook. I'll give you Linked In, but that's really more for business types who want to keep tabs on their competition, secretly looking for new jobs, or exploring another avenue of sucking up. OK, there are other social networks out there, but I think it's safe to agree that Facebook, for the time being, is the most popular and well used. I guess we can say Facebook is our interwebs home and landlord. Sure, everyone loved their digs. There weren't as many bullshit applications and outright spam like you would find on MySpace. It seemed more orderly and user friendly. Something about it make you feel comfortable and at home. But, behind that civilized, Norman Rockwell image, lurks one of the most corrupt and negligent slum lords you'll ever meet.

Something even worse than this.

Like millions of people who lack anything else to do, I built a Facebook page a few years ago. I fiddled around with the settings, privacy, and aesthetic shit. It wasn't without its charm. Then, the other shoe dropped and Facebook started ball tagging everyone with their random acts of bullshit.

1. Dicking with your profile settings:
This has happened to thousands of faithful users. One day, everything's hunky dory. You just finished joining every Jonas Brothers fan page that exists. You feel fulfilled. After changing your status message for the 50th time that day (everyone needs to know when you poop) you sign off, secure in the knowledge that your profile is worthy of some sort of Internet award. Something useful, not like that Pulitzer Prize crap. Maybe a lifetime supply of Irish whiskey, Trojans, and douche. I'm spit balling here.

Do they have whiskey scented?

Who are you kidding? You can't wait until morning to take another spin on Facebook. You're addicted, just like the rest of us. Go ahead. You know you want to. But, something is awry. Why the hell is only half my profile information showing? Why aren't the settings registering? Shit, none of the privacy settings I chose are working. No, asshole, I don't want my pic to be seen by people in federal prison. NO, do NOT give my address out to those serial rapists! For the last fucking time, STOP showing OJ Simpson as my grandfather! Who's fucking with me?

You've become the latest victim of something I like to call, "The Facebook-fuckedya." Sometimes it happens randomly. Other times it seems like you're the victim of a vendetta. All of the time, it sucks a mountain goat's ass. There's no rhyme or reason to it. It's Russian roulette. Sometimes the chamber has the bullet. Sometimes the revolver just goes "click." Once the Facebook fuckedya lands on you, it's hard as hell to escape it. It's a free social site. What the fuck do they care? You're not paying them. Maybe your profile was hacked. Maybe the server is fucked. Maybe Facebook hates your kind.

That's what I thought. Eat shit pug nuts.

2. Dicking with your pictures:

What's the equivalent of being robbed on Facebook? Having your pics swiped. No, no one hacked the system and stole your pics so he can print and show them off at the annual "Guess the bodily fluid stain" con. Facebook just decided to fuck with you.

Oh, fuck you.

Just one night they were gone. Again, no rhyme or reason. It lands on you like a glob of seagull shit. Go ahead, check. It won't do any good. Facebook has done its job well. Does this sound familiar?

Why can't I get into my photos? Horse shit! I just uploaded 5000 of my friend streaking through Mass after he got trashed on Listerine! What? "You do not have any photo albums." WTF? The hell I don't, mother fucker!

Or, better yet:
Why? What's wrong? Come on! Too much bare ass in it? Not enough? Fucking answer me!

3. Dicking with your access:
The aforementioned issues are bad enough. At least, you could gain access to the system to find out there was a problem. You can't even get in now. Correct screen name? Check. Correct password? Check. OK, I'll just reset the password, just in case. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Holy tap dancing Irish Jesus, what the fuck is taking Facebook so long to email me that confirmation code? Finally! OK, new password. SHIT! It's still cock blocking me.

Trust me. Pictures of actual cock blocking were horrific.

What?

What the fuck does this even mean?


That's the pot calling the kettle black, you sanctimonious assholes!

4. Outright not giving a shit:
Fine. Facebook is riddled with problems in the same way our national warning system it riddled with complete and utter ass pudding. We have a voice! We will be heard! Contact the administrators and give them an earful of your bitching.

Do it. Try to reach someone, fudge sack.

You follow the logical steps one would take in order to get to the "contact Facebook" page. The problem is that there is no direct route from A to B to C. If you want to get to the page with the feedback form, you first get dumped into what they call a Help Center.

All LIES!

Naturally, you select the "Contact Facebook" link. That's what they want you to do.

WTF? What does any of this have to do with contacting Facebook?

Nice try, but they've thought of that. Facebook and its bevy of third world tech agents don't want to actually speak to you. Instead, they throw you like a week old baloney sandwich into the trash that is their pre answered questions. Mostly, these FAQs are created to help the mouth breathing Velcro sneaker wearing mentally fuckedafied do basic things like log on and type. It's useless for the rest of us. No! I want real answers that don't read like Chinese stereo instructions, damn it!

Screw it. What's next? Hey, what's this?


Fucktastic. It's a Facebook users' blog chocked full of thousands of other confused and frustrated sons-a-bitches looking for a glimmer of hope. The blog is more of a sounding board about how much Facebook sucks leprechaun nuts than an actual helpful resource. Most of it of the posts are peppered with spelling errors that could technically put you in that windowless "special" class in junior high. Shit, shit, shit shit shit!

Me no git whi my profil cant be showed good.

The only way to contact Facebook is to stumble upon the "Hacked Profile" link. You saw it before, but you figured since your profile wasn't technically hacked, you had no business using it. Well, 45 minutes have passed and you're fuming with pipe bomb building rage! Fuck it! Fill the bastard out!

Why the hell would anyone want to be a "fan" of Facebook security?

You fill out the form and then Facebook slaps you in the face, yet again.

Working on getting this fixed as soon as you can?
When the fuck will that be?

Yuppers, they come right out and tell you that your problem is, in fact, your problem. They'll get to it if and when they have time to. Not a cotton pick'n moment before.

After some more wandering around the Help site, you finally find a bug report link. It's completely understandable why you were unable to find it in the two hours you've been trapped in Facebook help center hell. It's conveniently buried 27 aggravating pages in. Go on. Submit a "bug report" but the answer is the same.

"Although we're unable to reply to every bug report at this time, we may contact you for more details about the issue as we investigate the report. Thank you for taking the time to improve the site."

Translation: Fuck you.

Perhaps, one of the best examples of Facebook just not giving an elephant's shit comes from their own stock response. The same generic, automated script is posted to issues on the user blogs that are serious and can potentially deal the Dead Man's hand to your account and sanity.

"We are aware of the problem that you described and apologize for the inconvenience. Unfortunately, we do not have a specific date for when this issue will be resolved but hope to fix it as soon as possible. We appreciate your patience."

Thanks for contacting Facebook,
Catriona
User Operations Facebook

This is one of many automatic "piss off" responses spat out at the masses. This particular one was posted in October of 2007. The bug was posted in March of that year. The fucking problem still runs rampant all over Facebook over TWO YEARS LATER. Thanks for nothing Catriona, if that is your realy name.

Catriona?

What's the best thing to do when your Facebook profile is plagued with glitches, errors, and overall fucktarded problems? Well, this little Irish girl burned the city to save the people. My account is FUBAR? Fine. I'll level its ass.

Pictured: Lesser of two evils.

I deactivated my account and started over again. Sure, that was a complete pain in the ass and I lost a couple of years worth of electronic memories. Hindsight tells me that Facebook isn't a necessary part of life. Mankind existed before it, right? In theory, we don't need social media to function. Don't you remember what I said in the beginning of this article? Facebook is like heroin. I may not need it, but I fucking NEED IT!

Yes. Now give mama another fix.