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10 Rules of EVERY Paranormal Reality Show

By Ren

The world is in a paranormal reality show death grip. Flip through the channels. There's a good chance you'll run into one of an ass load of ghost searching, alien seeing, bigfoot humping pseudo-documentaries. Why? Because, as a species, we love seeing half-assed programs run by people with no formal scientific, technical, or basic high school grammatical training. Does this stop me from watching this shit? No. So what? I'm part of the problem. Fuck off.

Thank you 1950's for investing in a technology responsible for the downfall of civilization. And Hell's Kitchen.

I bet you're going to say it all started with Ghost Hunters; spawning a dozen copies. I actually blame Ripley's Believe It or Not. That was pretty much a bullshit freak show. Who wouldn't try to pass off a monkey head sewn to a fish body as a mermaid? Jack Palance, that's who. As the original host of Ripley's Believe It or Not, the viewer could tell, without a shadow of a doubt, that Palance didn't give a shit one way or the other. His eerie, asthmatic "Believe or Not," was his way of telling the audience to eat shit; he was getting paid either way.

This wasn't even in the "City Slickers" script. Jack just felt like carving him up some Billy Crystal.

After careful study (drinking and watching TV) and follow up research (drinking and surfing the web) I identified a few common rules that every one of these shows obeys. After that, I celebrated (more drinking).

Rule 1: Paranormal activity is light sensitive

Worst offenders: Ghost Hunters franchise, Destination Truth, Ghost Lab, Most Haunted... everything else.

I don't recall the Ghostbusters ever turning out the lights. Then again, the movie came out when I was a fetus, so I might not remember everything. Somewhere along the line people got it in their noodles that the only way to seek and (rarely) find ghostly activity is to make the entire area shitacularly pitch black. Why? Are you afraid the ghosts will see you? Do spirits really comprehend the difference between night and day? Have there been no ghost sightings in daylight?

It's spooky to see Stallone's career actually die in front of your eyes.

It sort of makes sense for Destination Truth, even though at least one of the cast is going to careen off a cliff at some point for lack of adequate lighting. But, when you're searching around for Blood Feast Island Man you'll want to shut the lights off. I guess. I don't know. Does Blood Feast Island Man like the dark?

Rule 2: Did you hear/see that?

Worst offenders: Ghost Hunters franchise, Destination Truth

Every episode and I mean EVERY mother fucking episode, the question "Did you hear that?" or a variation thereof is uttered no less than a thousand times. Guess what the answer is? NO. No, no one heard that. No one is ever going to hear that. The audience doesn't know what the shit you're talking about. We hear jack shit.

I'm pretty sure this is American Sign Language for "I don't hear shit." [citation needed]

People, I've strained to "hear that." I've paused the DVR and listened to the same scene a dozen times. I NEVER hear what the hell they're talking about. It's not just that the sound of the what's-it-fuck paranormal noise is too soft. Microphones can only pick so much up. It's the bullshit post production that renders us deaf. That leads me to ....

Rule 3: Deafening background music

Worst offenders: Ghost Hunters franchise

Is there a damn reason the mood music has to be so ungodly ear drum raping loud? Of course no one watching is ever really going to hear shit. The fucking volume of the music is turned to 11.

The cynic in me says that the reason for this is to make it impossible for the viewers to hear what may or may not have just happened. The only indicator that some netherworld beast coughed, farted, or uttered, "A loser says what?" is when they use that stock smashing the piano keys sound. That's the producers telling you that something was heard. You don't need to hear it for yourself. Just trust them. Would they lie?

Rule 4: Use bullshit gadgets

Worst offenders: Ghost Hunter franchise, Ghost Lab, Haunting Evidence,

It seems like anything can be bastardized into a ghost hunting tool. In the beginning, it was innocent enough; MP3 recorders used for EVPs, camcorders to capture mist on video, and such. Then, it all got weird. They started using custom built tools and misusing existing equipment to sense vibrations, speak to dead people, or... I don't know, measure dick size.

All you really need to inspect the length of your junk is a good old fashion tape measure and a girl that won't judge.

The main issue is that there is no scientific evidence, whatsoever, that any of this shit does what it's supposed to, let alone actually work. Take the Ghost Hunters' K-II meter dealy. It's supposed to measure the electromagnetic field of a given location. That's great. So what? How in sphincter's name is that really supposed to help? No one knows if EMF readings mean monkey spank. There they are, waving this blinking piece of crap around and having virtual orgasms because it lights up from time to time.

Rule 5: Manly fist bumps

Worst offender: Ghost Hunters

I'm not even going to pretend I understand the fist-bump to begin with. It's like the lazy man's high-five only gayer. Whatever the reason, it's almost exclusively a guy thing. I guess that's why Jay and Grant brush knuckles at the end of every cotton picking show.

I guess that beats ball tagging each other. No, wait, that would be cool.

Alright, it's the way the two manly men express accomplishment. That doesn't make it any less retarded. It beats giving the Nazi salute or the stink palm.

Wait a second! Are you just trying to get me to eat feces?

Rule 6: Inexplicably hot cast members

Worst offenders: Ghost Hunters, Ghost Hunters International, Destination Truth

I'm not really sure the above should say "worst offenders." This is a God-given reward for all the horse hockey we have to put up with. That being said, it's a baffling phenomena. In the sea of fugly chuds you'll find an island of hot. GHI has Ashley Godwin, a girl I would definitely want to do more with in front of the camera than look around for shadows. What? Was that too corny? I'm saying I'd go down on that. Understand now?

Truthfully, Kris Williams is pretty much why I watch Ghost Hunters. I mean, look at her! She's a friggin model for fuck's sake. Go on, click on that link. Lord knows, I have. Kris' presence on Ghost Hunters messes with my head. I passively watched the show in the past. One night, this tall, statuesque, brunette with a nice rack was in the scene. I've been hooked ever since.

Oh yea. Mama likes.

Jesus, look at Destination Truth. Jael Depardo and Erin Ryder are smoking. The only truth I want to find is whether or not Ryder is a screamer in bed, too.

Alright, so I'm only naming the ladies. That's sort of not fair. Well, on the other side of the gender fence there's.... um... dude, I got nothing. Sorry, there's not much to choose from. Aside from the strange clique of people who want to bone or be boned by one or all of the male cass, I dare say not one of them is bangable. No. Josh Gates only works if you're into lumbering Frankenstein-esq guys. Now, this makes total sense:

Kris Williams + Ren = hardcore mattress dance.

Rule 7: Fail to account for your environment

Worst offenders: Ghost Hunters, Ghost Hunters International, Destination Truth

Here's the thing; if you're doing an investigation in the woods at night (Jersey Devil) or in an old, abandoned whoopee cushion factory, you probably should do a little research as to what creepy crawlies are already hanging around. Ghost Hunters does this off and on, but I think they do a better job at factoring this stuff in after the fact. Destination Truth, however, sucks on toast.

OK, Josh Gates and company are looking for some hairy fanged beast in the forest somewhere. Every mother-chucking moment they hear a noise or see something on the thermal camera they freak the fuck out. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhgggggggggggggggggggggggggggg!!!!

Holy shit! It's a ghost bear!

Here's the deal, you're in the woods, chuckle heads. Of course you're going to hear and see all sorts of shit. Things fucking live there! Chances are you heard a deer skipping through the underbrush or a cheetah slowly stalking you for death. Either way, calm the fuck down. Unless it's the cheetah. You'll want to freak out a little for that. Make sure you get that shit on camera, though.

Rule 8: Painfully scripted dialogue

Worst offender: Ghost Hunters

I'm not suggesting that the entire show is scripted. In order to time things right they surely have to make some sort of a loose list of cues. This would, especially, be true for the live Halloween shows. They don't have the luxury of post production to edit the shit out of the footage. If Dave Tango walks into a wall, he walks into a wall and we're all better for having seen it.

Reality.

It's the evidence reviewing segments that are the most painful. Nothing Steve/Dave say to each other during these bits sounds or looks natural. I've seen more life from the hobo in town performing his one man MacBeth. At least that's what I think it is. I assume the blood on his hands is for the part of Lady MacBeth. Right? Maybe I should call the police.

Rule 9: Misleading smash cuts before a commercial break

Worst offenders: Ghost Hunters franchise, Destination Truth, Most Haunted, Ghost Lab

A successful show wants to build the tension level just before a commercial break. It's their way of making sure you either make that trip to the keg quickly or hit pause before you go to the can for a monumental dump. CSI, Fringe, Castle, and a butt-ton of other shows have made this into an art. The difference is that these shows have a full fledged script and reward you for hanging around.

Thank you for returning to NCIS: Los Angeles. As a reward, here's LL Cool J flying over cars.

Before every god damned commercial break on ALL of these ghost/mystical beast shows someone exclaims, "Oh my GOD!" or "What was that!?" Then the big time suspense music gets jacked up and we go right into a tampax commercial.


But, we constantly get duped. It's all bullshit! It always ends up being something completely retarded. OMG WHAT WAS THAT??!! It was a mouse taking a shit. It was a spider web making Steve piss his pants. Any way you slice it, it's complete and utter moose piss.

Rule 10: The investigation can only last a few hours

Worst offenders: Ghost Hunters franchise, Destination Truth, Most Haunted, Ghost... fuck it... all of them.

How, exactly, are you supposed to prove or disprove paranormal activity by devoting a whopping 12 hours to the investigation? Shit, the IRA peace process took decades to hammer out. Alright, so that looks like it's going to shit, but imagine how much worse it would be if they crammed everything into six hours.

Pretty much the same thing that would happen if they crammed the whole process into 6 centuries.

Spending a few hours in a "haunted" museum or the New Jersey Pine Barrens looking for the Jersey Devil isn't going to do jack. Sure, they catch the odd piece of evidence here and there (something Ghost Hunters is a lot better at), but they just don't devote enough time for a thorough investigation. I'm pretty sure the ghosts at the Winchester Mansion aren't going to show up all at once just because Jay and Grant have a tight window.

I don't give a shit what people say. Sarah Winchester was a fruit loop.

All in all, these shows are doing pretty well, even though what they're doing isn't an exact science. Frankly, lots of it is just plain batshit nuts. Still, there's more truth to these shows than anything on E!

America's fascination with Jersey Shore and this douche bag is the real mystery.

A Girl, Her Whisky, and an Irish Holiday

By Ren

I know; Saint Patrick's Day was a few weeks ago. It's way to late to publish an article about it or any shenanigans that took place. I'm lazy. It's time to move onto another topic. Fucker, I just sobered up enough NOW to write about it!

Don't ask.

So, for you neigh sayers, piss off. I'll write about what I want, when I want! I'll write an article about mother fucking Christmas of 2000 if I want. You're going to sit there and like it.

A real Irish chick/dude has to prepare for the drunken joy that is Saint Patrick's Day. Part of this prep was to take Wednesday through Friday off work. Look, I know my genes. In the past I've tried to contain Irish alcoholic's day to the Wednesday it fell on. But, after considerable research and tests (see: binge drinking), I came to the conclusion that Saint Patrick's Day is more of a multi-day holiday like Hanukkah or Wrestlemania.

Our tree is more kick ass, though.

We've got the menorah covered, too.

So, as an Irish girl whose father is right off the potato boat, I've learned just to accept the truth. I'm going to get completely asstarded drunk, so I might as well take the work days off and get paid for it. Shit, it worked for Ted Kennedy (too soon?). I said "goodbye" to my co-workers, not knowing if I would ever see them again. By this time, tomorrow, I may be in another RCMP holding cell. At the very least, I knew I was going to end up passed out on a pool table.

Deceptively comfortable.

Any good alcoholic gets her recovery kit ready for the aftermath. Surely, you have one. No? Amateur. Alright, I'll share my ancient Gaelic secret for a proper recovery kit. Warning: there can be NO substitutions.

• 10 bottles of Gatorade
• 1 Pair ear plugs
• 1 box of Saltines
• 20 pre-penned letters of apology
• 3 extra dark sunglasses (to be worn at the same time)
• Passport
• 2 bottles of Kilbeggan Irish whisky
  
• 1 bottle of Excedrin Migraine (to be taken with the whisky- 2 pills and 3 shots every 2 hours)
  
• 1 twenty gallon bucket from Home Depot
• 1 Box of adult diapers
• Rosary
  
• 1 Whisky Makes Me Frisky tee shirt

Having made sure my recovery kit was packed and stowed in a safe location (behind the toilet in the second floor bathroom) I was ready. Ready for what? Damn if I know. I still don't really know what the fuck happened for those three days. Whatever happened, it was enough to make me swear off drinking Sunday. That's saying a lot for someone who comes from a nation where bar brawls and domestic abuse are the national past times.

Above: Our nation's Olympics.

I had to play a little bit of Nancy Drew to piece together whatever the fuck happened from Saint Paddy's day until when I woke up under my bed with ice skates on my feet Saturday. My recovery kit was emptied out, including the box of adult diapers. That was odd, considering I wasn't wearing any this time and they were no where to be seen in my room. I argued with gravity for about twenty minutes. Gravity can eat shit. It's always trying to keep the Irish down. Asshole physics.

When I learned to walk again, I peeked out the window to see if there were patrol cars out front. Nope, not this time. There were no signs of a riot. There wasn't even one person passed out on the lawn. I guess the biggest surprise was that I wasn't passed out on the lawn. Again.

You can usually see my feet sticking out the bush, here.

I cracked the door and peered into the hallway. No wreckage there either. All the same, I wanted to avoid human contact until I found out if I owed money or had a bench warrant waiting for me. Fuck! Stairs! The one kink in my otherwise perfect plan. I would have held the railing with both hands if I wasn't holding a half filled bottle of whisky in one of them. So, being the innovative little girl I am, I just slid down the steps on my ass. Here's a bit of advice: don't slide down the steps when you have a hangover/still drunk. Halfway down I ended up turned around and crashed on the landing head first.

You win, again, staircase!

I laid there waiting for someone to rush over and help... or yell at me. Whatever. One of the dogs meandered over and sniffed my face. He was judging me. I know it. Fucking dogs. Ooooooooooo! They have paw-eye coordination and can walk in a straight line! Big deal. Show offs. I could walk just fine if I had four legs too. As it stands, crawling on all fours isn't quite the same thing. That's how rumors get started.

Hot rumors...

As the dog walked away I say where one of my adult diapers went. I guess I thought it was a good idea at some point to put one on the dog. HA! I'm hilarious! I could safely assume that four diapers were accounted for; two dogs and two cats in the house. I'd never stop with diapering just one animal. That would be half assed.

Just like this, except the dogs in our house are 90 pound Alaskan Malamutes. How the hell did I manage to do that?

I decided to concentrate and do my damnedest to piece together the jumbled jigsaw puzzle that was the last 72 hours. Based on the evidence and the strange fact that I had bird seed in my pocket, I came up with this cobbled together time line.

Wednesday, March 17- Noon
Pre-programmed local area blood banks and hospitals into my GPS. Ate a nutritious Saint Patrick's day lunch of black bread and Guinness. Either that or a severely moldy slice of bread I found behind the toaster... and Guinness.

Wednesday, March 17- 5 PM
Polished off a case of Smithwhick's and bummed a ride to the pub. Now, from what I can put together, I either had a friend pick me up or I hitched a ride with a clown. I did find a rubber nose down my pants at one point.

Seems trustworthy enough.

Wednesday, March 17- 11 PM
Sang some Irish karaoke, even though the bar didn't have a karaoke machine and I was, apparently, singing into an empty toilet paper tube.

May explain the shitty sound check.

Thursday, March 18- 10 AM
Have the feeling I was in Yakima for some odd reason. I don't have much to base this on other than the appearance of a brand new "I Heart Yakima" t-shirt that I was suddenly wearing.

I really fucking don't. God, how I fucking hate Yakima.

Thursday, March 18- 1 PM
Something to do with a zoo...

Thursday, March 18- 4 PM
Had a quickie wedding with the bottle of whisky I was drinking.

Thursday, March 18- 4:15 PM
Divorced said bottle of whisky due to irreconcilable differences.

Son-of-a-bitch ran out on me. Literally.

Thursday, March 18- 8 PM
Signed up for the Peace Corps.

Thursday, March 18- 9:23 PM
Realized I didn't sign up for the Peace Corps. It was a waiver for a wet t-shirt competition.

Thursday, March 18- 11 PM
Inexplicably was wearing a soaking wet "I Heart Yakima" t-shirt.

Friday, March 19

A complete fucking blank.

OK, so truthfully, I really don't have a shit-faced leprechaun's clue as to what really happened. Oh, I've heard rumors. I'm happy to accept that this is one of those Unsolved Mysteries type deal. Well, without the convenience of Robert Stack narrating.

Join me in solving the mystery of Ren's missing bra."

Con Air: A Cinematic Traffic Accident I Can't Ignore

By Ren

I guess humans, as a species, have a predilection to do things that do harm unto themselves. Smoking, drugs, bull riding, and shopping cart jousting are but a few examples of this biological programming.


I bet you thought I was making this shit up.

I, too, suffer from the sucktitude that is our self destructive DNA. Sure, I've done all the shit I listed above, but none of that compares to what I found myself doing a few nights ago. It's something I'm not proud of. It's something a girl would never let her parents discover. Porn? No, dude I wish! I'd be the fucking porn queen of the Pacific Northwest! But, only the classy shit. None of that cable guy coming by to tighten my connection bullshit. Movies with real plot and soul. Movies that explore the depths of the characters' being before the 30 minute long fuckapalooza. My porn would be so good, it would go mainstream. 100 years from now, the Academy will still be talking about that Irish porn star who won every Oscar that record setting night. Somehow, I would have gotten the award for best foreign film. It doesn't matter how! Point is my shit would sweep the Academy awards and, probably, the Emmys.

Finally a bigger whore than Sean Penn will win an Oscar.

Where the fuck was I going with this? Oh yea. I found myself doing something the other night I wasn't proud of. There I was, on the couch, in the dark... watching Con Air. I'm sorry Mom and Pop! Your little girl is ashamed. Despite all you taught her as a child, she still lost her way and drifted into the shameful life of watching a movie with Nicholas Cage, John Malkovich, John Cusack, Ving Rhames, Steve Buscemi, Chief O'Brien from Next Gen/DS9, and Danny Trejo. Danny motherfucking Trejo!

Otherwise known as the MexiCAN from Once Upon a Time in Mexico.

I was channel surfing around 2 in the morning. Going through the channel guide aimlessly, I saw that Con Air was being played AGAIN. For reasons unknown, one of the premium movie channels has had a Con Air hard on for a month. The bastard is on no less than twice a day. I joke about it. I make fun of it when I notice it's on. But, before I knew it, I was pressing "ENTER" on the remote to watch it.

Above: Immediate access to damnation.

I figured I would just watch it while I continued to scroll through the program guide. Scroll, scroll, scroll... holy monkey fuck! There's nothing on! It's been so long since I've seen this movie. Hey, the entire first act is complete shit. Why am I watching a movie as lifeless as the eyes of a bored stripper?

So, Nick Cage was put in prison for defending himself and his wife? Harsh.

I forgot that, in order to get to the more important story lines, Jerry Bruckheimer raced through the entire set up. One minute Cage is wearing an Army uniform , sporting a receding hairline with short hair. The next minute he's wearing a wife beater, sporting a receding hairline with long hair.

I'm going to let the whole muddled, ear rape of a Southern accent thing Cage has going on pass. It was as annoying as sand in your ass crack, but if Keanu Reeves got away with his shit-tasticly horrific "British" accent in Bram Stoker's Dracula, Cage can slide on this one.

"Like, cheerio and pip pip. Whoa, I know Kung Fu."

I was trapped in a cinematic mind grip. I couldn't change the channel. Dave Chappelle? Oh yea, I forgot he was in this... for ten minutes. Damn. Why can't I be watching Chappelle's Show now?

With a case of Samuel Jackson.

I can't tell you exactly why I was stuck in the Con Air tractor beam. It's like a traffic accident, except you rubber-neck for an hour and a half. Maybe it's more like 2 Girls 1 Cup. The whole thing is bile swallowing terrible, but you can't stop watching it. And you can't help but make others watch it with you.

The love story sub plot between these two was the visual equivalent of eating your own shit.

Part of the magic of movies is to make you care about the characters. We want Sherlock Holmes to foil the dastardly plot while managing his own batshit crazy personality. For the first time in my relatively short history as a human being, I cared about Will Ferrell. OK, that's exaggerating a bit. I cared for Harold Crick in Stranger Than Fiction. When I watched Patriot Games I felt for the characters, deeply. OK, I sympathized with the IRA in the movie. Does it matter? The point is that I was under the movie's spell to feel for these people. Does the movie magic work for Con Air? Magic 8 Ball, guide us in our quest for truth.

I don't give a three year old yak shit about anyone in this movie. I'm not emotionally invested in this heaping pile of angry stereotypes. Well, maybe the plane. That poor thing didn't as for this. It didn't ask to be the sound stage of a movie only drunk people at 2 in the morning watch. What? Yeah, I was drunk too. You gotta issue with that? I was drunk and on the couch watching Con Air in my undies. You have a fucking problem with that?

I didn't think so.

Back to the point, I felt sorry for the plane. It sat there while cinematic gems, like these, were vomited out in front of the camera.



Run this segment at random. Go ahead. Fast forward, hit play, whatever. The fucker is 10 minutes long. I guarantee that each and every word the actors spat at each other caused rivets to pop from the plane. By the end, if you look closely, the C-123 was praying for death. Each time Ving pushed out a monotone "Grrrrr grumble grumble" the plane would cut its proverbial wrists just a little deeper. Shit, not to mention all the paint peeling body odor and, what would later be know as, the leaky bean farts of 97. I'm so sorry plane.

That'll do plane. That'll do.

Then, for some reason known only to the functionally retarded kid making script changes, the characters of DEA agent Duncan Malloy has a unprovoked, misplaced, tacked on loathing for US Marshal Vince Larkin. There's no rhyme or reason for it. As soon as they meet, Chief O'Brein starts giving shitting all over Martin Q. Blank from Grosse Pointe Blank. Why? Did Larkin sleep with Malloy's wife? Are they childhood chums gone bad? Someone tell us that there is more to this dynamic than random chest beating cock waving!

Nope. There's nothing deeper.

And then there's the whole bunny scene. I'm not sure if it was supposed to be funny or ironic. Maybe it was supposed to break up the colon clenching action. No, I'm pretty sure some fucker just tacked it on as a joke and no one noticed until the screening. I'm also pretty positive that killing people over a child's toy is common place during the holiday shopping season.


Still, somehow Cage manages to take this "funny" scene and give it the Hershey squirts.

Oh, come the fuck on! Really?

At this point in the movie, I was pretty pissed at myself for watching it. What the fuck is wrong with me? Jumping Irish Jesus now Cage is under a truck talking to himself? Exactly how the fuck did a dozen or so prisoners pull a full sized C-123 out of the sand? Does being shirtless help?

Prison must have one hell of a weight lifting program. That's what you want; convicted murderers, arsonists, and rapists getting buff.

Oh, yeah. Then Cage does the whole "I'm running from an explosion and flip through the air in a way that gives physics the finger" thing.

Because, as we all learned in school, fire is slow and can be easily outrun.

Somewhere between when Chief O'Brein's car being destroyed and the mid-air fire fight, I just accepted it. I was watching Con Air. It's too late now. I can't turn the channel, I have too much invested in it. I have to see it through. I have to see every last fudge sacking second, now. Besides, this movie makes menstrual cramps feel awesome in comparison.

Ouch, my uterus! This is STILL better than watching Con Air.

Yippie! The plane crashed and people die. Someone or another gets cut in half by an engine prop blade, someone else, I don't know, gets killed in some way. I guess the lamest part was when Nick Cage and John CuSACK jump on police motorcycles and give each other a "let's get 'em" look.


Awwww. They even finish each other's sentences.

So, in the end, the bad guys are punished, destroying the Las Vegas strip is completely OK, and Nick Cage gives his on screen daughter a soggy, dirty stuffed bunny. Way to go, Poe. You gave the daughter you've never met typhoid.

Something like this, but soggy and with the faint scent of prisoner urine and man on man rape.

I blame myself. I was drunk enough to get trapped into watching this movie, but not drunk enough to forget about it. At least it wasn't Short Circuit 2 this time.

I may have only been 3 when this was released, but even then I knew this movie sucked copious amounts of sweaty dick.