Finally, the end of Men is nigh. What!

Thank you, Charlie Sheen, for putting a stop to new episodes of "Two and a Half Men."

Applause, applause, applause.

Someone had to put their foot down. I'm with Sheen on this one.

As for his recent antics, let's compare and contrast. True, it takes courage to trash your hotel room while your children are next door. But consider the brass balls required to deliver lines like this from TAAHM:

Alan: You have to forget about her, Charlie.
Charlie: (holding bottle of liquor) I know, that's why I got me some milk of amnesia.

For Christ's sake, his character's name is Charlie. That's a stunning display of originality, writers.

Not convinced? The theme song of TAAHM goes something like this:

Men, men, men, men, men, men, men, men, men, men, meeeeeeeeeeennnnnnn

Colin Meloy of the verbose The Decemberists wishes he could master this kind of word play. (I approve of Colin Meloy's logorrhea.)

So quit wagging your accusatory fingers at Charlie and poo-pooing his personal problems. Has anyone stepped up to suggest that his addictions could be related to being on this supremely shitty show for so long? There, I said it.

America, you are to blame.

Eight seasons of this abomination? Plus, syndication! Good grief. Have you no self-esteem? To give yourselves over to this visual/aural vomitorium week after week, it disgusts me.

And, Duckie, what the hell happened to land you here? Go back to the record store with Iona. Please.

I miss Sheen's Hot Shot days. He was a fine piece of tall, dark, and let's-get-it-on back then. Now he's starting to get those nibblet teeth. You know the ones, from smoking the pipe.

Anyway, I wish Carlos Irwin Estevez well. Sobriety should knock the TAAHM stupor out of him. In the meantime, a heartfelt thank you for trying to save the unwashed masses from Men, men, men, men, men, men, men, men, men, men, meeeeeeeeeeennnnnnn

Important messages from Facebook

Facebook Ads prove RIF (reading is fundamental). I learned two important things today:

• Cats can't see shit.
• Dentists are nefarious.

I vouch for the verity of the above statements and I repeat them with impunity:

• Cats can't see shit.
  
• Dentists are nefarious.

Here is the evidence to support these claims. Judge for yourself.

Highly informational Facebook ads in question

I've always suspected that cats need glasses. This explains the irrational and totally unprovoked behavior of my dearly departed Muffin. Yes, as a child I did squeeze her (for science) and drag her around in my sleeping bag (for ease of transportation). Her violent outbursts never made any sense back then but now, yes. Maybe if Muffin had a good pair of hipster frames, we could have all just gotten along.

Look, I've written about cat-related shocking discoveries before. Cats are killers. This is common knowledge. Now we know they're also blind. . . with rage! 

Isn't it ironic that we have cat-eye frames and not a single feline has benefited personally? I should really start a foundation.

As for the evil doings of dentists, I'm shocked that they'd reveal their secret practices so brazenly in this ad. Take a long look at that stock lady. Where is she exactly? Heaven? A beach? On a longboat to China? Why is her hair so messy? Why is she wearing a white robe? Is she in the lockup?

Don't think I haven't picked up on the strange coincidence that my own dentist emailed me yesterday to make an appointment and today I was served this dentist ad.

In contrast, I'd like to share with you an example of advertising done exceptionally well.

Exhibit A: Excellent advertisement

Clear. Concise. Enticing to the unwashed masses. No mention of cats (jerks) or dentists (devils).

Hey man, not everyone can be as touched by the genius to craft such an excellent advertisement. Not everyone can repress the urge to share their dirty dirty doings (see dentists) That's a tough break.

Nevertheless, I urge you to pay attention to the messages that surround us. Especially on the highly educational Facebook.

Oscars snub won't go unnoticed.

What a week! First, Zsa Zsa loses part of her leg due to gangrene (ew) and now this blatant Oscars snub of the single best movie of 2010.

You know the one:

The most excellent and inspiring HOT TUB TIME MACHINE. This sleeper hit restored my faith in man. And hot tubs.

Up until I'd seen HTTM, I feared hot tubs. They're cesspools of bacteria, really. I've often remarked that a hot tub is like a human stew. I still stand by that statement but I will now also admit that hot tubs may have transportation powers, of which I am a fan.

Just take a long look at the stellar cast: John Cusack, Rob Cordry, Darrell from The Office and the only funny person on Last Comic Standing, beers, radio/tape deck, squirrel with cassette tape, and that pasty kid.

How can you beat this premise:

Four guy friends, all of them bored with their adult lives, travel back to their respective 80s heydays thanks to a time-bending hot tub.

You cannot.

I'm disappointed in you, Academy. This is a colossal fail on your part. Your nominations are wholly rejected.

Let's review this big fat waste of nomination space.

Best Picture:

• Black Swan (didn't see it / don't care)
• The Fighter (didn't see it / care 20%)
• Inception (saw it / fell asleep / didn't get it)
• The Kids Are All Right (points for Mark Ruffalo)
• The King's Speech (don't speak British)
• 127 Hours (how would Zsa Zsa feel?)
• The Social Network (livin' it, don't need to watch it)
• Toy Story 3 (Tom Hanks has enough.)
• True Grit (don't speak Western)
• Winter's Bone (pardon?)

To sum up, I've only seen two of the above movies but can wholeheartedly endorse HOT TUB TIME MACHINE as the clear winner.

Actress in a Leading Role:

• Annette Bening (not enough Mark Ruffalo)
• Nicole Kidman (no)
• Jennifer Lawrence (any relation to Martin Lawrence of the hilarious Martin?)
• Natalie Portman (peaked in The Professional, all downhill from there)
• Michelle Williams (you were okay in Dawson's Creek, I guess)

My vote is for squirrel with casette tape. Do you know how hard it is to get squirrels to follow through?

Actor in a Leading Role:

• Javier Bar. . . 

I'm bored with this. Who would argue with a three-way tie between John Cusack, Rob Cordry, and Darrell from The Office?

I'd like to start a campaign to force the Academy to include HOT TUB TIME MACHINE across all categories. From short film to makeup, costume design to cinematography, best picture to music (original song), visual effects to writing, foreign language film to sound mixing, a clean sweep.

Let's set this thing right. Do it for hot tubs and the right to participate in the human stew.

Do it for Darrell from The Office.

Do it for America.

Most of all, do it for Zsa Zsa.

 

Office Space

I put Heimlich to work this holiday weekend building out my top secret headquarters. You may be surprised to learn I haven't worked out of a proper office all this time. Brilliance doesn't need your inboxes or vertical file folders or cork boards or ELFA shelving systems. These are distractions for the weak minded. I am super organized without your containers.

Heimlich is another story. Heimlich needs hobbies. Heimlich requires organizational constructs. (This is why he is my henchman, naturally, and not a full partner yet.)

So Heimlich measured, ordered, unpacked, drilled, and assembled — with wild abandon — my new top secret headquarters office space. I now have several shelves and bins and surfaces to fill, stuff, and cover with my super awesome plans for 2011. It's an impressive organization system . . . for those of you that require assistance getting your shit together.

If there's one thing I reject it's clutter. I should really loan Heimlich out to that Hoarders show or Clean House. Never! Get your own Heimlich, you pack rats and magpies!

I'm a very busy super power. That is all for now. Get back to work, workers.

Holly Hobbie

It's come to my attention that it's a new year and that I may need a hobby. (Other than world domination, of course, which is much more a full-time, kick-ass job than a dalliance.)

Shit. A hobby? Boring people have hobbies to make themselves seem less, well, boring. People who have no friends have hobbies, ergo, to make friends with other friendless people. Sex-starved people have hobbies to meet other sex misters/mistresses and engage in totally unsexy activities. Why the hell do I need a hobby? And how am I going to save "the hobby" from its seriously unflattering reputation?

When I think of "the hobby," I recall my not-so-distant youth and a very awesome pink sleeping bag that depicted one Holly Hobbie. After two seconds of research, I've learned that Holly Hobbie was a real live person who named a fictional character after herself. Ego-tastic!

Anyway, Holly Hobbie -- the fake one -- was in a bunch of books with Toot and Puddle, her best friends. This is all very disturbing to me. It's undetermined whether Toot or Puddle were real live persons too. I suspect my creators forced this Hobbie character and her unsavory associates on me in an effort to make me appear "a real girl" instead of the budding genius I most definitely was.

I reject Holly Hobbie now and retroactively apply this rejection to my youth as well.

I don't need you, hobby. You are rude. I'm relieved that this 10 seconds of self-discovery has liberated me from the pedestrian notion that I need or want a hobby.

Happy New Year!