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Guest Blogger James Fell generously contributed this article for today’s Post.  You can find him at www.bodyforwife.com

And on the eighth day it was Monday again, and God was hung over, and he took a gigantic, steaming dump, and he called that dump Nickelback.

Seriously, I can only take patriotism so far.

My favourite band, Rush, is Canadian. I love a lot of Canadian music. I was a big fan of Triumph when they were still together, and I’ve seen their guitarist / singer Rik Emmett perform live a few times since the break up. I also dig the Tragically Hip, the Barenaked Ladies are cool, Matthew Good is awesome even if he is an asshole nutjob, and who doesn’t like The Band? When I’m feeling mellow I like to listen to Sarah McLachlan or Loreena McKennitt. Hell, I’ll even put up with the odd Bryan Adams song.

Celine Dion doesn’t count as Canadian. Besides, no one likes her. Even Celine Dion doesn’t like Celine Dion. I mean, look at the guy she married. If that’s not an act of utter self loathing then I don’t know what is.

But let’s talk about the pile of pulsating penile puss that is Nickelback.

I was motivated to write this post because of my experience driving home from work today. Nickelback comes from a small town not far from my home city: Calgary. For some stupid reason our local DJs seem to think that this means they should give them lots of air play. I was listening to the car radio and heard them come on and said, “Fucking Nickelback,” and then changed the station, only to hear them on another station. Then I said, “MotherFUCKING Nickelback,” and changed the station again. And, you guessed it – they were on the third station I picked.

I better not write down what I said then.

I hate them. They suck. All music-loving people should start a fund to build a rocket ship so we can load the entire band on board and launch them towards the sun.

Why do they suck? How much time do you have?

• The biggest complaint is that all their songs sound the same, and they really do. Here is the proof. The only way to tell the two songs apart is the different lyrics.
• On that note, Nickelback lyrics are like a couple of junior high school jocks getting together to talk about sex. Here is an example: “You’re so much cooler when you never pull it out / ’Cause you look so much cuter with something in your mouth.” Gak.
• Lead singer Chad Kroeger wears more lipstick than Dolly Parton, and they have the same hair stylist.
• Chad has the vocal range of Ben Stein
• Chad knows about three power chords on guitar, yet he acts all hardcore on stage, rocking out like he thinks he is Jimmie Hendrix reincarnated. The rest of the band is equally comprised of a bunch of tough-acting, no-talent pretty boys who could easily have the shit kicked out of them by a Girl Scout troop.
• An entire country hates them. Yes, most of us in Canada despise Nickelback, but ALL of Portugal hates these tools. They were playing on the Iberian Peninsula a while back and half way through the second song Chad Kroeger was sprayed with a bottle of water that had been hurled from the audience. Kroeger confronted the crowd. “Are there any Nickelback fans in Portugal?” Silence followed. “Are you sure?” he asked. Geez, how fucking needy can you get? “It’s up to you,” he continued. “Do you want to hear some rock ‘n’ roll or do you want to go home?” More silence, so the band decided to leave the stage and just as Chad turned around he was beaned in the back of the head with what appeared to be a big rock. I’m not in favor of hurling rocks at people, but Portugal sounds like a cool country.

In doing a bit of research to see what others think of this assault on your ear drums that calls itself a band, I found this genius who found a way to make Nickelback’s music tolerable.

Now I’ll admit that my favorite band has some detractors. When Rush first started people said singer Geddy Lee sounded like Robert Plant on acid. Still, there is no international “Rush sucks” movement like there is for Nickelback.

Rush is the ultimate guy band. I don’t know many women who like them, and that’s understandable because it is considered male-bonding music. For example, Rush music plays a prominent role in the hilarious movie I Love You, Man. If you replace Rush with Nickelback in that movie then it suddenly transforms from a bro-mance into gay porn.

Not that there is anything wrong with being gay, but there is a helluva lot wrong with being Nickelback.

If you want to make a contribution to the “Let’s Launch Nickelback Toward the Sun” fund, I take cash.

RBP’s NOTE – I kinda like Nickelback, but James Fell always cracks me up; so I figured I’d help him spread his word

richardbrianpenn Guest Blogs

RBP’s thoughts – Today my favorite guest blogger (well one of my faves) shares her thoughts on her laptop and her need for a new one.  She always gives me a chuckle.  Hope you enjoy too – RBP

My computer and I have been together for a very long time; since spring of 2002 exactly. We have had our ups and downs, but I really do love my archaic HP laptop. Lately though, I have been thinking it may be time for us to go our separate ways. Actually, the truth is that I have been plotting a break-up for some time now. The first thing I plan to do with any extra money beyond rent is to get a new laptop.

There are a number of reasons for this divorce, though I do anticipate tears when the relationship finally does end. My PC has traveled with me to the faraway lands of Australia, New Zealand, and Bora Bora. It moved through several apartments in various cities and time zones, provided a safe home for my stories and photos, and helped me stay in touch with friends and family over the years. The truth is I love it, despite the time I ripped off the “L” key because it was stuck. Sometimes love hurts. The problem is my PC has a major infidelity issue that has caused it more STD’s than a hooker without condoms.

Please to try to hold the “you’re-watching-too-much-porn” comments and come up with a better joke.  My PC’s issues run deeper than penetration. Its issues have been ongoing for years and are not all even related to viruses. In 2005, I realized it no longer played DVD’s. The warning bubbles told me it had changed time zones too many times and I needed to purchase a $30 program to get it to function again. Why can’t I switch time zones and still be able to watch DVD’s in China, England, and Nigeria? I never even physically switched the time on the computer. Don’t bother thinking you could have fixed it. My father has been fixing all broken electronic and mechanical things in my life since the time of Light Brights and he finally acknowledged it as a lost cause. This event was the first of many signs that my PC and I are not going to end things smoothly.

 When my dad has too much to do or I don’t feel like dealing with him, one of my friends in Philly always fixed the general virus issues in exchange for me doing dishes or laundry. Unfortunately, he didn’t move west with me and so I am stuck trying to figure this out on my own. I decided it was time for me to be a grown-up and solve this dilemma. After hours of complaining to anyone who would listen, which left me talking endlessly to my dog, I Googled my PC’s current virus of choice and got a set of instructions for removal. I can’t say enough that I am ever thankful that there are people out in cyber world who feel so strongly about computers and helping the computer illiterate, like myself, that they have blogs set up to combat viruses five minutes after they infest. I thought I had a new antibiotic resistant swine flu, but someone (a 12-year-old computer whiz) had already cracked the case. Nonetheless, with printed instructions in hand I still couldn’t get PCSpyware2010 to leave me alone.

As opposed as I am to anything but free spyware programs, I finally caved and purchased the newest version of Norton. Even though I dropped $40 on something I know one of my friends, or my father, could have fixed, I still felt a huge relief knowing my PC would be back to normal functioning. Closely following all instructions, I removed other free anti-virus and spyware programs from my computer and was ready to install my new panacea. Hold up! It refused to install! I tried several times and completely convinced myself I must have done something wrong. After cursing myself for never paying attention and assuming one of my nerdy friends or dad would fix everything, I called Norton.

It wasn’t long before a tech was logged on to my computer from virus-prevention headquarters, which I assume is located near somewhere very important like NASA or CIA headquarters. I hate it when people log on to my computer from other places; especially when they are complete strangers. I feel like they are judging my choice in screen savers or wallpaper. Sometimes I even think they can see me, regardless of the fact I don’t have a webcam. Anyway, the tech got to the bottom of why Norton wouldn’t install properly: I had a virus. Well, no shit Sherlock! Why do you think I spent $40 on your fucking anti-virus program?! Fully outraged, I asked to speak to Norton, himself.  Instead the lovely tech transferred me to another lovely tech who was supposed to help me solve the problem so I could properly install Norton.

It took me a grand total of three seconds to realize where this was going. They wanted another $100 out of me to remove the virus that prevented me from installing the virus-protection program. I am no expert, but I am a smart woman. If I can figure out how to finagle my way out of speeding tickets and never pay for drinks at the bar, then I am pretty sure I can figure out how to fix this on my own for free. At any rate, my computer is from the stone-age, so there is little chance it is even worth the $140 that I was about to spend. Not to mention, the people out in cyber-space offering ways to fix the problem are 12 years old! I would feel better paying a 12-year-old $100 to fix my computer than a college graduate who works for this so-called Norton guy. At least I know that some day that child will contribute to society. Who knows? Maybe they will invent something remarkable, like a time machine or one of those air skateboards from Back To The Future. I have high hopes for these kids based on the fact they can trouble-shoot a computer virus that I spend 20 hours unsuccessfully trying to fix.

The thing that pisses me off the most about this whole situation is that it wasn’t a rocket scientist that put PCSpyware2010 and MemTurbo out there in internet world. No, no my friends. It was probably some loser kid, with no friends, and bad acne that decided to make my life hell. I really want to meet one of these fuckers so I can ask them why they don’t suck it up like every other awkward teenager instead of being a total buzz kill. Can’t they just dye their hair green and give other kids wedgies or something? I want them come out from hiding behind their computer screens and I’ll tell them how I really feel face-to-face. After a little bit of tough love, I will assure them that even though they are assholes, someday they can work for the Department of Defense. Or they could at least work for Norton, removing viruses from regular peoples PC’s, like myself.

For the most part, I was able to remove PCSpyware2010. Not completely, but almost. A few weeks later I decided to re-install the free version of AVG, the program I had used prior to purchasing Norton (which, by the way, still isn’t installed on my computer). AVG was updated enough to kick PCSpyware2010, but not before my computer slutted out again with the wrong crowd and picked up another computer STD, MemTurbo. It was like trading in gonorrhea for Chlamydia, but luckily both are curable. The only problem now is that MemTurbo prevents AVG from doing its job and from uninstalling AVG to work on virus removal. Basically, I’m fucked.

You know what the worst part is? It’s not that I spent $40 on a program designed to fix these things and it won’t install because the computer is still infected. I feel like a doctor is saying you can’t get Guardisil because you already have genital warts, even though Guardisil protects against other strains of HPV in addition to the one that gave you warts. The worst part isn’t even that my inconvenience was likely caused by teenage angst, resulting from the jocks picking on some nerdy kid with greasy hair. None of that compares with the true tragedy. The worst part of my situation is that I will spend the last days of a beautiful relationship with computer angry at it.

richardbrianpenn Guest Blogs

Guest Blogger James Fell generously contributed this article for today’s Post.  You can find him at www.bodyforwife.com

I am convinced that Nerf is in league with various military organizations to prepare young boys for a career in the armed forces.

I mean, really, have you seen the weaponry that this company is putting out these days? It is so bad ass that firing some of the new Nerf hardware gets the testosterone surging and makes me feel like trucking myself off to the mountains of Afghanistan to fight insurgents.

 It started a couple of Christmases ago when Santa Claus decided that nothing says “Happy Birthday Jesus” better than providing my son with a fully automatic method of delivering foam projectiles all over our living room.

The assault rifle in question is called the Nerf Magstrike, and it comes with two ten-shot magazines. When fully pumped it can empty one of these magazines in a little over a second, and it makes one helluva racket in the process.

This is what it looks like:

After the first time he fired it I blurted out, “Let me try that!”

At this point I was admonished by my wife to let him play with it for a while before I started hogging the thing, but fortunately for me a short time later my son was drawn back to the pile of still-wrapped presents that were in need of eviscerating from their packaging and I got a chance to launch some foam death of my own.

I loaded up the magazine, slammed it into place like Bruce Willis getting ready to go all Die Hard on someone’s ass, pumped up the air chamber, and let fly with a volley of projectiles at my wife’s butt. She turned around and gave me a dirty look, and the thought that came into my head at that moment was, I wish I had a cat.

Well, not really, but kind of.

If you were a sick and twisted individual then I could see how using such weaponry on a small feline could be a real riot. Not for the cat, but for the shooter. Alas, I love animals and don’t think they should be tormented for one’s amusement. Still, if it was the neighbor’s cat ripping apart my garbage…

Flash forward a couple of years to my son’s recent birthday party. His arsenal of Nerf weaponry has expanded threefold. Not only are these guns getting more and more impressive, but they’re starting to look strikingly familiar to anyone who enjoys watching war movies.

The first gift was the Nerf N-Strike Longshot CS-6. Check out the picture here:

 Now I’ll be damned if that thing – bright colors aside – doesn’t look a lot like a real military weapon. It’s designed as a sniper weapon with a scope and fold-out legs at the bottom to allow for laying prone and steadying one’s aim. The idea is to never give the enemy any warning that he’s about to get a Nerf cap in his ass.

 That wasn’t the only new addition. He also got the Nerf N Strike Vulcan EBF-25, and have you noticed the increasingly military sounding terminology in the naming of these guns? Well, check this sucker out:

 It’s a chain gun. A fucking CHAIN GUN!

 It’s big and heavy and loud and can fire 25 rounds non-stop at whatever it is that you want to make die. Of course, I had to try it out myself. I wandered the house, my son’s gun in hand, looking for targets to destroy.

My son interrupted my seek and destroy mission with: “Daddy, what does ‘die mofo’ mean?” Oops. I hadn’t intended to say that aloud.

“Uh, it’s, uh… Japanese… it means, uh… ‘nice gun’.”

He didn’t buy it. “No it doesn’t.”

“Whatever. Just don’t repeat it, okay?”

Now I’m no stranger to guns. I had toy guns as a kid and relished in shooting my step-brothers in the head with those crappy plunger dart guns every chance I got. Then as I got older I owned pellet guns, and although I may have wanted to I never actually shot either step-brother with them. I fear this was more out of a desire to stay out of trouble and retain possession of my weaponry rather than any pacifistic desire to not inflict harm upon them. As I grew older still I learned how to fire rifles and handguns.

 Even though I keep my hair buzzed short in a military fashion, I never seriously considered joining the army. I think that’s because I didn’t get enough of a thirst for combat as a youngster to really want to enlist (or maybe I’m just a chickenshit), and now with recruitment for armed forces suffering they’re upping the ante. They want a new generation of soldiers hungry to bring peace and democracy to the world through superior firepower, and the way to achieve that is to get potential recruits to start thinking about military service at a young age.

Nerf is probably handled through a few shell corporations, but I’m convinced that there is a military ownership of the company, and they’re influencing product design to create a new generation of soldiers. Today’s kids will get their thirst for fancy, high-powered weaponry that can’t be quenched at the gun range or playing paintball, and recruiting offices will start to get busier.

 The enemy doesn’t stand a chance.

richardbrianpenn Guest Blogs

RBP’s thoughts – Recently, my good friend Mistress Mya moved to San Diego.  Below you will find her amusing tale of her venture moving out west.

Recently, a friend brought comedian XXX to my attention. He once did a stand-up routine about moving across country and the whole commentary lightened the severity of making a bold move from east to west coast. I find it difficult to even call the move bold.

Basically, I left Jersey for sunny San Diego with a one-way ticket, my Chihuahua in tow, two over stuffed suitcases, and a fantasy that the economy would be more forgiving and allow me employment on the laid back, sunny, chilled out west coast versus the cut throat, fast-paced, I-want-it-done-two-days ago Northeast USA; where I was born and raised. Even the concept of not finding a job wasn’t too foreboding. I’d definitely rather be strapped for cash, ogling hot surfers while honing my golden tan than sitting in my parents’ house, staring miserably at the bottom of an empty bottle, watching Law and Order marathons on TBS in all of my pasty, pale magnificence.

My entire generation is overly familiar with the computer game, Oregon Trail. This was in the days of Hot Dog Stand and Tetris, before companies added that totally unnecessary third dimension to video games. This was when Mac was Apple and consumed the computer rooms of schools across America, before they took a nose dive, revamped their image and introduced the world to the IPod. Up, down, left, right, and the space bar are really all I can handle with games anyway. After middle school my gaming days were over. At the time, Al Gore wasn’t even taking credit for inventing the internet. I mean, it existed, but it was more of something I considered along the same technological advances as the Star Trek Voyager. To this day I am perfectly content naming my Oregon Trail family, purchasing supplies at the one store in existence, making vital decisions about fording the river, and choosing if one of my kids needs to take one for the team.  Perhaps they’ll even die from dysentery or typhoid fever to make better time getting to the west coast. I have a tendency to name the people on my wagon after ex-boyfriends and pray that they get bitten by a snake so I really don’t mind sacrificing them. As usual, I’m getting off track…

Basically, today we decide we are moving across the country, or even the world for that matter; and we jump on an airplane at 500 mph zipping over mountains, rivers, and oceans to the final destination. No one seems to think anything of this phenomenon. Back in the day of the Oregon Trail expeditions, people had one putrid smelling outfit made of ugly calico or flannel and bathed about twice a year.

Despite all of our modern advances, these people still exist to some degree today. The only differences are that they smoke a lot of weed, listen to Phish, and we now refer to them as wookies, or dirty hippies. Anyway, long before cars and airplanes, people started across the country and 2 years later ended up at the final destination minus a few and plus a few people with the wagon barely in one piece.

On a good day, they hunted several rabbits, deer, and sometimes bison. They also caulked their wagon and floated several rivers. On occasion they purchased axels at town general stores that all looked the same.  Of course, I know all of these facts from playing Oregon Trail. Let’s face it, this was some scary shit. The major, and most important, difference between moving from east to west coast today is that we are not scared. Come on now, you’re getting in a plane going 500 mph. And that is some fucking crazy, scary shit, my friends.

Maybe you are wondering (if you cared enough to continue reading) what I am doing here in San Diego. The truth is, not much. I went to Mexico in June and did the obvious: combined tequila with life planning. The final result was a new-aged Oregon Trail adventure. I didn’t get dysentery, but I did get a migraine and my IBS kicked in on the flight.

Too much information? Surely, but  I’m just trying to put things in perspective. I signed a short-term lease with hopes that it will be enough time to find a job and I’ll be able to truly make the west coast my home (help in the job search is welcomed by the way).

San Diego is mostly what I expected it to be. It is nothing shy of gorgeous, sunny, and very clean. I can’t say I miss the east coast yet because I’ve only been here for a little while. I’m still learning how to get around and awkwardly approaching strangers and hoping to make new friends. Luckily, I have my youth and a vagina on my side. People (mostly men) are willing to talk to me. The Mexican food here is definitely better, but I expected that from the sheer proximity. Frankly, I’m not willing to try cheese steaks west of Philly because it would unquestionably be a huge disappointment.

Besides differences in food, which I notice first and foremost; the people here are different. They are friendlier and they expect you to be friendly in return. I’m a nice person for the most part, but I don’t walk around with a stupid grin on my face 24/7 saying hi to every stranger I accidentally make eye-contact with. This one guy actually asked me why I looked so unhappy while waiting for a drink at the bar last weekend. Well for starters, I was unhappy that my glass was empty and the service was slow, but I wasn’t going to tell him that because it was too obvious and not worthy of explanation. I replied simply that I wasn’t unhappy. Short in stature and curly-haired Captain Obvious pressed on, asking where I was from. One word: Jersey. After a moment, this sunk in and he felt an undying need to report back to all of his friends behind him that the girl in front of him was from New Jersey, like I was some sort of rare endangered species.  I thought this was particularly dense of him since Jersey is so overpopulated that I doubt you can enter a bar anywhere in the US without someone from NJ in it.

I’m not sure if it was the drunk or the Jersey in me, but a huge smile spread over my mouth as I spit out, “Exit 11, where are you from Frodo?” There was a brief pause and look of confusion before the smile dropped off his face. Truth be told, I’m not even from anywhere near the Turnpike or the Parkway, but I could tell this wasn’t the way to make friends in San Diego. It turns out there is a lot of truth to the saying, “You can take the girl out of Jersey, but you can’t take the Jersey out of the girl.” People here either find me incredibly funny or incredibly inappropriate. Regardless, they seldom understand my sarcasm and are always a few steps behind my references and they usually take my jokes too seriously.

So far, so good, but I don’t know how long it will take me to adjust. I’m learning that even around people my own age I have to put on my verbal filter. Apparently swearing every other word isn’t acceptable. I feel like I am as careful as I would be meeting a boyfriend’s parents for the first time or while babysitting a 5 year-old. My words also come out faster than people here, so I’m somehow deemed a “fast talker”, which I am definitely not compared to most of my friends back east. I try to keep my speech pace up to the speed of my thoughts. I guess everyone here is just permanently stoned, so they don’t think very fast and therefore they don’t need to speak very fast either. It’s not just speech either, everything is slower. I can get used to shortened days at work when the surf is good and I can get used to slower talkers, but I can’t get used to someone who takes 10 minutes to pour me a cup of coffee. The coffee is already made and you can’t grab a cup and fucking pour it? I’m not even talking lattes here; I drink black coffee, no sweeteners. It’s almost impossible to screw up and it shouldn’t ever take more than 10 seconds. The people I meet here tell me to calm down all the time. I really think they should look up “calm” in the dictionary, because last I checked thinking the slow Starbucks worker is fucking annoying and staying calm are two completely different things in my eyes. No one has even seen my Jersey road rage yet.

Overall, I’m into this move. Sadly, I didn’t get to hunt bison or ford any rivers during my journey. It was a relatively uneventful plane ride, until I think about just how fast we were going. Still trying to make friends, but I’ve only stayed in one weekend night so far…downing a bottle of wine by 6pm and watching Garden State, misty-eyed. As the events unravel I’ll continue writing. Phish Festival is coming up in October and I have tickets. Maybe I will see some of those Oregon Trailers on the left coast after all.

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