Disappointing Descent

I would first like to begin this post by recognizing the fact that it's been quite a while since I last posted... well, for me at least. I've simply been swamped with the nannying, maiding, and waitressing responsibilities that are going to be paying for my college tuition, London trip, and a whole heap of bills that the real adult world has seen fit to hit me with all at once. And I wish had another one of my funny little stories to share with you... but instead I'll talk about something on my mind that's a little more serious.

Alright. So last night I came home, utterly exhausted, from a long day's work and felt like doing nothing but laying in bed with my dogs and watching a movie - it ended up being Descent, starring Rosario Dawson and Chad Faust. It’s about a college-aged woman (Dawson) who orchestrates the rape of the man (Faust) that date-raped her. Got all that? I’m really not giving anything away; all of this is pretty much declared on the back cover.

Half of the movie was fine; nothing new, but definitely worthwhile. I was completely committed to the story line as we saw Dawson’s character deal with the aftermath of being assaulted. But when things suddenly stopped being explained and her entire demeanor changed altogether, I cried foul. She went from being withdrawn, confused, depressed and frightened to cold, calculating, manipulative, seductive and borderline misanthropic. Now such a transition isn’t impossible, but if you’re going to put the main character on such an arc the audience deserves an explanation.

In the interest of full disclosure, I can’t be impartial when it comes to storylines involving rape. The issue affects me greatly to this day, and it is just not possible for me to separate the topic from my personal feelings and prior experiences. However, I don’t think my past should prevent me from having valid opinions about the way rape is portrayed in the entertainment industry.

What angered me about this movie was that Dawson’s character’s actions made no sense. Out of nowhere she had the power, control and composure to lure her rapist into a secluded area. She effortlessly convinced him to let her blindfold, handcuff and tie him spread eagle to a bed. I don’t understand how Faust’s character could not know that some awful fate was awaiting him... I don’t buy that he was just so cocky that he really thought she had changed her mind about him and really wanted to fuck his brains out mere months after he brutally attacked her. (Just as a side note, there was no grey area in the initial rape scene between Dawson and Faust. She’s screaming and fighting and he tells her that she’s a dirty cunt etc. etc. etc.)

In the end, a big black man appears and rapes the rapist. The skinny white boy screams and thrashes against the bed for several minutes while the black rapist tells him to take it all etc. etc. etc. To be fair, the man is introduced as a shady character earlier in the film, but it is never even hinted that he would be up for such an act.

I don’t understand what I’m supposed to take away from this film. Obviously no real revenge can ever soothe the pain of being raped. Did I really need to see the parting shot of Dawson crying in the dark corner? I don’t think that any new questions were raised. I don’t think that any new aspects of the issue were explored.

Out of sheer curiosity I listened to a bonus feature question and answer session with Dawson and the writer/director, and was physically sick listening to them justify this movie as a champion of victims’ rights. I was flabbergasted as they explained that they screened the film for Eve Ensler, the mastermind behind The Vagina Monologues, and the entire V-day staff went nuts in support of it. What kind of message does it send when authorities in sexual assualt prevention support a movie that depicts male rape as the answer?

Maybe it’s just too late for me to be thinking about all of this, or maybe I need a clearer head in the morning for actual intelligent reflection, but I challenge whoever may be reading this to watch this film and decide for yourself if it is worth anything. I would love to hear someone else’s impartial thoughts and opinions.

Dead Poets Society Mini-Essay

Carpe Diem -- seize the day. This is the message we try to instill in the minds of our youth from generation to generation, knowing all too well that the transition from adolescence to adulthood happens in the blink of an eye, the way life itself moves at a hyperspeed pace. Yet at the very same time, we contradict ourselves in taking away those things that define this strange period between child and grown-up. What we must realize is that reality is waiting just around the corner, and preparing those who will carry us into the future may mean taking a departure from stiff tradition.

Our teenage years are, or at least should be, about preparing us for the real world when we have to face it on our own. Beyond academics -- all of the factual memorization and Calculus exams -- when the safety net is cut down and the realities of life come into play, who is going to prepare us for that test? A parent's job obviously includes steering their child in the right direction, teaching them right from wrong, and correcting them when they themselves are unable to see the error of their ways. Everyone reaches a point, however, when they need to be left alone to fend for themselves. They need to learn how to make tough decisions and live with the consequences that accompany their choices, because in the real world there is no mommy or daddy to make the right one for you. We are effectively asking our kids to ace the "life exam" after having done all of their assignments for them. It puts our young adults at a disadvantage to instead anticipate if and when they may stumble... it is when we fall the hardest that we learn how to pick ourselves up and continue through life as braver, smarter human beings more resolved in achieving our dreams.

Dreams are an interesting thing to think about. They are the one thing that is unique to each one of us, the one thing we have that is ours alone, the one thing that no one can take away from us. Despite this, it seems that many parents attempt to snatch away every aspiration their child may have, only for it to undergo a screening process fitted to their own wants and desires. These are the parents that hide behind the excuse of wanting their child to take advantage of the opportunities they weren't given, but in reality are living out their own life goals through their offspring. Apparently by the age of seventeen or eighteen, we're still not mature enough to think for ourselves or ascertain what career we should pursue. But listen closely, moms and dads: your time has come and passed. Maybe you are resentful because you weren't able to live the life you wanted, but this is exactly why allowing your children to be who they want to be is so important. Odds are instead of opening their eyes years later and discovering you were right, they'll live in regret wondering what might have been. So have confidence in the job you've done in raising them. You yourself have to learn that what is best for your child is allowing them to be and do what makes them happy.

In "Dead Poets Society" John Keating was the perfect model of a positive adult influence in the lives of the teenagers he taught. He made the boys in the film realize that certain rules are there for a reason and the ability to follow them is a part of adult life. There are times, however, when unwarranted restrictions must be opposed, times where you have to depart from the traditional mindset in order to find your own identity and fight for what you believe is right. Some might say that Keating did not encourage them to think for themselves, but encouraged them to take foolish risks without thinking of the consequences. The thing is, making the right decision isn't always easy and it isn't always accepted and life isn't as cut-and-dry as someone like J. Evans Pritchard, Ph. D. might think. To have the courage to defy authority in the name of free thought is to think of the consequences. Would anyone dare call the risks Martin Luther King, Jr. took in exercising civil disobedience foolish? Of course not, because if he did not break the law odds are blacks would still suffer from oppression in America today. Mr. Keating's approach was important because it is an important thing to have individuals in society that stand up for who they are and what they believe in, especially because those in power don't always have it right; the society in which we live is not stagnant, but progressive.

So parents, cherish the time you have to hold your kid's hand as you lead them along the path to adulthood, remembering that before long you have to let go. And kids, make the time you have before you reach that fork in the road where the difficult decisions start meaningful. Carpe Diem -- seize the day.

My 50 Things Bucket List

"Don't be afraid of death so much as an inadequate life."
-- Bertolt Brecht

Before I die, in no particular order I want to...


1. Get deployed to an African country through the Peace Corps and make an impact on the lives of the sick and poor.

2. Live in a chic modern-style apartment in downtown Chicago and enjoy all of the entertainment the city has to offer with my best friend Jennifer for six months.

3. See my ancestral history in Ireland; this includes exploring the scenic countryside, celebrating the nightlife of Dublin, and taking home a hot Irish chick with an accent (just kidding).

4. Be serenaded on a Venetician gondola ride with my sweetheart in Italy after having the best gelatto of my life.

5. Exchange wedding vows at sunset on a rocky cliff in Greece with a spectacular view of the ocean.

6. Dance in front of the Louvre late at night on my honeymoon in Paris.

7. Put chunky highlights of some funky and unnatural color in my hair -- like blue!

8. Have my nosed pierced with a teensy-weensy sparkly pink stud in it.

9. Get a tattoo of "Carpe Diem" in Celtic lettering with a symbol of the Trinity on either side.

10. Conquer my fear of heights by skydiving over Seville, Spain, while on vacation there.

11. Purchase an old Victorian-style house, restore it to its former grandeur, and make it a home.

12. Have two children that are biologically mine and name them Gracie & Hayden.

13. Adopt a little girl from China and name her Isabelle.

14. Learn to play the acoustic guitar, piano, and saxophone -- and well, so I can perform in front of a live audience (even if it's in my living room).

15. Buy an eco-friendly car powered by electric or hydroelectric technology (presently this is the Honda Civic hybrid).

16. Attend and graduate from Saint Xavier University, majoring and minoring in History and English (I haven't decided which is which yet) along with a teaching license and certification to teach Debate.

17. Enlist in the AmeriCorps NCCC program ("Teach for America") and provide a good education to inner-city children... without having to take the Michelle Pfeiffer leather jacket approach.

18. Have a side career as a professional photographer with a focus on black and white photography.

19. Go back to law school at KU and become a Civil Rights attorney.

20. Become a master chef of French cuisine.

21. Spend six months in New York City bartending.

22. Have the most awesome new martini ever named after me & actually appear on a menu.

23. Have a Siberian Husky with a black and white coat and blue eyes as a pet.

24. Participate in a program that focuses on caring for and restoring chimps into the wild.

26. Become an experienced swing and ballroom dancer.

27. Spend an entire summer touring the most haunted places in the United States -- and see a ghost!

28. Manage to get and stay tan year-round safely by buying an insanely expensive professional spray-tanning machine.

29. Travel to India and meditate in an ashram to learn to appreciate silence and the power of prayer.

30. Go cruisin' in my black 1956 Jag Roadster with the top down.

31. Attend a weekly yoga class and eventually become an instructor.

32. Adhere to a strict diet, er, lifestyle change, and get down to a size 4, around 110 lbs.

33. Coach softball and basketball from the little league to middle school levels.

34. Publish a memoir detailing all of my life experiences for my children and grandchildren.

35. Appear on an episode of "Trading Spaces" with Hildi as our design coach so we can transform our neighbor's room into a very, uh, unique space.

36. Become a certified scuba diver in Bermuda without getting stung by a stingray or eaten alive by a shark.

37. Explore the Galapagos Islands and reflect upon Charles Darwin's own experiences there in an attempt to become scientifically and evolutionarily enlightened.

38. Gallop a horse in a race across a beach in Los Cabos, Mexico.

39. Buy a log cabin in rural Colorado to stay in on skiing trips.

40. Build an elaborate sand castle off the shores of Maine's coast.

41. Enroll in language classes with a goal of becoming fluent in Spanish, French, and Italian.

42. Jog along the Great Wall of China at sunrise.

43. Prove to myself that out-of-body experiences are real by having one.

44. Form an expedition to climb the Korakoram Range in Pakistan.

45. Enjoy a conversation over a cup of coffee with Tina Fey (I know, you thought I was going to say Barack Obama...).

46. Witness the Northern Lights on the Kanai Peninsula in Alaska.

47. Bungee jump by way of the "Bungee Bullet" off of the Sunshine Coast of Queensland, Australia.

48. Obtain a private pilot certificate and fly to each of the 50 states.

49. Run for some sort of public office; governor would be nice (however improbable).

50. Bowl a perfect game by exclusive means of the "granny bowling" strategy.

Crazed Color Obsession

Colors are overrated. You've seen one sunset and you've seen them all, especially when viewed from the same angle from the same balcony in the same place almost every time. But humans are obsessed with colors, attaching them to everything from "Blue Mondays" to "Orange Wednesdays", and now, due to color overuse, we've run out.

There are more colors in existence than the non-enlightened mind can imagine, but most of them don’t have names yet. The average person can’t even name the 120 Crayola colors, yet alone the 4x10⁹ colors available on the average monitor. As such, as soon as we get beyond "Pale Peach" and "Midnight blue", we have to resort to "A little bit lighter than 'Fuzzy-Wuzzy Brown'"and the whole thing becomes ridiculous. The only other option is to use Hexadecimal, but, somehow, telling your sweetheart "their eyes are of the deepest #DEA681" isn't quite the same.

To solve this, we assigned colors "themes." For example, black came to signify death, green, nature, and yellow, vomit.

Red, being a hot color, is used for things that make us passionately hot under the collar, such as love, anger or a third-degree sunburn. It reminds us both of danger and of romance, and easily encompasses both love and anger as varying expressions of passion.

It may interest you to know that red stands for far more than just kisses and slaps. It is the color of power, war, warnings, fire, sin, guilt, sex, dwarves, communism, and of course, the wiggly line under spelling mistakes in Microsoft Word. For the latter reason, if nothing else, the color red has made the world a much better place; I dread to think where the blogosphere would be without it.

...No, You Really Don't Want Nirvana

Buddha believed in ultimate happiness. He believed that to find Nirvana you must free yourself from desire. This, of course, is complete bull. To quote the great philosopher Will Young, losing desire means you "lose the highs to be spared the lows." As such, all that can truly be experienced is an ultimate state of "meh." Besides, based on his depictions, Buddha was a fat, jolly man and a thin, serious one, making him a schizophrenic and about as trustworthy as Fox News.

We ourselves are proof that ultimate happiness is impossible. Our smiles last for only a moment, normally a reaction to something good, such as a funny joke or even a brilliant Bridget blog. However, this state of "good" lasts only a small amount of time. If it didn’t, each subsequent thing would have to be better than the last in order for us to feel as good about it, until the world became one happy, bouncy ball of bunnies and page three models, at which point there would be nothing to strive for. Everything would be good. And we would all be bored out of our freakin' minds. With nothing to make us feel bad we would have no reason to feel good at all. And as a loud noise eventually fades into the background, so too our good feelings would become dull and invisible. Plus, everyone smiling all the time would be just plain disturbing.

Finally, it is impossible to define the "ultimate" anything; one man’s trash is another man’s Holy Grail (Sorry for the poor analogy, what can I say I've been watching Monty Python!) Ultimate happiness means different things to everyone; one person becoming happy would mean another could not. At the very most only 50% of the world could be happy at any one time, at which point we'd have to take it in turns and be happy every other week. And this would be far from anyone's idea of ultimate happiness... unless, of course, they were a little bit Buddha.

An Indispensable Influence

It seems as though my writing classes have kept me increasingly busy these days. My latest assignment required me to write an informal "Teacher of the Year" nomination within our high school.

Teachers are indispensable. Without them, America, us, our children -- we have no future. It is teachers that get up every morning and spend every day training our minds and inspiring our hearts. There is one in particular that has gone far beyond the requirements of her job description to teach me what I need to know.

I’ve known Katie Montgomery for around three and a half years now. I’ve also taken pretty much every course she offers: English, Debate, Forensics, ACT Prep, Theatre Production, and Technical Theatre, plus various plays she directs at our high school. I was even part of a group that she and her brother took on a trip to London this past summer. And at some point throughout all of this, I’ve ceased to call her "Ms. Montgomery" and now address her as "Monty."

You see, Monty isn’t your average high school instructor. She doesn’t stand at the front of the room with a solemn expression and proceed to give a monotone lecture that falls upon deaf ears. Though a strict follower of the rules, she has a fresh sense of humor, intelligence, enthusiasm, and a style that reaches out to students in a way that is both engaging and understandable. You can bet that when she speaks, not only will you benefit from the content of her message, but you'll also want to hear it.

As a senior, I am shocked by how fast high school has flown by (wasn’t Freshman orientation just yesterday?) and have been reflecting on what I've learned. I could go on and on about the history of the theatre, and I could explain underlying themes of English literature, and I could teach you the art of formal argument, and I certainly could reveal a Grammar Nazi side to my readers. With all of this information, academic tests are a breeze. What sets Monty apart from the rest, however, is that she doesn’t stop there. High school is, or at least should be, about preparing us for the real world when we have to face it on our own. When the safety net is cut down and the realities of life come into play, who is going to prepare us for that test? I am immeasurably grateful that someone was there to also teach me about that. I’m grateful that my confidence in my speaking ability has soared, that I know how to operate power tools and even a sewing machine, that amongst chaos I can problem-solve, that I can bite my tongue when I want to run my mouth, that I know how to include essentials in my travel bag instead of technological goodies should there be airport delays. I am grateful.

Monty has been there for us through kidney stones, nasty rumors, family deaths, and any other imaginable teenage crisis. Even when knucklehead students vandalize her driveway with ketchup male genitalia because they think it’s funny or cuss her out and attempt to punch her because their grammar was corrected, her level of sacrifice is astounding. Monday through Friday she gives her all from 7:40 in the morning to 2:40 in the afternoon, offers coaching after school, spends her Saturdays taking Debate and Forensics squads to tournaments, and directs the Fall and Spring plays, which require late-night practices and extensive set-building. I know for a fact there were some nights when she didn’t head home until after 11:00 p.m. – a 15-hour day. I have to say that this really means a lot. This woman is a real human being with her own fiancé, friends, and life outside of school, and that makes the things she’s done for us mean even more.

Ms. Montgomery – Monty – has been an extremely influential figure throughout high school. As I look ahead to the future, going it alone in college seems a bit intimidating. Yet I feel more prepared than I ever have for the challenges that lie ahead of me, and I have her to thank for that. Upon my next graduation, when it’s time for me to start a career of my own, I’ll be thinking about Monty and how she has affected the lives of so many people like me. The thing is, I’m going to be a teacher. And if I’m half the educator she is, I’ll be damn proud of myself.

Reflections On An Old Photo

Recently in one of my writing classes everyone wrote a photo reflective mini-essay on their childhood. Mine was nothing special, but it certainly made me think.

I am staring down at the photograph of a vibrant young first grade girl, complete with a nifty new dress and curled blonde bangs. The child in the photograph is me. It seems like elementary school picture day was just yesterday, and I was standing in my mother's bathroom complaining about her uncanny ability to burn the side of my head with the curling iron. That morning I finished watching "The Lion King" put in my VCR the night before, and skipped off to school with a very "Hakuna Matata" outlook on life. After all, I was only seven and a half, and my biggest dilemma involved me beating the boys at recess basketball later that afternoon. And messing up those stupid bangs.

I'm really not one for clichés, and I realize I'm going to sound like a grandma when I say this, but the past eleven years have gone by in the blink of an eye. Where have I been? How did time manage to sneak up on me at 10:38 a.m. in my high school library with its very unpleasant reminder that the world goes on with every passing minute, regardless of whether or not you want to freeze yourself in a particular period of your life or savor that sweet moment just a little longer? I feel the presence of time's friend, nostalgia, and have a strange desire to go back to that old playground and engage in another game of elementary school streetball with "the guys." This thought begins to unfold a bit in my mind. What if I actually could do that right now? I remember their hesitancy of letting a girl on the team before I had proven myself... and then this image of me lecturing first grade boys on gender roles and the limitations society places on females arises in my mind, which causes reality to sink in and me to realize that so much has changed since then - people, situations, me - that this simply isn't possible.

I take another glance at that photo, this time taking notice of my bright appearance - of how wide my smile was and how my eyes seemed to have all of the joy and optimism in the world bundled up inside of them. The computer monitor goes to a blank screensaver, and the change that has taken place throughout my life is evident in the reflection staring back at me. My eyes are now heavy from lack of sleep, and little is done for the upkeep of my image. Somewhere along the line I seemed to have sold out, trading fun and my "no worries" policy for adult responsibilities and privileges. I work two jobs to cover expenses such as cell phone bills and car payments. Catch me on a weekday evening and more likely than not I'm cooking dinner rather than playing outside. My Saturdays no longer consist of girly sleepovers with bedtime at 10 p.m., but of unsupervised nights out wherever and for however long and with whomever I choose. I operate in my daily life ever mindful of the consequences of my every action.

And I think I've put my finger on why being a kid is so great. When we're young, although it may seem as though we are confined by our parents' rules and regulations, there will never be a time in our lives when we are more free. We are allowed to believe that any dream is attainable and chase it to our heart's desire. The sky is the limit? Then I'm reaching for the stars. The grand illusion of adulthood turns out to be something that attempts to set limitations for what we can or can't do, and too often do we let it.

Now, it may seem as though this paper has taken a sort of somber or regretful tone to it, but know that is not my intention. I lead a wonderful life with people I love dearly in it, one that I am grateful for with every single breath I take. In fact, one of my favorite exercises is sharing countless laughs with a few close buddies. I'm happy. I'm healthy. I have some amazing things ahead of me. But now, after listening to Randy Pausch's story (read about it here) and reflecting back on my own I've resolved to try to reclaim that youthful zest I seemed to have lost every day when I stumble out of bed at roughly 5:00 in the morning. And, who knows? I might even decide to pick up a curling iron.

A Drinker I Am Not

I am increasingly perplexed by the fact that my family seems not to require a normal intake of fluids. On a daily basis, I’d say we each consume less than two glasses of liquid, sometimes less. This is far below the “eight glasses a day” average. Are we living in a perpetual state of dehydration? Or have we adapted, boasting some evolutionary advantage that will benefit future generations should the KC Metro take on certain desert-like attributes?

The dearth of fluids in our lives is not a recent development. My childhood was peppered with extremely small glasses and cups, so small that one of my mother’s former boyfriends actually went out and bought a set of large glasses so that he could get more than two sips of a drink without having to refill. A good thirty percent of our kitchen glassware is actually composed of tiny shot glasses collected from a variety of places... none of which have ever contained alcohol. Instead it’s, “Here, have a shot of milk with that sandwich” or “Throw that limeade back like you mean it.” Needless to say, the top half of our dishwasher is increasingly aggravated over the difficulty of keeping multiple small shot glasses upright during the cleansing process.

At some meals we forgo beverages all together. It’s not so much that we forget; we’re just not thirsty. Nobody feels the need to pour a cup of water or orange juice. Why dirty more glassware?

This could explain a lot of things, like how mealtimes often degenerate into spirited rounds of choking on chicken. (Don’t ask why it’s always chicken, but somehow, it always is.) My mother hardly ever eats chicken without choking on it. It’s become an expected part of the chicken-eating routine. Mom cooks chicken, we sit down to eat chicken, and mom chokes on chicken. Once she has dislodged the unruly chicken parts, business continues as usual. Thus our typical dinner conversations are punctuated by the sounds of violent hacking, a sweet serenade indeed.

Maybe if we imbibed more fluids—or if we at least featured them at the dinner table as a pleasant side-option—incidences of chicken-choking could be averted or eliminated entirely. Are there other health risks we’ve yet to face? Will our skin reflect poorly on our strange liquid denial? Should we attempt to cultivate a dependence on fluids that we have hitherto ignored?

Then again, maybe there are hidden advantages. I remember attending a summer Bible camp a few years ago where the instructors insisted we consume a minimum of four Nalgenes of water each day. I usually managed to down about ¾ of one—after that, my body repudiated my efforts at hydration. Did my lack of fluids impinge upon my ability to withstand the physical demands of camp activities? Au contraire: when we weren't praying to Jesus, Allelulah! I was whooping the boys at basketball and finished first in a race from the tether ball to the tree stump. Other kids fell to the ground in droves, succumbing to scorching Kansas heat, sunburns, and one very fake case of asthma. Coincidence? Or did mysterious powers lie in the water I was not drinking?

There are other pleasing advantages to requiring less fluid: we rarely have to go to the bathroom. Our car trips are never beset by children whining “I have to go to the baaathrooom.” In fact, we have more trouble pushing it out than keeping it in.

Of course, this can presents an interesting problem, too, primarily in one setting: the doctor’s office. As a child, I could never never NEVER pee on command. Looking back, I recognize this as a necessary consequence of the fact that I didn’t have any liquids inside me that I could pee out. But at the time, it was devastating. My failing would come to light in great embarrassment as I sat in the doctor’s bathroom, focusing intently on the job at hand. As I clenched the small cup provided, I’d parade all sorts of images through my mind—pools, fountains, trickling streams, gushing waterfalls—all to no avail. “Just pee in the cup, Bridget,” I’d say to myself through clenched teeth. “Just pee in the cup.” Sometimes I’d be in the bathroom for half an hour or more before I’d reemerge, empty cup clasped in my sad little hand, cheeks stained from frustrated tears at my lack of success.

When the powers of positive thinking didn’t work, I tried other tactics, downing multiple cone cups of water from the Ozarka cooler in rapid succession. But my bladder, peeved by this unusual deluge of water, would stubbornly refuse to concede. Only hours after I’d left the doctor’s office would the water come out in torrents, long after I had a cup to pee into.

These days it’s a rare occasion in which I’m demanded to pee in a cup. Only serious firms and companies demand that prospective employees submit to drug tests, and as I am currently not yet a member of the “real adult” world, I’m exempt from compulsory liquid output. Until then, maybe I’ll try to drink more water.

But only from a shot glass.

Sudden Realization: I Now Hate Malls

I would rather pay all the online shipping charges in the world than shop at the mall, and here’s why:

1.) The people. This, of course, is the biggest reason. If I had the money, I’d create a mall where all of its shoppers were aesthetically perfect. No one would smell, and everyone would have to walk at a decent pace - none of that “I’m gonna barricade the isle with my gigantic ass and then go the speed of dial-up” bullshit. There would also be an age restriction - must be older than 10 and younger than 60. Quite possibly the worst sound in the world comes from the mouth of a screaming child. In my mall, screaming children would have their mouths clamped shut with metal prongs and be forced to recite the alphabet backwards. Anyone who didn’t meet this criteria would have to work in the food court, cleaning up messes with their tongue. By the way, I'm for child labor all the way. Oh yeah. The younger the better.

2.) In my mall, all of the employees would be robots (with the exception of maybe a few children here and there). I can’t stand how you walk into a store and it’s like the Spanish Inquisition:

“Can I help you find something? Are you shopping for yourself today? What the fuck are you doing here? Have you come to steal? Should I call security? Did you know everything in the store is 50% off?”

“No, but I’m seriously getting a tat on my forehead this weekend - it’s gonna say ‘piss off’”

What’s worse is when they follow you around like you’re God damn Winona Rider. Robots would do no such thing. They’d be there to check you out, and that’s it. If you stole, they’d kill. Simple as that.

3.) The restrooms. There’s walking into a bathroom, and there’s walking into the bog of eternal stench - at the mall, your chances are 50/50. If there were some kind of nuclear ass potion whose side effects could offend even a frat house, the food court is serving it. Anyone who took an ass-potion shit in the restrooms at my mall would be sucked down with it after they flush.

This list could keep going, but the more I think about it, the more pissed off I get and I am absolutely shocked at the level of pissiness and profanity that this post has already produced. So, basically, I really hate the mall.

I Have Problems... No, With "Cloverfield"

* Problem: Fat guy videotaping everything. Very unrealistic. In real life, people would’ve been too busy shitting their pants.

Solution: Let Godzilla do the recording. Strap a camcorder around its neck Blair Witch style, and we’re good to go.

* Problem: A group of friends risk their lives for some ugly chick. Also not realistic.

Solution: A group of friends risk their lives for Kate Beckinsale. Or me. Much better.

* Problem: Stupid punks in the back of the theater won’t shut the fuck up.

Solution: Stupid punks in the back of the theater get eaten alive by giant spiders.

* Problem: No explanation as to what the monster was.

Solution: Monster revealed as spawn of Oprah Winfrey.

* Problem: Couldn’t figure out whether I was watching a love story or a horror flick.

Solution: Combine the two genres by having the monster fall in love with the leading lady. Oops, nevermind. Apparently, that’s been done. Then again, so has everything else.

* Problem: A lot of people think "Cloverfield" sucks. Some even say it’s the worst movie of ‘08.

Solution: Those people should see "Meet the Spartans."

15 Minutes of Fame

This was from the Kansas Caucus on Tuesday, where I was asked to comment on the event. I warn you: the winter wind has my hair completely ruined by this time...

I will also have an actual written post VERY soon.