Every week I find five things that make me proud to live in America. This time out was easy – hot girls, country music and steroids.
The Hills is the best of whatever it is. Is it a reality show? It is, but not really? Can I answer a question with another question?
But the biggest thing to come out of The Hills’ return this week is the fact that yes, L.C. is gone. For good. Until she comes back. But MTV is here to remind you, the fair viewer, that Kristin Cavallari has come back to take her place. Not that she ever really left. But never mind that because HEY LOOK IT’S KRISTIN CAVALLARI.
Speaking of which, did you hear that Kristin Cavallari is taking L.C.’s place on the Hills? Because she is. And don’t worry about forgetting who she is and what her full name is because everyone on the show refers to her as Kristin Cavallari. Every time they say her name. Everyone knows someone that they refer to by their full name. Names like John Mark. Mike Weir. Sara Toms. Bob Loblaw. The thing is that these are all monosyllabic names that roll off the tongue like pennies down the swirly thing for muscular dystrophy next to the eye doctor at Wal-Mart.
Kristin Cavallari is not one of those names. No, that’s the name of the girl who was maybe a year behind you in high school, but was always kind of a bitch but it didn’t matter because she was that girl and maybe she was on the cheerleading squad with your sister and so driving your sister to cheerleading practice was an excuse to be in the same gymnasium as this girl even though she had zero intention of even making eye contact with you. Hypothetically speaking.
So let’s recap: Oslo. Nobel Peace Prize. Concert. Toby Keith.
It’s like if you went to the Papal Inaguration and after a former National Socialist German Worker’s Party Youth Scout member gets crowned Pope everyone went outside to the piazza and hey woah SLAYER.
The real tragedy here is that this was a missed opportunity. An opportunity for Scandinavia to give a global platform to the band that represents the Scandinavian culture, heritage, and social mores better than any other: Finntroll.
Now there are two ways to process and ultimately react to information such as this: the first is to be shocked and terrified as your testicles ascend as you stumble about for a way to shake your fist with impotent rage at the heavens. The second is to maybe be surprised for a moment and then marvel at how many goddamned McDonald’s there and then wonder why you’re not having a McRib right this second if there are so many goddamned McDonald’s around.
This guy made a map of all 13,000 McDonald’s in the lower 48 states. He presents it as the culmination of a quest to find the place in America that is the McFarthest Spot: the point furthest from a McDonald’s. Spoiler alert: it’s a tiny piece of nowhere in South Dakota.
The idea here is to point out to us all how much of our nation is covered by sprawl and by corporate franchises that have gobbled up our wallets and cholesterol levels. In reality he just gave us another reason to never go to South Dakota.
Dustin Diamond’s new Saved By the Bell tell-all is one of those books that you see at the airport bookstore and laugh. You don’t laugh at the book itself. Or the cover. Or maybe the fact that it was written by a (allegedly) humorous person. No, you laugh at the fact that the book exists. The fact that the book exists represents a long and convoluted chain of events where people – reasonably smart people – had multiple chances to kill it, but never did.
These people killed other, less desirable books. This book, in this case a book written by Screech, is conceivably the best these people had to offer. Marketing got behind it. Publishing looked at it and said “yes, yes this is a thing we would like to put inside a hardcover and place on bookshelves”. Bookstores maybe bit their lip a little but finally nodded and said “yes let us put this Screech book on our shelves. Over there next to the Kathy Griffin thing.”
There’s burying the lead, and there’s this: Screech alleges that Mark Paul Gosselaar Zack Morris was on the juice.
This is tremendous because Zack Morris is who every red-blooded American eleven year-old wanted to be. We wanted the high tops and the hair and the Paul Heyman phone. Everything makes so much more sense now: three of my favorite people on the earth at that time were Zack Morris, Jose Canseco, and Hulk Hogan.
That either says a lot about me or a lot about who we trot out in front of our kids. The worst thing Charles Barkley ever did was dunk on Godzilla.
Lamar Odom is a twelve year-old who gets paid millions of dollars to play basketball. He eats nothing but candy and only drinks Jolt Cola and Mountain Dew Gamer Fuel. On the eve of his free agency, he publicly announced that he would only sign with a team that plays in a city with a beach, which automatically eliminated something like 93.74% of NBA teams and reduced his agent’s negotiating leverage by at least that much.
And then he upped and married a Kardashian. Not the one with the gravity-defying ass who made a sex tape with some dude that no white people had ever heard or. Not the secretly older one who is probably the most attractive. No.
|Aaron B. Murray writes words and makes pictures. He is credited on more than a few high profile video game releases as well as an ever-growing stack of unproduced screenplays. Originally from East Tennessee, he currently lives in Utah with his wife and a ridiculous dachshund. Follow him on Twitter at murray_cod|