Ironic Celebrity Sightings are My Forte

"Celebrity Lightning Rod" is back everyone. For those of you who don't know, that is one of my many nicknames, and references the fact that I tend to spot more than my fair share of celebrities when navigating the Hollywood landscape.

My sister was in town for Memorial Day weekend and, as most visitors to L.A. do, she was looking forward to seeing some celebrities.

We were out and about everyday for five days, and unfortunately there was no lightening rodage whatsoever. Until...

The night before my sister's departure we were headed to get a quick bite at Urth Cafe in Beverly Hills when a man with a giant chin jumped out in front of my car and crossed against the light, and out of the cross walk.

Do you know the celebrity and why it's ironic yet?

It was Jay Leno and he was jaywalking.

Maybe next time I'll see Richard Karn yelling at his mother-in-law in a home depot.

Thought I'd share. Also, my favorite color is opal.

The Most Dangerous Human Being on Earth

The beginning of this blog is going to work like a Rorschach inkblot test. Look at the picture above. What do you see? Say it aloud.

Some of you will say, " A Jeep on a crowded highway."

Others of you will say "A Jeep driving rapidly on the 405 Freeway in Los Angeles, California."

A psycho or two might say, "Big fat titties, or, peanut butter and jelly sandwich."

However, if any of the people taking this test of personality and emotional functioning were actually in the car with me when this picture was taken, they would say, "A woman driving her jeep at 65 mph down the 405 Freeway in Los Angeles at rush hour...while curling her hair." That's right. CURLING HER MUTHERFUCKING HAIR.

I wish I had a John Madden-esque telestrator to circle the area that proves that she was using a curling iron. Unfortunately I will just have to describe. Just look at the angle of her arm to her head. She is not talking on the phone - as I initially thought when she swerved into my lane. She is not adjusting her rear view mirror. She is most certainly shoving something into her locks. That something, as I later discovered, was without out question a curling iron.

It sucks when as a writer you are at a loss for words and have to resort simply to hyperbole to prove the maginitude of a situation, but that is what I'm going to do. This woman, as far as I can tell, is the most dangerous human being on Earth. Her picture should be on the wall of the post office with all the murderers, armed robbers and sex criminals. The only difference between her and them is that she hasn't gotten caught yet.

I know that many people are in agreement that far too many extra curricular activities go on on our roadways. Many of you may call out this blog and say, "But Scott, I'm sure you talk on your cell phone when you drive. Isn't that dangerous?"

Yes anonymous reader, I do, and yes it is. But not nearly as dangerous as turning yourself into a one woman salon behind the wheel of a 3 ton vehicle.

When I told my mother about the incident she said, "Oh, that's like when women put mascara on in the car."

Not really, mother, and let's examine the reasons why:

Mascara cannot give you third degree burns.

Okay. There's only one reason. A fucking curling iron gets hot. Really hot. I envision a scenario...

The woman driving shall henceforth be referred to as Stupid Douche Bag or (SDB):

So SDB is headed to her job as a - wait I am having some trouble here, as I find it hard to imagine that anyone stupid enough to curl their hair while driving is employed. Anyhow SDB is on her her way to her job as lead shithead at the office for stupid fuckup idiots. Shes late as usual and realizes that she could use some last minute touch ups on her curls - the people at the office for stupid fuckup idiots are really concerned about aesthetic professionalism. She pulls out her trusty curling iron and plugs it into the car charger. She puts on her mascara and eats a pop tart while steering with her knees as she waits for the iron to heat up.

Ding. The curling iron is ready. She's only eaten half of the pop tart. It wasn't very satifsfying cold. She takes a moment to heat the pop tart with the curling iron. Perfect. SDB takes a bite. Delicious gooey center.

Now to the task at hand. She takes her hands off the wheel, and begins to curl. Will she go Shirley Temple or Medusa? It's anyone's guess. She hasn't even decided yet. She takes her time with each lock, curling it to perfection as a semi truck merges onto the highway. He wants to get to the center lane, but it's gonna take some doing. He gets over one lane, and starts toward SDB's. She's mid-curl when she notices the giant metal side of the semi out of her periphery. As the semi attempts to slide in behind her she hits the breaks for no real reason other than the slight disorientation caused by the harsh reality that she is actually driving an automobile, and not sitting in front of a vanity. Her sudden move causes the semi to react. He hits his breaks - FUCK - they lock up. The cab stays stationary while the ass end of the monstrous vehicle slides out from underneath and into the adjacent two lanes. Car after car slams into the truck. One flips, another breaks and gets rear ended spinning 720 degrees before being t-boned by a soccer mom driving a Hummer at 90 mph. The semi-truck, now completely out of control rolls onto its side, crushing a high school teacher in a Celica.

SDB looks in her rear view mirror. Her curls are beautiful. She breathes a sigh of relief for having escaped the carnage. It's a great day at the office for stupid fuckup idiots. She earns a gold star - then employee of the century.

Pain is beauty, baby. Pain is beauty.

At the absolute best this woman is suicidal. At the worst a mass vehicular homicide waiting to happen. She needs to be stopped. Someone call John Walsh or something.

As my dad always used to say, "If I were king for a day. She'd be dragged out back and shot." I really wish someone would have made my dad king of america this morning, because for once, I am in total agreement with him. And not only should she be brought out back and shot, so should the guy that created the car adapter for the curling iron. When will it stop?

So maybe we can't shoot people for these kinds of offences. Maybe too Draconian. But couldn't we at least lock them up at Riker's Island and throw away the key?

Okay. I'll be an activist. At least we can warn each other. So here in case you can't read it, her license plate number is 4BPH337. If you see her on the road. Get off at the next available exit.

Top Ten Lists

I wish I could be more creative than ripping off a top ten list. But, then again, maybe Top Ten Lists are such thoroughfare these days, that it doesn't really count as a "rip off." Maybe it's no more "ripping off" than making a "romantic comedy." Sure, I'm not the first to do it, but the content will be original. Actually, that makes romantic comedies a horrible example.

Irregardless (I know this isn't a word. I shall use it frequently as a subtle jab at those who do).

Top Ten Lists will be a part of my blogging set list. And speaking of set lists....

When you live in Los Angeles, you're forced to go see a lot of "my friend's band!!"

"My friend's band!!" always sucks. They always play horrible rooms, with horrible sound. And you ALWAYS have to pay a ridiculous cover. The only consolation is that usually the speakers are cranked up so loud that you don't have to hear the horrible lyrics. The whole thing wouldn't even be so bad, if it weren't for the fact that they're ALWAYS so passionate about it. All jumping around and swinging their heads and closing their eyes while they sing.

Seriously, do you really need to close your eyes when you're singing lyrics like:

"This is from our new single, 'Eggcellent Day.'"

"I've been dropped and cracked upon the flo-oo-or/
things just aren't so sunny side up any mo-oo-re"

The worst part is that you always have to meet "My friends band!!" after the show, and then awkwardly try to come up with something nice to say, all the while trying not to feel awkward about the fact that you're talking to a guy whose sweaty abs remind you of where they got the body to superimpose under John Basedow's head.

That being said, I was thinking there should be the creation of a television show called "The Band Whisperer" where someone goes to these shows, and when the band's done playing, The Band Whisperer will pull each of the members aside and say things like "You're never going to make it," and "You're living in a fantasy world," and "You guys aren't very good," and "Maybe you should start working on another career."

Then the scenes that follow would entail the Band Whisperer teaching them to function again in normal society. It will be difficult for him to teach them that they can't hold their computer keyboards near their crotches and gently strum them in order to type memos. It will be a tall order explain that "the crack of noon" is no longer an acceptable phrase. And it will be nearly impossible for The Band Whisperer to keep them from instantly taking of their shirts whenever they get the least bit sweaty - but he'll do it.

Sadly, "The Band Whisperer" doesn't exist. And in my life, I have an extremely difficult time being cruel (outside of BlogWorld) or being completely dishonest, so instead, I've constructed an all-purpose Top Ten List to be used whenever you see a less than stellar band.

I call it:

Joe's Top Ten Ambivalent "Compliments" for a Shitty Band:

10) All of your equipment was in great working order.
9) No, parking was really easy, actually.
8) That one song really had a lot of verses.
7) I hadn't heard most of those before.
6) No, no. We were talking about how good the music was.
5) Most of the lyrics appeared to be grammatically correct.
4) The drummer's head and body are very symmetrical.
3) You were very efficient at setting up and breaking down your instruments.
2) They said they were just going to feed the meter.
1) I didn't know bands played this early on a Monday.

Sushi and Narcotics: A Review of Kiyokawa Japanese Restaurant

"We can't stay away, Satoshi. What makes your sushi so good?"

"I sprinkle a little bit of crack on it."

You have to appreciate the honesty of Satoshi Kiyokowa, the proprietor, lone chef, and namesake of Kiyokawa Japanese Restaurant in Beverly Hills, California. Located at 265 S. Robertson Blvd, Kiyokawa is the new kid on a block with an ultra competitive sushi hustle, so forgive them if they turn to hard narcotics from time to time to ensure your timely return.

Okay, so obviously you won't be eating the spicy tuna meth roll, but it's clear that Kiyokawa is doing something right seeing as I have yet to go three consecutive days without eating there when I'm in town.

As a result of my girlfriend's obsessive nature when it comes to eating habits, I've eaten more raw fish in the past year than a performance walrus at Sea World. From Hollywood to Malibu I've sampled some of the finest uncooked delicacies that the Southland has to offer, and without question Kiyokawa is my favorite. I've already dropped $700 in the place since girlfriend discovered it through a colleague.

The restaurant itself is quaint and dimly lit, with wooden tables, chairs, and sushi bar. Light jazz plays continuously as you enjoy your meal. I use the word enjoy for a specific reason. Not only is the sushi at Kiyokawa phenomenal, but it also offers something that not many American eateries do these days - a dining experience. If your idea of an enjoyable dinner is one in which you set world records for speed of consumption, Kiyokawa is not the place for you. You should expect to be there for a minimum of an hour and half. If you suck at conversation or consider good service a place where they stick the dessert menu in the mashed potatoes, skip Kiyokawa.

However, it is during some of the down time that the star of Kiyokawa, Satoshi, really shines. He runs the entire kitchen (fully visible from the sushi bar) with just one or two assistant chefs. He is hands on with every piece of sushi, treating them like edible sculptures, and utilizing a number of tools including a blow-torch and mini-barbecues to get it just right. Satoshi adds a mix of performance art as well with the volcano roll, a California roll topped with scallops and spicy mayo. Before he brings your roll he dims the house lights, and sets your dish ablaze with his trusty blowtorch. In addition he's just a cool guy. He greets you like an old friend, and treats you more like a guest in his home than a patron at his restaurant. Buy him a beer, and wait for the quips like the one about the crack rock.

A point not to be overlooked. Eating raw fish can be downright dangerous. It doesn't come stamped with an expiration date, so eating only the freshest ingredients is important. I've heard rumors that there are certain days when sushi is the freshest. As in, "They ship it on Tuesday, so Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday are the best days." Well, unlike some of his competitors, Satoshi goes to the fish market every morning to pick up new stock. So everyday is Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday at Kiyokawa.

The menu has all of the standard sushi fare - a variety of sashimi, sushi and cut rolls - as well as some house specials - the Tuna Double-Double (which Satoshi says he can make "animal style" a joke referencing the famous L.A. burger joint In-and-Out) is a spicy tuna roll topped with large pieces of yellow fin tuna. There is also an entire portion of the menu dedicated to Yellow Fin Tuna specialties like the Tuna Tostadas $8.00 (cut up spicy tuna on fried wanton crackers) and Tuna Taquitos $7.00 (basically tuna tempura, Mexican taquito style served with spicy mayo).

Wash all of it down with hot sake, or something that I've rarely if ever seen at a sushi joint - $2.50 draft Japanese beers.

Kiyokawa has been around for less than a year, and I'm hoping that it will catch some word of mouth buzz and be around for years to come. Whether the secret ingredient is crack rock or just love, I can't seem to stay away. Check it out sometime, and invite me, although I'll probably be there already.

For a full menu, pricing, photos and a map, visit http://www.kiyokawa-restaurant.com/home.html

Bumper Stickers

It is clear to me that people who have lots of bumper stickers on their cars are passionate about a lot of subjects. It is also clear to me that how stupid their cars look isn't one of them.

Actual Ebert and Roeper Da Vinci Review Outtake

This is a transcription from an actual outtake from Ebert and Roeper at the Movies. After doing the thumb thing the cameras went off, and here is what the two most famous movie critics in the world had to say:

Ebert: sup?

Roeper: Nuttin saw Davinci COde this evening

Ebert: Oh yeah?

Ebert: Suck ass?

Roeper: Not good. Terrible.

Ebert: Yeah, I've heard

Roeper: Not so good. Long boring. Most people who read book didnt like it...

Okay, so that wasn't an actual outtake. That was my mom and I talking about Da Vinci code over instant messanger. I left off all of my moms lols. I'm assuming that would have given away my clever rouse. If you feel like rereading it, I'm Ebert, and my mom is Roeper.

"I'm an Open Book!"

Have you ever dated anyone who said that?

"I'm an open book."

Oddly, that phrase, whenever spoken, is almost unequivocally followed by complete and utter silence.

You know why? Because that phrase is a big fat lie.

Here's an example to prove it:

One afternoon, I awoke from a glorious nap. Wearing only one pair of boxers, and one lone sock, I walked out into my living room to find my brother, and a few of his friends. Shockingly, there was even a female present (Although I mean to say "there was even a female in attendance" I like to say "female present" because if you read it the wrong way, it could mean any number of things. Was it a girl wrapped up in a bow? Was it a decorative sanitary napkin? Who knows!). Amidst a debate of whether they should watch "From Dusk 'til Dawn" or "Donnie Darko," I interjected.

"If you want to know why I'm only wearing one sock, it's because I masturbated before I went to sleep."

Now that's an open book.

I didn't feel the need to pander to them by explaining that I masturbated into the sock, nor did I sit there, shifting in my seat, clearing my throat and motioning to my one bare foot, before finally saying "Doesn't anyone want to ask me why I'm only wearing one sock!?" Nay. That would have been the equivalent of saying "I'm an open book."

What women mean why they say "I'm an open book," is that they want you to ask them questions. A literal open book (Whoah, describing what a book is, literally, is a little too literal to be describing anything literal like books. I wish I smoked weed.) would go something like this:

You walk up, and see a book open on the table. Your eye sees the first word, your brain processes it, and the same would go for the second. And so on and so on. It would be an organic, natural process. The words and thoughts would flow through the brain like vodka down an ice slide. Sure you might need to take a break, or you might get sleepy every now and again, but for the most part, it would be easy.

But it's not that easy. That's because "I'm an open book" doesn't mean that. It means, "I'm a closed book, and you need to ask me questions to get me open." But not just any question will suffice. You can't just say "How are you?" That'll be met with a one word answer. You can't ask "What are your hopes and dreams?" because that'll just get you a snort and a scoff. A further translation of the original phrase reveals "I'm a closed book, and you need to ask me questions to get me open, and they need to be the right questions."

Better questions include such examples as "Are you still being overworked and underappreciated at your job?" (if she even has one) and "Where was that really great trip you and your rich ex-boyfriend went on?"

She probably still won't be an "open book." Not right away at least.

In the ancient days of China, one who wanted to become a Buddhist monk would approach the temple gates. He would immediately be turned away - told there was no room. The applicant would then stand on the porch for three days and nights, without food or water or shelter. Sometimes the monks from inside would bring the applicants small amounts of tea or rice, but mostly they just came out and beat them with sticks. If the applicants lasted long enough they'd eventually be admitted to the monastery.

That non-sequitor was actually a yes-sequitor. The monks of old were left on the stoop not to play dice like today's porch dwellers, but instead to prove their dedication to the cause. The open book requires the same dedication. Not only do you have to try to open this book with questions, asked the right way, but you've got to ask them multiple times - just to prove you care.

Actual conversation between Joe and "Ex:"

"You never ask me about my childhood."
"I asked you a question about it last night. I asked you if you ever had any pets."
"Yeah, but you were just asking me because I want you to. You don't really want to know."
"I do, baby, I really do."
"I'm going to get drunk."

In essence, the open book is a lie. It's not an open book at all. It's a closed book. You've got to try like hell to get it open, and then when you do, you can't just start reading it in order. You've got to skip around and try to make sense of it all. And then, all of a sudden, sometimes the book will just slam shut. And then you're like "Damn, I don't even care about the end of that book anyway." But then a little while goes by, and you realize that if you want to put your penis in the book later that you're going to have to read a bit more before bed.

I jumped the rail somewhere there. Essentially, what I'm saying is that the open book line is a just that - a line. All women want is to be asked questions, and all men want is to be left alone.

So how about we split the difference.

When we ask you how your day was, just notice the effort. If we're perilously aware that not an iota of conversation has transpired between us in the last 5 minutes of dinner, and we start grasping at straws by saying "What kind of makeup do you use?" we're not actually saying "You wear too much makeup," or "You spend too much on makeup." We're really just making an effort.

When you get right down to it, none of that is what this is really all about. Just stop lying to us. Saying you're an open book is just not true.

You stop lying about being an open book, and we'll stop telling you how many people we've slept with.

Good Will Hunting...

I'm sure everyone remembers that movie. I'm sure some of the following thoughts may even enter your little noggin when reminded of this film:

"My boy's wicked smaht."

"How do you like them apples?"

"Did you know that Ben Affleck and Matt Damon won an Academy Award for that??"

Yes. We're all very impressed. You're a veritable "Wikipedia" of movie quotes and facts. Bravo.

However, what I'd like to discuss is an equally memorable, but less quoted line from Good Will Hunting. That line is: "I gotta go see about a girl."

The context of the line revolves around Robin Williams' character (whom you know won't be particularly funny in this movie because he has a beard) and how he skipped out on his friends and wasted a ticket to one of the greatest baseball games ever played because he noticed some girl in a bar, and he just knew she was the one. The women ends up being the love of his life, taken from him too soon by cancer, but the moral of the story is that skipping out on the game ended up being the best move of his life.

My question is this: Does anyone know anyone who has a story that can remotely compare to this? Don't get me wrong. I'm sure it exists. And I don't mean to say that within the context of the movie that it's anything less than fantastic. But. It's. A. Movie. And unfortunately, I know too many people who in their every day lives treat it like it's a reality. Maybe they don't reference the movie specifically, or maybe they've never even seen it, but there is no shortage of people on this Earth who pass up some of the best things in life for "love."

I guess I just don't know many married people who are that happy. I mean, when I hear of it, it warms me to the very soul. However, the only people I can think of in my life who are the rule and not the exception rarer than venison at Ted Nugent's house are: broken-up single people, divorced people, and angry, bitter still-married people.

Let's take Good Will Hunting for example, and pretend like this may have actually happened. It worked out in this case, because she died of cancer. But indulge me for a moment, as I present to you a scene that surely would have occurred had her death not.

BW = Bearded Williams

RW = Resurrected Wife

BW: Honey, I don't mean to rush you, but we're supposed to be at the Bearded American Psychologists Society awards in less than a half hour.

RW: I KNOW. But maybe if you didn't want SEX this morning, I wouldn't be running late right now.

BW: I'm sorry.

She continues putting on makeup in front of a mirror. She crimps her eyelashes.

BW: Why do you do that?

RW: Because I'm ugly and I'm trying to do my best to look good for your stupid B.A.P.S.

BW: I think you're beautiful. You know this.

RW: Why would you ask me something so mean?

BW: How was it mean? I was just asking you a question. Honestly, I was just trying to make conversation. You always say I don't ask you enough questions. I was just trying to break the silence.

RW: Oh, so this is my fault? You asked me something insensitive and instead of just apologizing, you're going to tell me that I brought it upon myself? Oh, look! It's my husband the martyr who never does anything wrong!

BW: I'm sorry.

RW: What are you sorry for?

BW: I'm sorry for asking you something...insensitve?

RW: Christ. You don't even know what you're apologizing for. This is so typical.

BW: I'm sorry I hurt your feelings. Isn't that enough?

RW: But why are you sorry?

BW: You want me to explain it to you? Like I'm a child or something?

RW: I knew I shouldn't have ever married someone younger than me. You're so immature.

BW: I'm 55 years old!

RW: That's such an immature response.

At that, Bearded Williams grabs his wife by the throat and slams her up against a bookcase.

BW: If you EVER start, propagate, and drag on another fight with me for NO REASON, EVER AGAIN, I will FUCKING END YOU.

CUT TO:

Bearded Williams sits alone in a jail cell.

BW: I should have gone to that fucking baseball game.

He sobs as we fade out.

I've seen people move cross country, transfer colleges, quit and turn down jobs for "love." I've seen them lose touch with friends, get fat, give up their passions, and completely change their personalities for "love." I must admit. I've been there. I've done it. And when you're in the situation, it's almost impossible to not make those decisions. Yes, I have "love" in quotes. No, I don't believe that it's anything other than love.

But you gotta play the numbers game. The person you're making these decisions for - the person for whom you're missing great events in your life whether it be historical baseball games or just a few beers on the couch - is she really the person you're going to be with for the rest of your life? Honestly?

This goes for single people as well. If you look back at the actual context of the movie, Robin Williams' character actually ditches his friends at the POTENTIAL of MEETING someone who could be the love of his life. I'm guilty of this more than anything else. I'll strand my friends faster than the French army at the first sound of gunfire if there's a potential for me to meet and/or have strings free sex with a woman.

Recently, I disappeared from a group of my friends in Las Vegas in order to take what could only be described as a "barely average" girl back to the hotel room. I'm not even talking about missing anything as epic as an historic baseball game, and I still felt like an idiot for ditching my friends simply so I could say that I fucked a girl in her ass and then came in her mouth.

Honestly, was it worth it?

All of the aforementioned leaps and bound to which various people go to appease/woo/meet/keep their significant others pales in comparison to the biggest crime of all:

They stop taking chances.

They get complacent. They get happy. They stick with their jobs. They can't quit and look for something better because they're splitting the rent, or their girlfriends' birthdays are coming up. They can't go out and night and network because Mad About You is on. They can't work 9 -5 and then spend from 5 -9 writing or reading or playing guitar.

In the end, how many people can say it was really worth it? I've made various dumb decisions for every girlfriend I've ever had. And even more still with girls who never even made it to the "girlfriend" stage. And let me tell you, it's not worth it. There is too much life to be lived, and too many opportunities to be had to let someone hold you back for any reason.

Now, you might see this as the ingorant ranting of a guy who doesn't know what love is - a lonely single loser who wants his friends to come drink beers with him and play video games instead of going antiquing. Yes. A lot of that is true.

I'm not anti-relationship. I'm just anti-sacrifice. There are three ways around this.

#1 You've found the one. The one worth sacrificing for. The one you're going to be with for eternity. This is very unlikely. Again. Look at all the married and formerly married people that you know. Would the same sacrifices have been worth it to them?

#2 You've found someone who at least holds back from holding you back. She encourages you. She supports you. She encourages you to take chances, to take that job, to go to that party, to write that screenplay - to do what best for you, realizing that love and relationships are fleeting, and that things like friendship, dreams, and careers are far more attainable as a matter of sheer willpower. She doesn't let you stop taking chances.

#3 Ask yourself if you'd be making the same decisions if you weren't in a relationship. Then ask yourself if #1 or #2 applies. If not....well.....

For me, like I said, I've been there. I've made those stupid mistakes. Until I hit 35 years old, and I'm incredibly lonely and desperate, I'm a #3 man.

Well, that or until I find my #1 or #2.

BW: You know, I skipped that game way back then, just so I could talk to you.
RW: I'm so glad that you did. I love you. Forever. But if you ever do anything like that again, I WILL FUCKING END YOU.

So I guess in the end, the more I think about it, the more I think about who's worth it, #1 or #2, the more I realize they're probably the same person.

The Trouble With Crackwhores

Honestly, I don't really mind the Crackwhores all that much. Due to the economic laws of capitalism and supply & demand, their demand for crack causes them to sell the only thing of which they have supply - sex: both anal and vaginal, and toothy blowjobs. It almost seems ironic that someone with little or no teeth can give a toothy blowjob, but I'm already off topic.

Basically, my only problem is this:

It's unfortunate that the drug addled and crack addicted lifestyle that affords me both a convenient and economically affordable outlet for sexual encounters is one and the same with the lifestyle which keeps these women's stomachs empty (of food) and metabolisms faster than a humminbird on ecstasy. In essence, they are very skinny, and they have no asses.

So, if anything, Crackwhores don't need less crack. They need more.

And I'm not talking about the drug.

Welcome

Welcome to Two Jacks in the Hole, home of writers Scott Huff and Joe Stapleton.

We don't actually live here, so don't show up unannounced and try to borrow a cup of sugar. We live in Los Angeles, California where we navigate the entertainment and poker worlds as well as the worlds of semi-married life and the completely single world.

We have nothing in common except that we'll do anything for a laugh, and that seems to have worked well enough that we have forged a friendship.

In our new blog you will read about everything from relationships to movies to restaurants to gambling and more, and most often from dueling perspectives.

Here are the results of some early word association experiments done on the two jacks -

Relationships
Scott: "True love makes a man strong."
Joe: "Giant pink dildos with vibrator and butt plug attachments give women screaming orgasms."

Movies
Scott: "The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie, Hoop Dreams, anything gangster."
Joe: "Evil Dead, Constantine, V for Vendetta, anything with the word "Ass" followed by roman numerals in the title."

Restaurants
Scott: "Get the crepe suzettes at Le Petit Maison - delicious."
Joe: "Super-size me."

Gambling
Scott: "I'm the most unlucky guy in the world."
Joe: "I'm the most unlucky guy in the world."

Check us daily. We won't post every day, but trust us, this shit will be worth reading more than once. We're going to blow the cover off of more fake conspiracies than two Dan Browns after some monster rips from a gravity bong.