Mobile post sent by gkikas using Utterli.  Replies. ]]> http://gkikas.com/look-at-this-dudes-name/feed/ 4 http://gkikas.com/bridezillas-an-open-letter-to-we-network/ http://gkikas.com/bridezillas-an-open-letter-to-we-network/#comments Tue, 10 Oct 2006 23:47:56 +0000 Chris http://gkikas.com/bridezillas-an-open-letter-to-we-network/ Dear We Network,

I want to let you know how I feel about Bridezillas, your show about bitchy brides on their way to the altar.

My wife and I’ve been married for just over a year, and she’s recently gotten interested in your show. She has a Masters degree in English Literature, and her thesis was on reality television and its impacts on society and culture. For what it’s worth, we both agree on the following about your show, and this email won’t even begin to plumb the rhetorical, philosophical depths of our collective (reasonably informed and educated) opinions of Bridezilla.

I understand that your bottom line is what counts, and making money is pretty much the only thing of concern in the board meetings where these shows are conceived and planned. The fact that these shows are popular, and your advertisers pay top dollar (maybe) for spots during this show are key to your decision making process, is very much understood and (for lack of a better term) appreciated.

However, the message you send to America is that shallow, obsessive, asshole women are worthy of attention, the spotlight, and your camera’s focus. Following them, encouraging them with attention, cameras and lights, does nothing but perpetuate what is undoubtedly the media’s influence on such horrific statistics as the divorce rate in America, and not remotely what the rest of the world thinks of Americans. Y’know what, with programming like this, and the messages that it sends, the rest of the world is right: Americans, as you promote them, are shallow, shitty, financially irresponsible, pathetic, prickish idiots that deserve the short, statistically unstable and miserably short marriages that they get.

I think it’s abhorable that for the sake of a buck, We Network has succumbed to the status quo, surrendered to the almighty buck and wantonly perpetuates promotion of people being absurdly self-centered, impatient and frankly disgusting individuals. Thanks for fucking up America even more than it already is.

It is, however, rather entertaining.

We watched the game with some friends at Buffalo Wild Wings Grill & Grill. That’s how it’s listed in Google.

Since Troy and I have the typical testosterone-driven tendency to try and out-whatever each other, it was no surprise that we simultaneously looked at one another while perusing the menu, and quietly understood that we were going to sample their hottest wings.

I had the hottest wings on the face of the planet. Troy ate them like candy, barely stopping for a swig of beer or the occasional onion ring. He skipped napkins altogether, actually, and deferred until the end of his Blazin’ Wings run to hit the head and warsh his hands.

I, on the other hand, was inches away from needing to have someone call me an ambulance. Usually, spicy foods give you a few moments before “hitting you.” These wings, though, of which we ordered 12, were not so generous. Instantly, upon touching my lips, I realized that I was willfully ingesting poison. Nothing this spicy is actually meant to go into (or come out of) a human body. One friend took one, single bite and immediately flushed, threw down the nibbled wing, yelped and downed his entire beer and half his wife’s icewater. That was it for him.

Since I’m either an idiot or a glutton for punishment, I ploughed through five of these things. My eyes were watering uncontrollably. My skull was sweating. After 5 minutes I felt dizzy, disoriented, and started to have trouble hearing and seeing. For a moment, I hallucinated. These wings are not for the faint hearted. The reason they serve celery and ranch dressing with hot wings became very obvious to me at this point. The sour cream counteracted the battery acid on my tongue nicely, and I once again regained my composure and enjoyed the game.

This morning, I experienced these wings again — in the bathroom. They’re spicy on the way out, but I resisted the urge to shove a stalk of celery covered in ranch dressing up my ass (though the thought did cross my mind as I sat there, holding my head as my eyes watered and my vision blurred).

In related news, Joe Paterno, pushing 80 years old, jogged off the field during Penn State’s unfortunate loss to Ohio State. It was reported in the media that he’s “suffering from the flu,” but we all know what that means… ol’ Joe had the wicked shits. Props to Joe for doing what he had to do, and that was to find a toilet – and fast.

Katie ended her debut broadcast just now with a little montage (even Rocky had a montage) showcasing her indecisiveness about what her unique sendoff each night should be. Edward R. Murrow had “good night, and good luck,” which in our day and age is probably the most apropos farewell and Cronkite told it like it was. Idoia and I came up with a couple of suggestions for Katie:

• That’s it, we’re all screwed.
• Another day, another $.40 after taxes.
• Our news is the best news.
• I’m outta here America, my heavy upper lip makeup is beginning to crack.
• I hope you’ve enjoyed tonight’s propaganda.

Long held to be a pet peeve of millions, Wilford’s horrific butchering of a common medical condition, diabetes milletus, in his Liberty Medical commercials, is not really his fault. Regardless of which coast he’s from, or how old he is, he has no right to aggravate umpteen gazillions of television viewers with his diah-bee-tuss pronunciation.

I conducted an experiment to simulate what it must be like to speak through such a moustache. I’m clean-shaven, and not having the patience to grow out an impressive hairy upper lip like Mr. Brimley’s, I held my cat Vince up to my face and uttered the word “diabetes.”

Much to our surprise, the sound that came out was indeed diah-bee-tuss. I swear, I was saying diah-bee-teez, but the sound coming through the furriness of Vince’s abdomen, likely the same acoustic effects of Wilford Brimley’s moustache, warped and distorted my pronunciation exactly the same way. I was amazed.

I tried various other words and clauses, and found to my amazement, the following anomalies:

• “George W. Bush” sounds like “Incompetent idiot.”
• “Microsoft” sounds like “Shitty software.”
• “Nicole Richie” sounds like “Anorexia.”