How to Burn Bridges and Become an Impregnable Fortress of Hatred

I've been asked on several occasions how to successfully ignore individuals who seek to cause you emotional pain. "Jay, how do I stop caring about people who say mean things about me" - I suppose that, since I have made it my job or, at least, a hobby, to spit verbal bile on a near-weekly basis, some people get the idea that I'm somehow immune to shit-talkers and those who dislike me.

This is true.

Youtube isn't competitive. The only contests that exist are ones we either manufacture for ourselves, or enter into voluntarily. As I said in my video earlier this week: ultimately, we're just making stupid stuff for strangers to look at. Due to the anonymity of the internet, as well as the almost 100% control one has over the content they produce (unless they're a sellout...I'll return to that point shortly), and the wide accessibility of that content, we get the opportunity to be as intimate or as extrinsic with our fans/viewers as we like. Real life isn't nearly this customizable, but the defensive skills I've honed (a word which I very much hate) in my experience with making videos are transferable. With that in mind I thought I'd provide a list of things that've enabled me to actively badmouth people while remaining unfazed when I'm given the same treatment.

• Stop making unimportant things important. Without disclosing too much about how much success I've had thus far, I can assure you that the videos I make are about a 80:20 split between self-enjoyment and actual financial success. If I were a "creator" for any reason other than because I like doing it, I would've quit years ago. It's not lucrative for me; it's a source of personal entertainment. As with anything one does purely for oneself, whether or not it's a big deal to others shouldn't be a priority. THIS IS TRUE OF ANY ARTISTIC ENDEAVOUR. If you're creating, you should do it for yourself, and not with the hopes that others will enjoy it, or even give a shit. At least that way, it's a pleasant surprise when you become recognized for your effort. I appreciate every minute that any stranger has wasted watching my videos, and the reason I appreciate it is because I don't expect it to happen. The only opinion you truly have to live with is your own, so the important thing is to do what you can to make sure your opinion of yourself one you can live with (be it high or low). Negative words from outside sources are of little consequence when you're old and alone. STOP CARING ABOUT WHAT PEOPLE THINK OF YOU. Consequently...
• Lower your fucking expectations. This'll be short. If you suspect that whatever you're doing is going to be a monumental disaster, you'll be elated when it turns out better than that; more often than not, it will. Similarly, if you imagine that your public image is generally garbage, any time you receive any kind of support or appreciation, you'll pay greater attention to it than if you think you deserve it like a pretentious cock juggler. People who believe that they are in any way entitled to anything are the worst kind of people. You're entitled to food, oxygen, and a rectum that isn't currently being raped. Anything else should be treated as a bonus.
• Frequently welcome hate from all sources. The vitriol I blast out into the internet puts me in a position where I'm basically begging to be hated by everyone. Any reputation I've accrued over my time on Youtube is one of and relating to bitterness, negativity and worthlessness. I go out of my way to generate umbrage. I'm like a perpetual motion machine that, instead of energy, creates an ocean of frowning faces. Insensitivity is my wheelhouse. The creators of South Park once said that they could get away with anything, because if someone is offended by their content, another person will check them immediately by saying, "Well, it is South Park. What else do you expect?" Toby Turner's main channel is a mess of promotional advertisements disguised as actual content and the fact that he has a television show about a fictional character who is experiencing real life as if it is real boggles my fucking mind and I wouldn't complain if he had a heart attack or something equally detrimental to his health. Matthew Santoro is a short bald man whose girlfriend is a Yes-Man in a woman's body and her job appears to be nothing more than repeating what he says until she forgets what words mean. -- I can say these things because my social status is DECREPIT ON PURPOSE. The easiest way to overcome hate speech is to accept it. Bathe in it. Internalize it and return it productively. NOT POSITIVELY, mind you. I mean...you can if you want. I don't control you. But I prefer my way. In addition...
• Wholeheartedly believe that you're garbage and love every second of it. Again, I don't control you, and this strategy isn't for everyone. Some people are ill-equipped to handle having a negative opinion of themselves. Sensitive people will have a hard time embracing self-loathing. However, living in a metaphorical pit frees one up to do almost anything they want with no fear of any kind of effective repercussion. You can't say anything to me that will hurt my feelings, because I do not have any feelings to hurt. The darkest jokes are the ones that make me smile the widest. Definitely when they're about others and especially when they're about myself. Self-deprecation is the greatest way to develop a skin so thick that dragons will be calling you and asking to make armor from your hide.

The real bottom line here is that being shit on doesn't matter (unless you're literally being shit on because that is probably the worst. Unless you like that, in which case you're a sick fuck and get out of here) unless you allow it to. It's easy to ignore - even embrace - hate from all sources. The only person you have to answer to is yourself, and if you can do that with contentment, you'll be fine. If not, that's all you have to work on. Forget the rest.

As one of my favourite bands ever so eloquently put: "Lower your standards to lower than they have ever been before. When you start laughing in the middle of a horrible, mind numbing, financially devastating, morbidly depressing and pathetic situation, you are living at the top when you're at the fucking bottom."

The Guest (or, Don't Ruin the Fucking Movie)

Here's a fun story.

I know some people who, during a movie, will complain about the lack of realism in a particular scene. "He wouldn't be able to walk with that leg wound" - "nobody could survive that fall". What nobody mentions, however, is that if there is someone enjoying a film for what it is, there is no iota within them that gives a hot shit about whether or not anyone believes it to be true, and I'll tell you why.

Unless you're aiming to portray a story realistically, or stay true to real-world source material (ie. military films which are based heavily on true events, or stuff like Before Midnight, or human dramas which rely more heavily on accurate emotional representation), it doesn't matter that the gun's magazine holds too many rounds or that the main character shouldn't have used whiskey to clean her arm gash.
If you go into many action, thriller, or horror films, expecting to be dazzled by how real they are, you've come to the horribly wrong place.

Film is a storytelling medium. Realism is largely unimportant, provided that the story is well-told. That's why fairy tales exist. Leprechauns aren't real, but that doesn't make it any less fun to chase the end of a rainbow.
If you moan about realism during the movie, and I'm there watching and enjoying it, you're shitting on my rainbow.

This wouldn't be so bad if it weren't such a tectonic shift in the viewer's thinking. I don't mind when individuals, who are clearly displeased about the choice of entertainment, express that displeasure consistently and with meaning. But usually, when someone points out that something is terribly fake, they haven't complained about anything up until that point, when there is likely very much that should've irked them. Suddenly, the moviegoer has noticed something that they've selectively isolated as a film-ruining mistake, and needs to make sure the world knows that they're no longer on board. Why? It's unlikely that a room, or theatre (for the worst offenders) full of people will share in that very specific element of the experience that made you so upset. You've essentially singled yourself out, and for reasons about which you only care.

However, it doesn't end here. Although the person in question believes that their complaint is valid, this is very seldom the case; more often, they choose to take issue with something that either is universally impossible, or of no consequence to anything else. Do you really think that there's a Rambo somewhere in the Kenyan badlands who can magically avoid thousands of bullets, being shot by hundreds of men, simply by running really fast and licking his biceps a lot? Would you prefer that he die in the first fifteen minutes of the movie, in order to conform with your idea of how it should've happened? What kind of movie is that, and why are you such a jerkoff?
If I'm watching a movie about ghosts, and there's a ghost, and you say, "Look at that awful CGI! that ghost is clearly not real", not only have you made yourself look idiotic (by assuming that anyone thought that was a real ghost), but you've somehow created the most unnecessary expectation within yourself. Was the director supposed to hold a seance, summon a spirit, and then negotiate with it for a film contract? In what world do you live, where that ghost could be real, and therefore evokes such great disappointment in you when it doesn't look real enough?
Usually it's an unspoken understanding that we're all here to watch a story being told, no matter how farfetched it is. It wouldn't be a good story otherwise, you dick fucking face. If I wanted to watch a documentary, I would've put that shit on.

Recently I watched a movie called The Guest, which is one of the best things I've ever seen in my life. Potentially, this utopia in which I exist, where this film is a masterpiece, could be ruptured by someone who expects it to be an accurate portrayal of real life. If you are this person, I feel terrible for you, because you've missed the boat completely. You know a filmmaker is good when he understands that it is his vision. He can make his own rules, and create a universe wherein anything can happen if he thinks hard enough.

You can't make your own personal rules for art, and be subsequently perturbed when others don't abide by them.

Don't shit on my rainbow.

Why aren't I updating?

Because you're in trouble and you're grounded
Gosh, parents are the worst

OKAY I don't have anything important to say yet so here's this

That's the original thumbnail I was going to use for the video I uploaded which corresponds to the date of this entry.

Alright so paintballs are painful. I was hit about five times, possibly more in that video so I consider myself an authority on the subject. Through vigorous and forced experimentation, and with little to no regard for adequate scientific procedure, I have concluded that paintballs are painful.

That almost rhymes, so you know it's true.

I'm just...letting it all hang out, aren't I. Now that I've put further consideration into this image...it's a fucking embarrassing position to be caught in. 

You know when internet folk pause vlogs on a random frame and screencap it if the person they're watching makes a terrible face mid-sentence? I think I've just discovered an equally humiliating practice for stunt videos. Perhaps I shall embark on a quest to find the most awkwardly-positioned screencaps of my poor self flailing in agony, awash in a sea of helpless pain.

That got really bleak for a second.

Ostensibly, I try to distance this blog from my YouTube while maintaining some slight relation in subject matter or cadence so unless there are interesting events occurring in my life outside of videography, I don't usually have much to discuss. But I'm trying god damn it.

Home Invasion

For my partner and I, the procedure is routine. We case a one-storey house for several days to ensure that there's only one homeowner and few-to-no visitors. Somewhere rural, where the houses are a few minutes' drive from each other. This time, it's a middle-aged man. He leaves his house alone, and returns alone, for hours each night. He carries large containers which appear to be very heavy from his door to an old, poorly-maintained truck, and back again. It's during one of these trips that we start our work.

I sneak up behind him while he's on his way to the vehicle, and knock him out with a crowbar. The large cooler he's carrying spills onto the ground; in the country darkness, I can't see its contents, but they sound wet. My partner breaks a window and we climb inside. We turn on some lights and begin loading our bags with anything of value. Lots of women's jewelry. We split up to cover more ground; I find the stairs to the basement, and upon descending them, discover a large, locked metal door. Jackpot. I call for my partner to help me open it, but he doesn't answer. Whatever, we're running out of time. The guy outside will wake up soon. I'll do it myself.

I jimmy the crowbar into the crack, near the doorknob. It's taking a while to pry. We're running out of time. I pull harder, with my foot on the door. We're running out of time. I'm straining against the lock. Suddenly, the door gives, bursting inward, unleashing light from inside, illuminating the stairwell, revealing its horrifying interior.

Human arms and legs, heads, midsections. Hanging from the ceiling, suspended by meat hooks. I'm immediately aware of the footsteps behind me.

It doesn't sound like my partner.

Musical Evolution

As I succumb slowly and painfully to this advancement of age, this creeping, crippling world of "getting older," I find that my tastes in music are becoming increasingly complex. This happens for many, if not all people in some capacity with whatever subject in which they take interest. Hence the pursuit of a career in that field, the practice of a hobby, or any other way one chooses to dedicate or invest a serious amount of their time. Musical discovery happens to be one of the fields that fall into this category, and I've noticed that, as I continue to uncover sounds I've not before heard, my standards are raised, making it increasingly difficult for me to be impressed.

One way that a band can easily keep my attention is by continuously developing their sound. This is a suspect phrase, because "development" doesn't necessarily mean "innovation" - that's an important distinction to make. When artists are able to continuously create new material that manages to adhere to the old ideal while pushing the boundaries of capability,  those artists are candidates for my loyalty and respect.

As long as they don't suck dick.

Once a band begins to meet spotlight status, they can go many ways; few are acceptable. Example: Deftones has, since their conception, evolved their music in such a way that it remains heavy (granted, of late, not as heavy as previous albums) and still breaks new ground, every time. It becomes more polished, more dynamic, wholly satisfying. This is due largely to their ability to maintain sight of what they enjoy, in lieu of how bogged down with copycats and dick-suckers their environment tends to be.

Sometimes I feel like a music elitist. Don't worry; I don't hate sound-blacks. ...Can you imagine if music was a skin colour? There's be 50 or 60 more races and it would be absurd. People would look like cows and zebras with all the genre crossovers. All my friends would be constantly screaming.

Another example: System of a Down began in a much different place than they ended. I notice that when a group wants to break up while remaining friends, but can't do both due to their popularity, they say "hiatus" with every breath and then never return to their cohesive form. I can't say for sure, but it's my belief that System is no more because of the direction they were taken musically. They lost their sound in the interest of a more coherent political message; this was unnecessary, since most of the die-hards knew what they were talking about at initiation.

Meshuggah is fairly genre-locked; progressive math-rock is extremely specific. Yet, they keep from suffocating within the limits of their style of music, somehow creating art from sources that others would deem tapped.

My point is that, much like natural selection (actually, it's literally natural selection, isn't it? I'm so terrible with similes because they always end up being exactly what I'm comparing instead of just similar to it), bands who don't at least attempt to evolve, develop, or innovate their sound - Disturbed's last three albums have been the same rehashed and remixed drivel and have caused me to listen to them so infrequently that I almost forget they exist - quickly become repetitive and boring. Bands interested in changing their sound so drastically that they're near-unrecognizable should either start a new band, or just not do that. The few and far between who succeed in evolving in the best of ways, well, they're gold to me.

Winter is Awful

Thankfully I live within the boundaries of "acceptable climate to be happy year-round," and so the issues I encounter regarding temperature are virtually nonexistent. Rarely, if ever, do I encounter a day where it's either so hot or so cold that I seriously consider relocating (although those days come more frequently in the summer than any season) so in that respect winter remains satisfactory, as long as I'm either inside or outside and dry.

I'll get down to business; snow is a terrible thing. It's the worst thing. I envy those from regions where there is little (I say 'little' because I worry that I would tire of its absence if it didn't appear maybe, oh, once a year) of this white menace and would prefer my immediate vicinity to take a hint from the wisdom of others. At the very least, my city needs to make the conscious decision to smarten the fuck up and kick this snow out.
Breaking it down goes as follows:

1. Initial snowfall - One of the worst parts of the process. I can't garner wages during any form of precipitation. Trying to film in the rain is arguably worse, but snow also tends to attach itself to my camera and stay there, melt, and seep into mechanisms unseen. It also seems to enjoy falling slightly past the brim of my hat, immediately swooping upward and placing its ass ever-so-daintily upon my eyeball while my eyeball is open and trying to look at a thing. Snow is like James Bond, if he were very small, and a dick. If I ever meet Sean Connery, I'm going to tell him to tell M to stop hiring snow as a form of warfare against me. I'd tell her myself, but I'm afraid my harsh words might rattle her into a heart attack. You know, because she's old. Snow is hard to gauge for personal efficacy since you may think you can still accomplish outdoor tasks, but once you get out there, you realize it's just as aggravating as if it were a tornado.
2. Flurries - Every time I hear the words "snow flurries" in a sentence like "there's going to be snow flurries," I load a shotgun. I have several positioned strategically around my house, in such a fashion that I can fire one and the others will simultaneously erupt into concentrated explosions, the shrapnel aimed directly at my head. Snow flurries are like Satan's way of saying "I told you this place fucking sucks." Don't go outside, unless you enjoy the feeling of tiny icicles penetrating everything that isn't wrapped in buffalo hide. You can't open your eyes if you're walking at all against the direction of the wind, so you can't see shit, and it's cold and wet. More on "cold and wet" later.
3. Cold and wet (or, I Told You So) - The area in which I live grants us the luxury of extreme regional cold followed by moderate regional warmth. This means that the thinner layers of snowfall promptly freeze, coating everything in an innocent layer of frictionless, transparent surface. When you step foot on this surface, you get a one-way ticket to "Being Cold and Wet" Town; Population: Assholes. Perhaps you fall on more of this substance (which, if you haven't figured it out by now, is ice), which gives you a free transfer ticket to "So That's What My Brain Matter Looks Like" City. Or, inconveniently, you fall into a puddle of wet shit or a local snow bank, which effectively ruins whatever your mood was previously and makes everything you're doing three or four times more irritating. Cold and wet is probably the worst thing that winter brings.
4. Slush - This is one of those red flags that indicate when the Earth is sick of our shit. There exists a substance that, when mixed with dirt, becomes cold, wet, sloppy, sticky dirt. Those of you claiming that mud also fits that description can fuck right off, because it's not at all the same thing and you know it. Well, perhaps you don't, so I'll fill you in. Imagine a thing that you hate. You loathe it. Imagining this item, object or condition alone causes you distress. I bet it's slush. It's always slush. Some dick has the nerve to reproduce, and spawns a child who, with insurmountable genius, decides to pile it all together and jump on it with gusto. The slush flies everywhere, and if you're nearby, you die immediately. Slush will kill you.

I know I left my general "hate everything to some degree" principle off the list, but that's because it's more of a rule for living than a seasonal nuisance. These are all reasons why winter is awful. Maybe I'll turn it into a video, since these posts receive anywhere between zero and virtually zero views.

'The Comedy' - A Dark Cinematic Journey

Nominated by me for best pitch black comedy of 2013, because I run the awards show with an iron fist and a titanium erection.
It's constant.

If I said "Tim Heidecker and Eric Wareheim" to you, you'd probably think of things like Awesome Show Great Job, or Check it Out with Steve Brule, or their movie. I would wager that a very select few, connoisseurs perhaps, but a small group nonetheless, would think of The Comedy. That's because this isn't Tim and Eric.
Well, it is, but it's not...fuck, you know what I mean.

It's unfair to call this film simply by that name alone, and rarely does one cross paths with a piece that succeeds where The Comedy manages to do so. The phenomenon of multiple experiences is more prevalent in dark comedy, which is why I flock to it like a hornet with a pollination fetish (get it? ...Because he wants to get all up in that business twice as hard as the average spore-carrying insect), and while I'm rarely disappointed, being pleased with the time spent and being blown away by what you spent it on are two things entirely separate.

Tim Heidecker plays a character who, with his group of like-minded friends, lives in a world that would be so horribly depressing if they were to halt and take it seriously for more than five minutes. They make light of their surroundings, attempting to carelessly glide through existence as if it were a constant show.
That synopsis is too optimistic.
Instead of 'film,' this cinematic masterpiece could be more descriptively characterized as "a series of snippets depicting the life and interactions of a group." These interactions are frequently heartfelt, full of jest and a sort of oxymoronic heavy lightheartedness. This is comedy for the self-loathing and sorrowful. In short, it's beautiful, and I would never go back.

This is probably the first film I've seen that so seamlessly tethers such heavy-handed depression, improvisational humour, love, loss, loneliness, impulse, ecstasy and terror. It's important that one doesn't try to determine what they're getting into until they're too far in to return. Only when you're balls deep in this molasses, can you achieve any understanding of why.
There is no erring on the side of caution. Everything is turned up to 11, thrust forward head-first in roller coaster fashion. It travels quickly between curiosities, sometimes even dipping into pure horror.

I think a fair-sized portion of the reason why The Comedy is so effective has to do with its relatability, and its realism. There wasn't a time, through the whole movie, where I couldn't imagine it really happening. Each interaction is tangible; the atmosphere that the movie creates comes right out and joins the viewer.

If I had to summarize these paragraphs, it would be as such; The Comedy reproduces a wide variance of emotions, and I was glad to be there for all of them. It's self-indulgent and self-deprecating.
I love it.

Internal vs. External Pressure (or, Why I'm Unemployed)

I'm not talking about gastro-intestinal bloating, pregnancy or having rocks put on you until your eyeballs propel from your skull with enough speed to decapitate local farmers and horses. When I speak of "pressure," I refer to the stress upon you from those around you. Be it your workplace, scholastic environment, parental desires, deadlines, etc., most tasks, to me, become more difficult when there's an outside source grilling you to complete it.
It's for this reason that I would prefer all of my deadlines and requirements to be self-imposed.

If I'm getting some shit done, I'll do it at my own pace, god damn it. That was hostile. Well, it needs to be. I'm only a procrastinator in the face of necessity; there is a rebellious spirit here that exists solely in order to make an authoritative counterpart frustrated. Subsequently, if I'm given room in which to stretch my arms, work at my own pace and complete things in an order that makes sense to me, I find that any work is not only easier, but much more enjoyable.
One of the beneficial things about making videos for a channel you own is that any schedules you've created are just that; created. By you. I can defy this weekly format any time I see fit, possibly even revert back to my routine of "I'll upload a video when I'm good and damn ready. Apparently, I'm ready to upload five today and none for three months and you'll like it. Forever. Until the end of time. Which ends when I say it does, also." Thankfully for everyone, I've found a rate of production that challenges my creativity without putting too much strain on my fragile and useless cranium.
In addition, I'm currently afforded opportunities that allow me to work this creativity whenever it strikes. I woke up at three in the morning with an idea not too long ago, and once I was finished stroking it lovingly--the idea, not whatever you're thinking of, you sick fuck--I put it to work for me. Like a hooker. I guess my point is that when you're free to do as you please, you treat your ideas like hookers.

Wait, that's not right.

Individuals who work a job they dislike in order to provide for their futures or assume some level of status are doing something that I've never been comfortable with. It may be a deficiency, and I wouldn't be surprised if there's some shitty section of my head that constantly waves its dick around instead of doing what I've been imagining it to since my conception. However, in the absence of rigidity imposed by those who expect you to follow direction and nothing else, it's possible to get just as much, if not more, work done in the same amount of time one may be committing to something less mentally fruitful. The difficult part is carrying that forward upon an avenue that's lucrative. Needless to say, I haven't given up on that yet.

I commend those who work boring or awful jobs that they hate, just to support their ideals wholly; I'll probably have to bite that bullet some day. The part I'm excited for is when I shit that bullet out, because I'll load it into my nostril and blow it onto whatever canvas I choose to adopt. Then I'll sell the lead back for twice what I made swallowing it.
Not to mention, that metaphor involved actual shit. That was a life goal of mine. See? Sometimes it's easy.

Moral of the story: do your own work, for you, and you'll feel better about doing it.

Django Unchained + The Possession

I mentioned in the past how wondrous it is for a film to summarize all of my aspirations as a viewer; the culmination of events that, in complimenting each other, create a wholly phenomenal experience.

The Possession is one of such films. Django is another.

Lately I've become picky in my deeming a film even "great," hence when I call one more than that, you can bank on my endorsement. Any fans of demon, ghost or possession-themed horror should write this down on their list of To-Watch, preferably somewhere around the top, in order to ensure that you'll be able to view it as many times as humanly possible before rolling over and promptly allowing yourself to die happy.

Denny from Grey's Anatomy is a thoughtful father/basketball coach whose daughter makes the obvious mistake of going to a garage sale without properly researching her ancient Hebrew demon curses (first of all, who the hell doesn't visit an everything-must-go without doing that first...plot holes) and happens across a box that wastes no time in teaching everyone a lesson about how pertinent it is to pay attention in your high school World Religions class. Denny spends the rest of the film trying to undo his bad-dad mistake(s).
Don't interpret this paragraph to be an accurate plot synopsis, I assure you it's anything but.

I'm not even going to bother detailing the plot of Django, because it cannot be explained in less than three full-length novels, and I wouldn't bother trying to do so even if I wanted to.

There's no way to adequately describe The Possession's experience until one sees it for oneself, so I'll instead declare that it combines all of its acts into an ending that couldn't possibly make more sense. There are no loose ends, and if one goes into the film with a mind open to its subject matter, they will not be disappointed.
Demonology is something that remains elusive of my desire to research, so I'll admit my ignorance to the subject. However, one does not need to be versed in these things to enjoy the movie fully since it is one of few that properly explains everything that needs to be explained. The atmosphere created within it is perfect for its style, and you may find yourself enthralled.

Django is a classic Western hero tale told with a very unique slant that adds a refreshing element to a historically stale genre, spun by one of my favourite directors, ever. It would be a lie to say Quentin Tarantino can do no wrong, however it seems to be very difficult for him. The story is well-paced and its ups and downs are great in their intensity. The film provides you with hopelessness and pride on a scale that could race earthquakes.

I had, in the weeks before, been privy to many accidents turned into "films" via avenues that included poorly-fathomed Netflix decisions and suggestions from those who had heard that I sometimes watch stupid bullshit. Perhaps, then, these two movies were made better by comparison, but I doubt it, because either one of them    could stand on its own, even if it had no legs and one eye. As a matter of fact, watching these two movies back to back is encouraged, because they pretty much run the gamut of genres that don't involve giants, robots, or giant robots, or giant robot penises that rotate and pulsate like a shower head from the bowels of the Earth.

To reiterate, as a famous filmmaker (me, in my dreams) once said: God be damned, these two movies are beautiful.

If you enjoy Leonardo DiCaprio (as I'm sure you've heard by now) completely annihilating his hand on a glass, then rolling with that punch as if it were dealt by an Asian midget; Jamie Foxx playing "a black man" as no one has before, with enough pride, gusto, and anguish for eighteen of us; That happy Nazi from Inglorious Basterds with an equally pleasant demeanour and an impregnable beard of excellence; Quentin Tarantino being classic as ever in the chair of director, as well as on screen in actor form, you had better make time out of your busy schedule and catch Django Unchained. Pff, as if you haven't,

Before you get up, and while you're at it, check out The Possession because, may lightning strike my dick and cause it to explode upward into my own mouth if I'm wrong, it's just as good for about three handfuls of different reasons.

Windows 8 Is Like A Dog With Two Legs

There are many videos floating around the internet world that depict canines with such pedal shortcomings. Anyone who has viewed these images knows that most of these dogs, with some extra training and attention, become just as good as their four-legged counterparts.

In this scenario, the mutt with the full range of mobility is Windows 7. Its unfortunate playmate is Windows 8, and the two missing legs come in the form of a proper Start menu.

I won't lie, I'm not a huge proponent of drastic change. I've read many a blog in my efforts to reattach those two legs to my new operating system ('how to get the old start menu back' searches deliver fruitless third-party abominations and dangers) and in these informative posts are - as always - someone's opinion about whether or not the change is good. 

Often, this viewpoint comes from the fingers of an ass hole who insults the intelligence of anyone who doesn't like the Windows 8 'Start Screen' better. However, I must be a full-fledged idiot, then, because I hate the Xbox Live home screen and I certainly don't want to adopt it on my computer. I'll drown that orphan.

For those who don't own an Xbox or a copy of the new OS, I'll explain: The screen is opened, innocently and delicately enough, from the same corner as your current Windows logo. It spreads its loving wings, soars up over your desktop, and promptly takes the biggest shit you'll ever see, in the form of every single program you've ever had installed, all over your eyes, nose, mouth, ears, etc. in the form of an "App." Your programs are listed by category and you can choose from them.

Note: I'd also like to suggest to those who don't have either of the aforementioned pieces of technology that they invest in a time machine and travel to this fucking century.

I would assume this new layout is for accessibility, but that can't be correct. If you're building a wheelchair ramp, it's a small incline that starts in the parking lot and daintily raises itself to the level of the curb.

It doesn't start at the second floor window of the supermarket and jut out into the street, blocking three lanes of traffic and creating a huge, vindictive cement wall between you and the enjoyment of whatever you'd like to do with your life.

I understand the need for innovation. You don't want what you're selling to appear stale in the eyes of the consumer. However, if you're going to alienate decades of loyal patrons in an effort to show off how nicely your App screen sweeps to the left, at least make the Start Screen optional, instead of stuffing it down my throat for making the mistake of opening my mouth in excitement. 

Barring that, maybe make it a little bit easier to navigate. There are more of us out here that want the old Programs list back, that freely customizable and wonderful piece of design. I've actually deleted all my Apps and, since that doesn't delete the programs, now have a system of clutter---I mean, folders, on my desktop in order to navigate my shit the way I've always loved to do. That's what I had to do in order to be happy. I'm not alone in this plight.

Windows 8 is the runt of the litter that was born without front appendages due to a lack of room and oxygen in a womb populated by good ideas. With a little work, you can get it to stand up straight, run, probably even fetch toys. However, even with such breakthroughs, everyone who sees it is going to wonder how cute it could be, if only it had all of its fucking legs.

Windows 7 is the older sibling that shits in its mouth just to assert its dominance over the weaker genus.