But it’s more than just a vague sense of “the human body is a work of art,” or “look at how beautifully complex we are!’ What most people don’t seem to realize is that the human body is completely, utterly badass. Some of the adaptations and mutations we’ve developed are so over the top that they can only reasonably be described as “Pancho Villa screaming bloody revenge as he jumps a motorcycle off a giant ramp so that he can fly through the air and cut a dragon in half (lengthwise) with his chainsaw.” Yeah, it makes that little sense. And yes, of course I’ve included examples below.

Neutrophils: As a quick explanation, there are two components to our immune systems: the innate and specific immune systems. These two are interrelated, but the important difference to note is that the specific immune system develops a sort of cellular memory towards different invaders that have been encountered before. The innate immune system, however, simply sees things as “self” or “other,” and when it senses an invader, it swarms like a group of Mormon wives after an alimony check. In other words, the specific immune system is Sherlock Holmes, while the innate immune system is more like Homeland Security along the Mexican border.

Since I’m very fond of calling neutrophils “the human body’s angry little buzzsaws,” you should probably infer that they belong to the innate immune system. They lead the charge when an invader is detected. They howl through the blood vessels before literally doing a combat roll out of the vascular system and into the affected tissues. Once it has entered the combat zone, a neutrophile will glom onto whatever it thinks the enemy is and starts spewing radical oxygen atoms all over the place. This is the physiological equivalent of rescuing hostages by setting the building on fire – and then maybe the rest of the neighborhood, too.

Just in case this wasn’t enough like a Michael Bay movie, neutrophils often go on to perform a superoxide attack. Let me repeat: “a superoxide attack.” It’s the sort of term you’d normall see in a videogame manual, or at least an overly-detailed Wikipedia entry about an anime. And I’m happy to report that the reality lives up to the hype; this term refers to when neutrophils turn to their friends, rasp out “I’m not coming back,” and then run off to kamikaze themselves – literally. Of course, when this happens, they spew radical oxygen all over the invader – and anything else nearby – in a toxic burst.

Finally, after performing a superoxide attack, the neutrophil’s corpse will lie cracked open, with it’s guts floating around. However, it’s internal components will actually act like a barbed net to catch and tangle invaders. So on top of everything else, neutrophils teach us the biological equivalent of haunting your enemies from the grave.

do you hear the buzzsaws?

It’s also important to note that neutrophils are eager. In a lot of cases, clinicians will see a “bandthemia,” which is when a bunch of new, untested baby neutrophils flood into the serum as they rush to help the seasoned neutrophils already out in the field. It’s a lot like when Top Gun came out and everyone rushed to join the Navy, blow commies out of the sky, and have a frighteningly awkward sex scene with a future lesbian.

Neutrophils just don’t give a damn; they’re a surging crowd of soldier-hooligans, ready to kill something now and hope it was the actual target later. And while on a microscopic scale, their enthusiastically psychotic violence is awesome to behold.

The Fight or Flight Response: I may be throwing around terms that essentially mean nothing to you, but the FoFR refers to the activation of the sympathetic branch of the autonomic nervous system. This is the part of your nervous system that lights up when you become excited and adrenaline floods your system. There are two equally acceptable ways to think about how adrenaline affects the various parts of your body, via the sympathetic nervous system. This was actually how I learned it all, and how I remember it to this day: What happens to various organs when you decide to do epic battle with or flee from an enraged mama bear.

Organ effect: Kicking ass/Running from bear

Eyes - Dilation of pupils: Pupillary dilation allows you to see details much more clearly. This is vitally important when it comes to seeing the fear in the bear’s face after you slap her in the face, or grimly point at her cub and then your mouth, and then rub your belly in a “yummy” motion./Pupillary dilation allows you to see the shreds of your recent tent and close friends as the bear roars out her intention to turn you into a coat of warm fat in preparation for winter hibernation.

Salivary glands – Dry mouth:  You want to sound nice and raspy when you call the bear “Fat Chewbacca,” and tell her that you plan to turn her into a rustic, queen-sized bedcover, and then turn her cub into a snuggie./At least you won’t be a drooling idiot before nature’s most huggable killer does what she does best.

Airways – Opened wide:  It’s important to keep the airways wide open and establish a steady breathing rhythm as you systematically pound this bear into a semi-solid – at first with a rock or small tree, but later with your bare firsts – until it resembles a giant bean bag filled with pudding and covered in animal fur that sounds like it would give excellent back support./ This allows you to loudly tell the bear to “Go on! Leave! Get out of here!” – which will quickly turn into a rising, girlish shriek the minute the bear takes it’s first curious step towards you. Later, open airways will help you draw deep, shuddering breaths when you can’t stop crying.

Heart – Increased heart rate and force of contraction: “This is awesome. I was born for this.”/Ohshitohshitohshit

Blood vessels – Increased blood flow: This provides more oxygen to your muscles, particularly those involved in punching, gouging, and headbutting./ This provides more oxygen to your arms and legs as you sprint for your life, scramble up a tree, and belatedly realize that bears are never more in their natural element than when climbing or humping trees.

GI tract – Sphincter constriction -> decreased gastric motility: You don’t want to have to stop and find a restroom when you’re sitting on the bear’s chest and bashing her with a rock like you’re trying to reinvent fire./You don’t want to crap yourself while running for the hills. It’s completely undignified, and there’s nothing easier for bears to track than the scent of your foul cowardice (1).

Prions: These are proteins that have mutated into something that nature never intended. Scientists honestly aren’t sure if they’re a freak accident, the new viral paradigm, or a horrible curse bestowed by an enemy of the Justice League. See, the problem lies partially in the fact that your immune system is used to fighting viruses, bacteria, parasites, etc. But it sure isn’t used to fighting its own basic units of operation, i.e. proteins.

Let me give you an example that illustrates the depths of this problem: Imagine that Bruce Lee were woken up one night by strange noises from downstairs. He’d grab his headband, maybe some pants, and adopt a solid leopard stand before heading downto investigate. But imagine his surprise upon finding that nobody has broken into his house – instead, his appliances have gone crazy!

His microwave is making off with the silverware and the breadmaker is rifling through his wallet. The VCR and stereo both seem a little confused, and keep trying to steal each other. As you can imagine, Bruce Lee simply isn’t prepared for these circumstances, despite his athletic gifts and lifetime of training. I don’t have to tell you that all the death touches and spin kicks in the whole world won’t do a damn thing when your refrigerator decides to take a dump in the middle of the living room.

... but prions do not tremble

Prions are the agents responsible for diseases like Kuru Kuru or Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease – which is a sanitized way of saying that they turn your brain into porridge after you eat beef in England. Normally, these proteins are in the a-helix conformation, and look something like a corkscrew. However, when they mutate into prions, they shift into the B-sheet conformation, which is more flattened and wrinkly looking. It’s important to understand this difference, because when a prion comes into contact with other, innocent proteins, it can convert them into the B-sheet conformation, creating more prions. Prions are also immune to most antibiotics, heating, and even UV light.

Think about all of those characterisitics for a second: prions are mutants, they can make more of themselves, they’re immune to our weapons, and they can’t be killed by sunlight. …That’s Blade.

Now, I don’t know if you’ve seen the Blade trilogy, but it’s titular main character is a mutated vampire who is immune to sunlight, garlic, silver, etc (2). He maintains all of his other vampiric abilities, is nigh-unkillable, and is played by Wesley Snipes – our century’s most muscular and visually frightening tax-evader. If the mere thought of a bunch of miniaturized, murderous, super-powered Wesley Snipeses rampaging through your brain tissue doesn’t frighten you, you probably fought that bear I mentioned earlier.

So as you can see, prion diseases are awful, and more or less incurable. While I have come up with a theoretical solution, it does kidnapping, brainwashing, and an emergency head transplant . And in case you’re wondering, the uppity Surgeon General found my ideas “cartoonish” and “basically criminal.”

1) Though soiling yourself would provide some much-needed levity, and possibly make you far less appetizing. It’s just something to think about.

2) It’s not explicity stated, but I think Blade might also be immune to body fat, because that guy is just ripped.

I won’t rant here and establish my cred as a child of the 80’s by insisting that the original was better, but I will ask you to think this through: Since it first came out, The Karate Kid has been used as the unsung source material for at least two other movies, namely Never Back Down and Sidekicks. The fact that there have been three multi-million dollar reproductions of the movie where a boy learns to substitute martial arts for puberty is concerning in and of itself. But it’s also important (1) to parse out the specifics. Think of this as a sort of a detailed balance sheet of the creative bankruptcy we all support every time we fail to wait until we can just pirate a movie off the internet.

All three of these movies have both borrowed and differed from the original formula in important ways, which I intend to analyze on a point-by-point basis, thus determining the winner to a competition whose scoring system exists entirely in my dented head.

Title:
The Karate Kid (original): This is a fairly unimaginative, but descriptive title, and it gives you a pretty good idea of what you’re going to see in the movie – namely, a kid that will probably do some karate.

Sidekicks: This title is a reference to the protagonist’s lip-curling escapist fantasies, where he accompanies Chuck Norris on a variety of dangerous and highly idiotic combat missions. But cleverly, the title also alludes to the activity of kicking, which has historically been used by groups such as soccer players, kangaroos, epilleptics, and martial artists! It’s very possible that this title is the cleverest part of the movie.

Never Back Down: This just seems like one of those titles that was scribbled down in a rush, 5 minutes before the film had to be submitted. In a particularly subtle move, “Never back down!” is also a phrase that Djimon Hounsou screams at his students while they work out. So in addition to being a questionable (2) bit of advice, we’re also treated to self-referential dialogue which is a bit like eating in a fancy French restaurant, and being asked if m’sieur would like some fresh dong for his soup.

The Karate Kid (2010 remake): The main character learns kung fu. I realize that karate and kung fu share a number of characteristics, such as starting with the letter ‘k,’ and being created by Oriental people. But this sort of broad generalization – and the fact that nobody really seems to care – makes me wonder why we got so mad at Rosie O’Donnell for making “ching chong” noises on television.

Winner: Logic compels us to give this to the original Karate Kid, but Never Back Down is the sort of go-get-’em encouragement I whisper to my puppy when the cat picks on him. Tie.

Central conflict:
The Karate Kid (original): The hero, Daniel Larusso talks to a girl with the porportions and sex appeal of a Lego ™ person while he’s at the beach. The villain refuses to watch Daniel make time with his girl, and proceeds to make a minor career out of using Daniel as a sort of squealing, fleeing real-life karate dummy.

Sidekicks: The main character, Barry, is just weird and unappealing. He has lurid fantasies about being friends with Chuck Norris, the 40-something year old bearded karate-man who has since turned into an internet punchline. Barry also suffers from crippling asthma. Finally, he is in love with the girl from The Wonder Years – a fact which I’m just as bemused to write as you are to read. The villain takes hilarious exception to all of this.

Never Back Down: Jake Tyler, witless protagonist, unknowingly talks to the girlfriend of a maniac that has decided to dedicate his entire life to sit ups, sneering, and hitting things (in that order). After being lured to a party, Jake finds himself the recipient of the sort of efficient, lightning-fast head trauma usually reserved for producing kobe beef. Do you see a pattern yet?

The Karate Kid (2010 remake): Dre, recently moved to China, makes the mistake of talking to a girl playing violin on a bench. The villain clearly sees this as a sign of international aggression, and proceeds to kick Dre’s ass so hard and flawlessly that I was surprised not to see a hidden bonus level appear after the fight was over.

Winner: The Karate Kid (2010 remake). While all of these conflicts are more or less the same, I detected some very now-relevant political overtones. Also, when Cheng circle-kicked Baby Smith in the head, it looked sort of like a World Cup promo, which I enjoyed very much.

Teacher:
The Karate Kid (original): After being thrashed, humiliated, and literally left on the beach for dead, Daniel begins to learn martial arts from the now-legendary internet meme, Mr. Miyagi. Miyagi’s unconventional style of karate instruction relies heavily on having his student perform uncompensated labor. This stands in stark contrast to the training regimen of his nemesis, which features a heavier focus on actually learning to punch and kick another human being.

A few other important things to note about Mr. Miyagi are that he heals the injuries of young boys by gently rubbing salve on their bodies without first getting parental consent or having a chaperone present. He also has a number of medals from his service to Japan during WW2; he fought bravely, but I think it’s safe to say that karate proved vastly inferior to MacArthur’s two-dimensional island hopping campaign.

Sidekicks: In a refreshing display of lazy racism, the protagonist’s mentor was both a karate teacher and the owner of a generic Chinese restaurant. After a few seconds of creative thought, he was also named Mr. Lee. I don’t think the writers could have made him more generically Asian, short of naming him General Tsao, or just letting a giant panda wander around the set while actors shouted lines at it.

Also, in what may have been a very sophisticated murder attempt, Barry’s mentor tells him that asthma is primarily in his mind – when modern medicine suggests it’s really more in the respiratory pathways. This makes Barry’s trip to the hospital both inevitable and entertaining. I’m surprised the malevolent Mr. Lee didn’t try to show Barry the ancient karate techniques of bullet-catching.

Also, at the end of the movie, Chuck Norris appears, and teaches the protagonist that a) dreams really do come true, and b) karate allows you to kick a man in the head just hard enough to make him cartwheel through the air and suffer massive personality changes, but not hard enough to kill him. Barely.

Never Back Down: The teacher in this movie is a disappointingly normal man, named Jean Roqua. For the purposes of this article, he’s significant only in that his training techniques don’t involve child labor or attempted murder.

Instead of karate, or karate that’s actually kung fu, he teaches MMA. It’s a system of fighting that eschews sissy things like colored belts and intricate stances in favor of converting another human being into moist compost, using the hardest and bluntest parts of your own body. Roqua eventually reveals that he fled his home country of Brazil out of guilt, because someone shot his brother (3). Now he spends his days training fighters and developing the kinds of biceps that need their own tickets on airplanes.

The Karate Kid (2010 remake): Mr. Han is a maintenance man who walks as though his doctor backed way up and got a running start before giving him a colonoscopy – the reasons for this are never made clear.

In a nod to Mr. Miyagi, Mr. Han begins by having his student do stupid, repetitive tasks designed to assault the human spirit. He later graduates his student into a world of kung fu, and takes him to a beautiful martial arts sanctuary where people hypnotize cobras, balance on pedestals, and probably learn to throw fireballs out of their bare hands.

To follow this up, he reveals himself as a tragic drunk who mourns the loss of his wife and child. When you look at all of Mr. Han’s attributes on paper, he is basically the worst person to leave unsupervised with a child who doesn’t speak enough Chinese to call for help.

Winner: Sidekicks. Every last one of these instructors is an unmitigated disaster, but I loved the fact that Mr. Lee was a calculating psychopath. He knew how funny it would be to have Barry cure his asthma through a combination of strenuous exercise and willpower. It’s like curing allergies with a strict regimen of bee stings and a bag over the head.

Nemesis:
The Karate Kid (original): Johnny was the archetypical teen badass. He didn’t have muscles, a triple digit IQ, or the least shred of self-awareness. But he did have three very important attributes:
1) Baseless, unshakeable self-confidence.
2) An insane level of aggression: it was like scientists had captured an adolescent great white shark, forced it to watch pornography while dumping cocaine into it’s tank, and then transplanted that brain into Johnny’s head.
3) Headband.

Johnny’s feats were varied and many, but they all adhered to the central theme of being both unnecessary and vicious. He also used the deadliest karate he knows on anybody that he thinks may have crossed him – Johnny isn’t real clear on stuff like that. His attempt to cripple Daniel for life may seem over the top to most people, but you know what? I think it reveals the competitive spirit of a champion.

Sidekicks: Randy Cellini, much in the vein of Johnny, is a popular high school jock who focuses most of his time and attention on using martial arts to terrorize the scrawny and powerless. However, he is fairly small potatoes as far as nemeses go, in that he barely ever attempts to kill the main character with his bare hands.

He never even fights Barry at the end of the movie, and therefore can’t deliver any illegal blows or eye gouges. Instead, they face off in a brick breaking competition, which may as well have been a showdown to see who could wear a frillier gown to the debutante ball.

Never Back Down: Ryan McCarthy is a megalomaniac who must somehow find a way to balance out his two great loves: showing off his abs and putting people in comas. It’s easy to see his internal conflict play itself out through each one of his fights, as he alternates between posing like a bargain-basement rapper and attempting to blast open his opponent’s skulls like a Rhodesian diamond driller. The fact that he never finds that particular tipping point is, in its own way, haunting and authentic.

Few people, if any, are able to locate and maintain their emotional “sweet spot.” Have you? When I watch Ryan struggle with the decision to put his fist through someone’s thorax or his genitals on/around their girlfriend…I see us all.

The Karate Kid (2010 remake): Cheng is the sort of person that I am simultaneously glad and sad that I don’t have in my life. He seems like the sort of person that could teach me everything there is to know about concentration, focused ambition, and victory. But he also seems like the kind of soft-spoken psychopath that would go about it by tackling me off of a cliff and then hitting me in the mouth while we fell to our deaths.

When he delivers the first of many beatings to the main character, it seems pretty brutal. What you don’t realize until the end of the movie, however, is that he fights that way all the time. It doesn’t matter if he’s trying to win a tournament or simply venting his frustration over how useless his Pokemon collection has turned out to be: he’s going to beat who or whatever’s in front of him into borscht.

As a charming side fact, he also manages to maintain the most viciously angry face I’ve ever seen on a 12 year old. As I stare at his rage simmering behind those flat, empty eyes, I finally know what it’s like to face a cobra with IBD.

Winner: Me. These guys were my absolute favorite part of each one of these movies.

1) I realize how entirely ridiculous and relative it is to say this.
2) Read: bad. Ask Custer.
3) Each one of these movies features a morbid backstory for the teacher, which is really a misguided and senseless attempt to give the character some depth; it’s important to remember not to care.

To pre-order tickets to the new Twilight movie.

So I said and watched. I observed the sorts of people that would make the choice to wait in a line like this, and I was both surprised and depressed by who and what I saw. I said nothing then, but perhaps one of those folks will read these letters – letters I wish had written out and distributed then – and know my turmoil.

To the Girl Sitting by Herself in a Lawnchair:

I love your commitment; your passion for the great modern love story has obvious burned away your need/ability to maintain so-called “healthy” human relationships. I find you here, braving the moist heat and sullen glare of a Miami afternoon with only your New Moon t-shirt and an giant Frappucino to sustain you. The fact that your Starbucks cup – really more of a gourmet Big Gulp – is long since finished doesn’t reflect badly on you. I know how thoughts of mopey, alabaster hunks sneaking into your bedroom can make the heart pound – and pounding hearts need calories. Heck, sitting out here without a bucket of whipped cream, chocolate sauce to supplement your threadbare romantic fantasies in this heat would practically be suicide.

If only Edward were real – and I’m not convinced he isn’t, girlfriend! – I know he would see your grim, sweat-streaked commitment. In the middle of a line full of laughing, happy groups of people, you sit a silent vigil, fueled solely by love, a 64 ounce mocha-caramel-chip metabolic speed bump, and the knowledge that you’ll be able to talk down to all the other users on the Twilight forums later tonight.

Sometimes, that’s what real love requires of us. It isn’t about prom, or maintaining a relationship with somebody that exists in three dimensions. It’s about the feeling that wells up inside when your riding a really intense fan poetry surge, and realize that your and your composition notebook are the only inhabitants in the coffee shop on a Saturday night again. It’s that swell of emotion that comes from imagining Edward’s approving nod when you decide that your cats need the last bit of shampoo more than you do.

Most people can’t understand emotions like that – but I sure can. You and your lawnchair may very well be the last intact bastion of true love in this world of ours. Sit strong.

Yours in the ranks of Team Edward,

Joe

To the Meat-Headed Boyfriend Waiting in Line,

I won’t mince words with you: this is easily one of the lowest points in your personal history. Upon observing your tank-top, exhaustingly predictable tattoos, and presence in this ticket line without having been roofied first, I can conclude that you don’t tend to dwell or let yourself think too deeply into your decisions. In fact, I imagine you gotten very good at denial and rationlization.

I can practically hear you telling me that you’re only standing in line with her to “get fuckin’ laid, bro!” But that is one proffered fist I simply can’t pound in good conscience, because we both know better, don’t we? Coitus or no (1), the truth is that being dragged to Twilight by your girlfriend still beats spending another panicky night spent at home, googling variations on “how not to get an erection while watching MMA.”

Despite all that, I can tell you’re finding this situation difficult. Your girlfriend is ignoring you to talk to her friends because a) Twilight creates a herd mentality, and b) the most interesting thing you’ve ever done in your entire life was to swim up a Fallopian tube and fertilize an egg.

It must shock you to find that none of these girls seem interested in hearing about which Entourage character is most like you, or why its important to rub baby oil into your biceps. Somebody has yet to even acknowledge your theory on how you and Ethnic Werewolf probably have really similar workout regimens (2), much less inform you that it’s so incredibly insecure and stupid sounding that it’s probably dangerous to explain it when pregnant women are nearby.. But still, you’re probably the most alpha dude here, and that has to count for something. Try to take some comfort in that.

No homo,

Joe

Dear Mom Chaperoning a Flock of Squealers,

I can see that you’re tired. The efforts of keeping up with the trends and fleeting passions of an emotionally inscrutable (and volcanic) teenage girl has taken its toll. You probably had pretty high hopes for her when she was born (first female president! Unless some other gal beat her to it, which would be ok, you guessed). But those standards have shifted and relaxed – much like the elastic waistband of the sweats you long ago traded your jeans in for – so that nowadays, you’re just happy when she doesn’t go out in clothes tight, ill-fitting, and poorly advised enough to warrant a call from DFACS.

I’m sure that, in your heart of hearts, you want to talk to her about a few things. LIke the mouth-breathing boyfriend and his seemingly endless supply of wrinkled Xbox Live t-shirts that she has settled for. Or perhaps the topic of what she wants to do with her life; only, you’re afraid that the answer will involve an angry crying fit and/or a plan to drive out to Hollywood with her friend and do hair.

And as for your presence in this line: I know very welll what you’ve done. You’ve told yourself that while this fixation of hers may seem excessive, ridiculous, increasingly expensive, and bordering on unhealthy…at least she’s reading. You probably remember a time when children were pushed to read intelligent books by varied authors, but at this point in your life, you’ve more or less lowered the bar to just above “basic literacy.”

Fortunately or unfortunately, your offspring and her tiny, squalling clan represent the future. I wouldn’t say you’re contributing to the death of literature, per se. But you are standing idly by while it gets brained over and over again with a shovel.

Head shakingly yours,

Joe

Dear Professional Female,

Stunning. Simply astonishing. I want to clap my hands slowly while shaking my head from side to side, but you couldn’t possible know what I meant. I don’t know if it’s the meticulous blonde highlights or the fitted pants suit, but I never would have placed a person like you in a like like this. More to the point, I see the book in your hand – Lorca – and everything about you suggests that you’re the sort of person that is honestly determined to slog through all of 100 Years of Solitude whether you like it or not, before listing it as a favorite on Facebook.

It’s hard to believe that you slum with Twilight, but the evidence is right in front of me. Everything about you screams that you’re an intelligent, attractive young professional with the popular, lip-service liberal set of values that seems so popular with the headline readers of our generation.

Maybe the problem is that a person can only labor through so much of the stuff off the Recommended Shelf before giving up the pretense, blowing off their South Beach diet, and getting in line with a quart of Ben & Jerry’s and a petulant internal cry of “Well, fuck The Kite Runner!” Is that why you’re here?

Questions like that rarely have one good or easy answer. And they’re infinitely more difficult out here in the pre-order line for Twilight, the radical wastelands beyond the borders of rational thought.

One more question, and then I’m done: does it bother you at all that the only ethnic character in the series doesn’t get to wear a goddamn shirt?

Astoundedly yours,

Joe

“… Welcome back to Popular Opinion Court TV’s coverage of the Vuvuzela Trial. I’m , the prosecution has just wrapped up its’ case for the banning, stuffing in a closet and locking up forever of the controversial Vuvuzela horns. Let’s go over some excerpts from today’s testimony.”

RICK REILLY, ESPN.COM: It was the dreaded vuvuzelas, the yard-long plastic horns (voo-voo-zella) that South African fans blow all the time, without rhyme nor reason, when something is happening and when it’s not (it’s usually not), during timeouts and time ins, during halftime and at the breakfast table and while they’re on the bus and while doing their taxes, until you just want to stab two fondue forks deep into your ears and stir.

JOHN LEICESTER, ASSOCIATED PRESS: “Fifteen minutes into the opening game and I already took two aspirin,” lamented Boaz Gabbai, from West Hills, California.

“Those vuvuzelas are making me nuts!!!” wrote Myriam Seyfarth from Venezuela.

“And in a surprising last-minute move, the prosecution even called in figures from other sports to testify in what had been, up to now, an issue contained to the soccer pitch. Let’s take a look at some of that testimony now.”

JOE MADDON, MANAGER, TAMPA BAY RAYS: They’re annoying. I mean, there’s cool things and there’s very non-cool things. That’s a non-cool thing. … It just doesn’t make any sense.

“Non-cool, indeed. We’re joined now by noted legal analyst Snidely T. Whiplash for his analysis of what must surely be a steep challenge for the vuvuzela defense team going into its’ final statement.”

SNIDELY T. WHIPLASH, ESQ., LEGAL ANALYST: Indeed it is, Marla. I mean, seriously, even Hitler hates vuvuzelas these days. About the only people outside of South Africa who seem jazzed about the horns are Photoshop enthusiasts, and those people are almost as bad as bloggers. Would anybody really want to be associated with that lot?

“We’re getting word that the defense team is about to begin making its final statement to the jury – and to ear-ached football fans (or soccer fans, if you prefer) around the world. Let’s go back to the courthouse, where Amadeus Joao, the self-proclaimed ‘Footballing Barrister,’ is making his last stand for his clients.”

AMADEUS JOAO, DEFENSE ATTORNEY: “Ladies and gentlemen, let us be clear – the arguments my esteemed colleague brings up against the vuvuzelas are not to be confused with any legitimate concerns. And I am perfectly willing to concede that there are some.

“At least one study has measured the noise generated by just one vuvuzela at more than 100 decibels – enough to cause permanent damage if listened to over sustained periods. But as with anything else, moderation is key. And as we all know, moderation – chemical or otherwise – is a word seldom associated with the enjoyment of a sporting event, regardless of sport or continent.

“No, most of the complaints the prosecution has laid out are simply the grumblings of people who already hate this most beautiful game based on principle – that principle being, it’s a sport in which the U.S isn’t, you know, exceptional at it. And in today’s echo-chamber-like mediaverse, the droning on about the horns has gotten louder than the horns themselves – and that’s 140-plus decibels, ladies and gentlemen.

[chuckles from the gallery]

“But for the sake of argument, let us consider two other factors:

“First, the vuvuzela, while commonly associated with South Africa, actually originated in Mexico over three decades ago. In fact, watch any Primera División match on the telly, and you’ll hear that familiar buzz — especially if the match is at Estadio Azteca. And there’s nary a peep to be heard about it. Why? Because the fans in attendance are there for the game, and have learned to adjust. Besides, the prosecution seems to have conveniently forgotten that vuvuzela demand has created a demand for earplugs. Would my opponent squash the hopes of micro-business owners?

“But I digress. What I mean to say is, it is possible to learn to enjoy a match in spite of the horns’ noise. Which brings me to my second point.

“I’ll be blunt: it’s not like football – or any game outside of tennis or golf, at matter – is contested in a library. Mr. Maddon’s own Rays organization gives away – gives away, ladies and gentlmen! — cowbells for fans to ring during contests. And baseball players are expected to hit miniscule balls traveling at more than 90 miles an hour with thousands of people yelling. And have you heard a cowbell? Sure, the joke was funny because Christopher Walken said it, but does anybody you know actually need a cowbell to enjoy a game? I thought not.

“And Mr. Reilly, let’s not forget, has made a healthy portion of his living covering American football. So noisy horns are to be abolished, but Oakland Raiders fans are okay?

“Speaking of fans, let’s get back to the pitch, where all of this started. If the vuvuzelas are where the line is to be drawn, where, exactly, do the antics of British fans fall? Like songs such as the ever-popular “Feed The Scousers,” directed at Liverpool F.C. Fans? How about this lovely ditty from Chelsea supporters? (Note for readers: With all due respect, when British fans are involved, do I really have to tell you those links are NSFW?)

“Are horns like hooligans? No, but in the grand scheme of things, there’s much bigger fish for FIFA to fry. It wasn’t the vuvuzelas who gave Kaka that bogus red card. It wasn’t noise that led to the U.S to be robbed of an incredible victory. And the Italians flop like Jonah Hex at the drop of a hat – not the toot of a horn.

“So please, America, on behalf of South Africa. Of Mexico. Of fans of noisy, silly, non-sensical fan traditions like the Rally Monkey and the Terrible Towels and continuing to buy L.A. Clippers season tickets. Let this go. It’ll all be over in less than a month now, and this division between us will be healed. Then we can all go back to hating the Yankees.”

“You have a lot of rules about being sexy and most of them seem to be very politically correct ones. Is there no sexual fascination that is at all dark for you or is it all of the responsible, nonsexist, American feminist approved type? It seems to me that the book title “Bad Men Do What Good Men Dream” states perfectly that not all of our fantasies (some of which are set to film) are so correct and that many of our sexiest fantasies (also sometimes set to film) are exciting precisely because they are SO wrong. Art often illuminates what the rest of us are afraid to say aloud. This doesn’t make Art right…but at least we’re talking about the repressed and the forbidden. You seem to delight in tearing down without taking the chance of explaining what you think is sexy; please do sometime.”

Now, I started maybe 50 different replies, but I couldn’t figure out how to address all the different ways this made me rhetorically ask “Are you goddamn kidding me??” without doing it on a line-by-line basis. I ended up having a lot more to say than I thought, and for that, I really have to thank Steven ING. For whatever that’s worth.

“You have a lot of rules about being sexy and most of them seem to be very politically correct ones.”

I think “rules” is a pretty strong word, don’t you? But I can see where he’s coming from, and perhaps, yes, I need a few requirements to be met before I consider something even mildly erotic.

It’s mostly just the basics; things like “nothing makes me think I’ve stumbled into some sort of brutal, no-holds barred martial arts tournament,” or “no Jack Nicholson choking a woman into submission and then humping the daylights out of her on the kitchen counter.” Call me cookie-cutter if you like, but I don’t enjoy the idea of combining force or anger with sex. Maybe I’m failing to admit to my own darker desires, or maybe I just don’t need to sublimate my insecurities and deep-seated psychoses into a pelvic reenactment of the invasion of Normandy.

“Is there no sexual fascination that is at all dark for you or is it all of the responsible, nonsexist, American feminist approved type?”

I was honestly shocked by this sentence. I think that we come from very different places in life, because I know he meant to imply some sort of criticism here. The problem is that, upon reflection, none of those descriptors actually sounds bad to me.

Responsible: How is this a negative? I understand that when we were kids, it wasn’t especially cool to worry about finishing your homework or returning books to the library in a timely fashion. But we’re talking about acts that impact another person on physical and emotional levels, and can very possibly result in a new life. To me, failing to take things like that into account, even a little, isn’t so much “fascinating” as “morally bankrupt.”

Non-sexist: Here’s a funny story. I was installing burning oil traps in the staircase to repel invaders, and I was kind of kicking around the idea of enforcing foot-binding on all the womenfolk, and then I remembered what century we live in.

American: I’m not sure where he’s going with this. Is he intimating that my bedspread has a map of the U.S. on it, and I recite all 50 states and their capitals during intercourse? Is he suggesting that the only mood music I play is Glass Houses? Is he accusing me of telling my girlfriend that, in the event of a pregnancy, she had damn well better give birth to bald eagles? Someone please clarify.

Feminist approved: Until I formulate a questionnaire and poll the members of NOW, or manage to resurrect Emma Goldman, just refer to “Non-sexist,” see above.

So as you can see, I don’t really know how to respond to this part of his comment, other than with a hesitant “I…certainly hope so?”

“It seems to me that the book title “Bad Men Do What Good Men Dream” states perfectly that not all of our fantasies (some of which are set to film) are so correct and that many of our sexiest fantasies (also sometimes set to film) are exciting precisely because they are SO wrong.”

The first time I read this, I thought he was seriously referencing a source. Upon second glance… yep, he’s just quoting the book’s title. You see, “Bad Men Do What Good Men Dream” is actually an in-depth analysis of the deep-seated drives and emotional circuitry that underlies antisocial and violently psychotic behavior, written by an eminent forensic psychiatrist, and published by the APA. I think it’s giving the benefit of the doubt to assume that he just saw this book title once and thought it sounded cool. After all, can you imagine if he actually had read the book, and was still making this point? You’d pretty much have to assume that his Cosmo’s Top 10 List of Turn-Ons includes things like “revving up a chainsaw” and “dirty hockey mask.”

But the book (title) isn’t the issue. I read through the next bit and really gave it some thought; this is my understanding of what he’s getting at:

Unless I’m mistaken, you’re talking about the purple area, signifying the intersection of exciting “non-wrong” fantasies and “wrong” fantasies. I went ahead and divided “wrong” fantasies into “more” and “less exciting” as well, because it makes logical sense, and because I think the funniest aspect of all of this is the “less exciting wrong fantasies” subset. It’s the sort of fantasy where you say things like “I guess I’ll f*ck this cantaloupe, but I’m not really into it.”

“Art often illuminates what the rest of us are afraid to say aloud. This doesn’t make Art right…but at least we’re talking about the repressed and the forbidden.”

The fact that he capitalizes “Art” like that literally makes me cringe; I get the feeling that the sort of “Art” he’s talking about is the kind that I positively despise. “Art” congratulates itself for opening up the eyes of the less enlightened. “Art” is preoccupied with being provocative and noisy, and it confuses being obnoxious with being courageous. It’s the sort of 9th grade, attention-starved theater geek mentality that I’m always surprised people haven’t outgrown.

Besides, isn’t “Art” open to interpretation and criticism? Isn’t that the best part, because it gives comparative lit majors have something to bitch about? My interpretation of those movies in that article is that they were the silly, emotional finger paintings of coffee house goofballs with funny hats and penchants for beat poetry circles. My criticism is that my libido didn’t know whether to laugh or lock itself in a panic room and shiver under a desk until help arrived. I think that’s fair.

“You seem to delight in tearing down without taking the chance of explaining what you think is sexy; please do sometime.”

He’s right. I do criticize more often than not. It’s the path of least resistance for me, because I love jokes, and those sort of require making fun of something or other. In that sense, it’s a little lazy, but the truth is that “tearing down” lends itself more to my writing style. As of right now, most of the serious stuff I write turns my stomach, and I erase it 5 minutes after I finish it. I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not yet the sort of writer I want to be.

He’s also right in that I never do actually mention what I consider to be sexy. Since the point of the Sexy Movies article was to make fun of ridiculous, artsy-fartsy movie picks, the thought never crossed my mind, but that’s easily rectified. A lot of it probably depends on context and specifics. For instance, the vast majority of female extras in R&B videos terrify me. To me, they’re an intimidating storm of vicious dance moves, booty clappin’, and the sort of abs that could be used to forge Zeus’ lightning. An erotic encounter with one of them would be like getting harassed by the smoke monster from “Lost” – only set to a Timbaland beat.

Of course, that isn’t always true, is it? Because if Rihanna decided that there was nothing sexier than crushing student debt and a working knowledge of Queen’s entire discography, I would literally break down and start weeping for joy. Two years after our torrid love affair ended, Morgan Freeman would be the narrator in a movie based on my life, but the underlying theme would be the transcendence of the human spirit. It would be like if “Life is Beautiful” had been produced by Vivid Entertainment.

I’m digressing a bit, so to summarize: there are very few hard and fast (1) rules. But I would have to say that the most enduring thing, the one that really gets me, is just knowing that the other person wants to be there as much as I do. As a rule, I very much like mutualism. It’s not artistic, and it’s not “dark.” It’s not even especially clever-sounding, but it’s as honest as I know how to be.

[1] I struggled for hours over how to fit in a “hard and fast” joke that wouldn’t morally compel me to punch myself in the mouth.

“Alligators pretending to be logs”

If you’re me, the process of entering the gym is a very simple one: I walk through the doors, have my membership card scanned, and proceed to have my ego deflated as I lift relatively tiny weights next to a genetic hybrid of Enrique Iglesias and The Incredible Hulk. But if you’re an attractive girl, then you’re obligated to stop, smile, and chat for a few minutes with the guy behind the desk because he’s like, so happy to see you here! Isn’t that weird? Seeing you here? You know?!

Speaking realistically, you can only be so surprised to see somebody when they show up at the same time every day. Also, it’s a little suspicious when you’re only surprised to see the people the people with wavy hair, high cheekbones, and ≥B cup. It’s even more suspicious when you come over to see how a gentle walk on the elliptical is going, and just happen to strike up a conversation about favorite colors. And “suspicious” goes right out the window after lines like “How do you manage to work out and smell so good?” You might as well just take things to their logical conclusion and start talking about how the bottle of warm tequila in your cupboard at home is filled with anti-oxidants and omega-3 fatty acids.

My analysis is that the male gym staff have tried to adopt the strategy of many successful predators, by camouflaging themselves and lying in wait. Unfortunately, their motivations are utterly transparent, and their camouflage is mediocre at best. It’s sort of like watching an alligator pretend to be an innocent log, only it’s wearing clown makeup and a tragic honka-honka nose – and it’s trying to convince you to let it spot you real close while you do squat-thrusts.

“Mosquitoes at Sundown”

These are some of my favorites, partially because they’re a little hard to catch. You have to be in the right place at the right time – but when you are, it’s breathtaking I’m talking, of course, about the crowd of early-to-mid 20-somethings that swarm the gym like a Biblical plague on early Friday evenings.

Speaking as a man that flutters his hands and faints when a woman even asks him where the bathroom is, I can’t claim to understand the importance of those last few bicep curls and sit-ups in terms of the mating game. But I do like these peoples’ dedication to eliminating those last few decimals of body fat; I think it shows a very sensible approach to the lifestyle. I imagine these are the same individuals that leave plenty of time to digest their celery dinners, and employ Clark Howard’s Costco mentality when it comes to grabbing diet vodka tonics at whatever open bar they descend upon.

My only question is why the gym hasn’t capitalized on this phenomenon, and just started serving alcohol at the juice bar. This seems like exactly the sort of efficient crowd that would enjoy both a mango-Kahlua fatburner shake and the idea of cutting out the middle man.

“Babbling Baboons”

Just last night, I saw a shining example of this group. He was currently working on what looked like his third aneurysm as he heaved weights, glared at himself in the mirror, and called himself a bitch. But while he showcased perfectly the sort of mindset I’m talking about, he wasn’t by any means the template for this group. Rather, it group ranges from the guy that breaks a sweat clambering into an elevator, to the fellow that eats fistfuls of HGH and can reverse-press a fire truck – but whose testicles can only be described as “ghostly.” You see, it’s a diverse category, unified by a single, entirely questionable passion.

It’s easy to identify this particular species. Just listen for important-sounding key phrases, such as “blast the lats,” “shock the core,” “reset your whole system,” etc. To the uninitiated, it sounds as if they’re discussing the best way to break into high-tech bank vault. In reality, though, you’re witnessing a complicated vocabulary that has arisen from the common pursuit of piecemeal self-improvement.

The amazing thing is that it doesn’t seem to matter if they’re fat, skinny, or built like a Russian brontosaurus in the ’86 Olympics – these guys love to talk about working out. They’re so enthusiastic it’s almost heartbreaking. My personal theory is that it’s a form of escapism. When they talk about bee pollen and acai berries, they can forget that they nearly had a stroke while reaching for a donut hole. They can pretend that their little brother and his middle school friends didn’t force them to be the practice dummy while they imitated UFC moves all afternoon. They don’t have to face the fact that cycling classes and anabolic steroids have turned them into the reproductive equivalent of one of those old nuclear test sites where all the sand has been blasted into dirty, bubbly glass.

“Gorillas in the Mist”

Believe it or not, my life bears little or no resemblance to a 1980’s sex comedy, so I’ve spent little to no time in women’s locker rooms. I can’t speak with any degree of authority about what goes on in there, but I imagine it involves a lot of lounging around in towels, pouring glasses of iced tea out of pitchers, and laughing gaily as ponies nuzzle you for affection. You should know, I’m also working on the assumption that the toilet paper is made out of pure, unfiltered sunlight in there.

Men’s locker rooms, on the other hand, are dingy affairs that smell like the most mathematically awful combination of chlorine, steam, and activated deodorant. Every shiny surface is fogged over and beaded with water. It’s the perfect place for men to be men, and for the government to discover dangerous new strains of fungus to play God with.

And yet, there’s one species that feels entirely at home within this hygienic hellhole: the oblivious, naked old man. He emerges from the sauna with his towel in hand, and a beatific smile on his face, as though he and his balls are meeting the world for the very first time. A steamy billow flanks him on each side, as if to announce his arrival to all those with fear in their hearts and cloth over their naughty bits. And yet, there’s no sense of panic or hurry to him – why should there be? You can’t rush a good air-dry, after all.

I think what amazes me most about this strange, beautiful beast is his absolute, almost Zen-like state of calm. He’ll put those pants on in due time, but until then, why not read a magazine, or strike up a conversation? And hasn’t he earned the right? I mean, he comes from the Greatest Generation. Where would we be without convictions and work ethic like his? We never would have had the Industrial Revolution, or beaten back the Axis. We wouldn’t have pulled out of the Great Depression, or have the luxury and hindsight to bitch about Reaganomics. Conversely, I’ve skipped entire days of work because “it looks stormy outside,” or “there’s a spider on my doorknob.” His ilk are men of pig-iron, and pants probably barely even register as an afterthought.

I’m sure there are a number of sub-species and variations that I’ve failed to cover, but these are at least the broad strokes. So the next time you hit the gym, take a few moments to look around at the local wildlife, and see what you recognize. But definitely don’t look in the mirror, because there’s no way I was talking about you. There’s just no way.

While people have started to revile Tiger, and consign him to being another entry on urbandictionary.com, I’ve actually begun to like him more. I assume that about 90% of celebrities are spoiled sociopaths with absolutely no conception of basic cause and effect, much less abstractions like personal responsibility. In fact, that’s what I like about a lot of them.

Now, I don’t like that Tiger cheated on his wife, or blew thousands of dollars on his escapades in Vegas. I certainly don’t like that his poor wife had to find out about all of this by inspecting his cell phone. But I do admire Tiger Woods’ confidence. He is, at the time of this writing, married to one of the most beautiful women on earth. This is a simple, widely-accepted, scientific fact. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that pure sunlight curves around her because it doesn’t want to face its own ugliness. I’ll freely admit that my own plan, in case we ever cross paths, involves a large dog-suit, a basket, a little bit of luck, and a note that details how I’m “hungwy” and “free to a gud howm ©”

Well, Tiger Woods looked at this and decided that he could do better… 16 times. He was disastrously wrong, of course, but that doesn’t mean you can’t admire the man’s moxie. And frankly, he continues to impress me, as I watch his official apology. I’ve bolded the take-home points, but read carefully anyway, folks. There might be a quiz afterwards.

Things to take away from Tiger Woods Apology Conference:

· Always wear khakis when you apologize for something like this. I’m not sure I see the connection, but I haven’t won several Masters tournaments either. Just remember that it’s key to look like you’re doing a fake newscast for your 8th grade civics class when you’re addressing the issue of how many creepy pelvises you’ve recently been in contact with.

· His wife’s name is pronounced EE-lin, and not EH-lin, like I originally thought. Or, very possibly, he’s the one pronouncing it wrong, because he forgot it about 3-4 Hooters waitresses ago. Either way, he’s saying it with confidence.

· When you’ve done something stupid, the best way to look good is to take on too much responsibility. What he did wasn’t especially admirable, but Tiger’s acting as though he was busy putting a fire out at the animal shelter, and just wasn’t fast enough to catch the giant globe that fell off the top of the Daily Planet before it landed on a school bus.

· “I convinced myself that normal rules didn’t apply.” Think about what golf really is. My theory is that when you’re married to a supermodel, endorsed by multiple companies, and personally richer than some countries because you happen to be some kind of savant at wearing collared shirts/bonking things, then it’s probably safe to say that normal rules don’t apply. Sh*t, gravity might not even apply. But it’s nice of him to say it anyway.

· Always take the high road: When he started to say “I ran through” I thought he’d finish with “this many bitches,” and hold his hands really far apart. Then he’d sort of nod knowingly at the audience, and maybe raise his eyebrows. Instead it was “the rules that a married couple should live by,” which was sort of a letdown, but probably the wiser of two choices.

· Visual placement is important. I’m really enjoying the close-ups of how disappointed his mom looks. I bet she grabbed him by the ear and gave him quite the lecture. And I don’t know the stern-looking frumps on either side of her, but they seem like very solid choices to me. It reinforces the message that he did something wrong, but doesn’t present him with any new temptations. It’s the same theory behind placing the fruit juices prominently on the snack table at AA meetings.

· Some things are best left unsaid: “It’s not what you achieve in life, it’s what you overcome.” Tiger once heard this and believes it’s true. I like to think that it was from a really sleazy chick with an orange tan, and she was pointing to the giant dollar-sign belt holding up her snakeskin pants. But he doesn’t have to tell us every last detail.

· In a move clearly calculated to minimize danger, Elin is absolutely nowhere to be seen. There’s any number of reasons why she isn’t there, but my guess is that Tiger was worried she might love him so much that she’d just start slamming his head into the podium until she turned it into borscht. Sometimes, the line between affection and money-stifled, importunate rage is almost indiscernible.

· Deciding to just get it all out on the table, Tiger goes on to talk about other accusations he’s faced – specifically, when he was accused of using performance-enhancing drugs. But when was that? And what the hell would you use them for in golf? I’ve taken a look at some of history’s greatest golfers, and as a rule, they look as though somebody put Jabba the Hutt on a forklift and then repeatedly dropped him into dumpsters full of sweater vests and stupid hats until something stuck.

· I wanted to make a Buddhist joke about Tiger’s mom somewhere in here, but thought “Hey, that’s racist.” But then Tiger brings it up at the 10:24 mark, and it turns out that not only did she teach him Buddhism, but that he’s practiced it for most of his life. Also, I know that yoga and Buddhism aren’t precisely the same thing, but there’s a sexy “downward dog” joke somewhere in all of this, and I just can’t seem to find it. Maybe I should be the one apologizing.

· “I. ask you. To one day. Find room in. your heart. To believe. In me. Again.” His speech writer has obviously told him to go slowly, and pause meaningfully. I’m not really on board with this, to be honest. This entire apology could have taken five minutes if Tiger hadn’t decided to think and read in slow-goddamn-motion. Are his speech cards written in some sort of elementary code? He sounds as though some mean-spirited geneticist decided to create a hybrid dumb five year old/crash test dummy and then taught it to read by dropping a box of thesauruses on its head.

[1] As a comedy writer, I have to admit this is pretty proves the theory of intelligent design.

That’s OK, because 99% of the movies that are supposed to challenge the viewer are the same smug lecture from on high that deigns to inform the unwashed masses that things like racism and war are bad. Therefore, if I’m going to stuff a Fanta™ bottle filled with gin down the front of my jean shorts and pony up $8, I’m perfectly happy putting it towards watching a hero serve the public good by committing as much spectacular property damage as possible.

I like that the directors of dumb action movies can keep a perfectly straight face when the explanation for their hero’s fantastic abilities includes phrases like “martial arts,” “advanced science,” or “bonked with a magic rock.” It’s all part of the unspoken intellectual contract between the director so lacking in self-awareness that they’d actually make such a movie, and the viewer with enough time and personal history as a latchkey child that they’re willing to watch it.

Unfortunately, the movies coming out these days don’t even seem to make an attempt at explaining the massive plot holes and paradoxes they present. There’s barely even any talk of slipping on an enchanted banana peel or getting a lapdance from a radioactive stripper. And the villains are uninspired goons that wouldn’t stand a chance against a particularly hot cup of coffee, much less a proper superhero. The match-ups are terrible, the story-lines can’t even charitably be called bare-bones and… you know what? Just between you and me, I think the magic is going out of the relationship.

Here’s just a few examples of what I mean.

Spider-Man 4: I’ve seen all of the Spider-Man movies, and I’ve done it despite the fact that Tobey Maguire might be one of the most useless actors alive today [1] . I like to think that says something about how much time I have on my hands my level of commitment. But even I blanched and sucked air between my teeth when I read that John Malkovich has been cast in the upcoming sequel, as a villain called The Vulture [2].

The Vulture is an elderly man with wings super-glued onto his shoulder blades, and his primary superpower is the ability to fly. That would be incredible for somebody like you or me, but in the superhero world, flying is like being able to dunk on a 4 ft. Playskool hoop. Almost every hero can at least fly, and none of them finds it necessary to look like their mother had an affair with the mascot from KU. It’s like director Sam Raimi cares less and less with each movie:

* In the first movie, the bad guy could fly, he had super-strength, he blew up buildings with his missiles, and he had a untreated personality disorder.

* In the second movie, the villain was a husky, shirtless middle-aged man wearing a trench coat in the middle of summer. But when you added his intelligent, vaguely sexual, evil metal tentacles and a complete lack of self-respect, you had a fairly functional super villain.

* In the third movie, the bad guys were a) a guy made out of dirt, and b) Topher Grace. Sure, the dirt man could grow in size and bonk things, but his greatest weakness was water, and it’s practically impossible to take a super-villain seriously when they can be defeated by children playing near a fire hydrant. And it’s even more impossible [3] to take anybody seriously when they’re Topher “Sh*tshoes” Grace [4].

All of that is still better than giving somebody’s grandfather the power of flight and telling them to go scare the hell out of an entire city. Spider-Man doesn’t really need to anything in this case, because The Vulture is just a minor threat to air traffic controllers and, possibly, the owners of new BMW’s, depending on his fiber intake. This won’t even be so much an ass-kicking as a great chance for a YouTube video. …Is it even legal to hit an elderly person in a chicken suit?

Iron Man 2: I know – another comic book movie sequel. The fact that I haven’t yet made it to a movie without a number in the title sort of obliquely proves my point. In the first “Iron Man,” we met a brilliant, spoiled inventor who was forced to realize the horror of his own creations when he was captured by a militant terrorist organization. In keeping with his newfound, peaceful ideals, he built a metal suit and turned himself into a walking, death-dealing special effect from Ozzfest. After escaping, he built himself a stronger, streamlined fire truck-colored suit and used it to mete out justice according to his new ideals. An unfortunate side effect of this decision, however, is that absolutely everything within a 1 mile radius of him usually gets destroyed. From what I can tell, Iron Man’s philosophy seems to be that crime hasn’t really been stopped until you’ve collapsed a highway overpass on top of it.

The villain in “Iron Man 2,” unfortunately, won’t take nearly that level of effort. Look at him:

Now I’ll grant that he looks menacing. He’s willing to use what seem to be whips made out of actual lasers. He’s also angry, obviously spends a lot of time brooding, and has way too many tattoos to bother with sissy things like shirts. If he were fighting (or, more likely, robbing) you or me, he wouldn’t even need laser whips. Or regular whips. He wouldn’t even have to take his belt off and snap the ends together or anything; he could just sort of point at me and grunt, and I’d already be apologizing about how “my wallet might smell faintly of urine, sir, as it seems I’ve had something of an incident. You’re really a very intimidating gentleman [5].”

Unfortunately for both of us, though, I’m not Iron Man. I’ve provided a picture, though – let’s compare the two, shall we?

This just isn’t going to be a fair fight. Mickey Rourke is bringing a lot to the table, but he has overlooked some crucial elements – the most important of which is a helmet. He also seems to have made the questionable decision to forego any sort of body armor. Threatening the world while shirtless is admittedly badass, but it also leaves you vulnerable to things like mall security with tasers, catching a nasty chill, or bullies that aren’t afraid to twist a nipple until it just pops off like a cheap radio dial.

Iron Man, on the other hand, has covered his entire body in futuristic armor that doesn’t look as though it was slapped together by stoned lift workers at AutoZone. Mickey Rourke simply doesn’t stand a chance, and we all know it. This is going to be nothing but one long, disturbing, ass-kicking in a movie that was just supposed to be fun; in short, it’s going to be this century’s answer to the disturbingly brutal boyfriend/girlfriend fight from “Footloose.”

Sherlock Holmes: I understand that there’s a certain market pressure to “update” and “modernize” concepts. Words like “reinterpretation” are flung around casually; when they were first conceived, they may have meant something, but now they’ve simply become codified Hollywood-speak for “We’re going to add a rap-rock soundtrack and/or parkour.” Modernization is a cure-all to make everything less boring by making it 6 times dumber, and frankly, I’m surprised we haven’t already seen a bass-thumping, martial-arts reinterpretation of David vs. Goliath [6].

[1] I really don’t know why I limited it to “actors” and “alive today.” I could literally take a shovel, raid the nearest grave, put a funny hat on the corpse, and I’d have already achieved something more worthwhile than “Seabiscuit.”

[2] I was initially surprised he would take on a role this dopey, but then I thought to myself — Oh yeah. ConAir.

[3] I don’t like to think about the fact that I have a college education when I write things like “even more impossible.” Next up: “impossiblest.”

[4] I don’t know much about morality or the existence of an absolute good, but something deep inside me just knows that waiting for Topher to use a port-a-potty and then tipping it down a steep slope is the right thing to do.

[5] If I bring any two things in the world to high-stress situations, it’s a) a wonderful sense of manners, and b) something I like to call “the octopus reflex.”

[6] Actually, the more I think about this, the further it moves away from “joke” and toward “probably going to happen.”

“What the heck,” grunted my fifteen-year-old son, Greg. “I mean, seriously, we won’t even be here for Christmas, we’ll be in Dubai. What’s the point?” His left nostril curled upwards, dragging his upper lip along with it as he shrugged his right shoulder, his body language alone expressing the utter futility of hauling four boxes of holiday paraphernalia out of the bomb shelter (yes, we Swiss are equipped for such charming eventualities) and up the stairs to the living room. My fledgling Christmas cheer vanished in a horrified little gasp. Worse, I think I aged ten years in three seconds.

Aghast, I turned to my seventeen-year-old daughter, Olivia. “No tree! No tree? We’ll be the ultimate Christmas losers!”

Olivia shrugged. To her credit, her attitude was slightly less offhand about project Christmas 2009, but she nevertheless still agreed that Greg had a point. However, Dubai or no Dubai, she couldn’t imagine Christmas without a tree. “Yes, we’ll definitely be losers,” she sighed, trudging off towards her room, looking over her shoulder to give me a regretful little smile that meant, “I’d love to help but I really don’t have time.” Poor Olivia; at the moment her time really is precious. She’s doing her final year at school, gearing up to the International Baccalaureate and is up to the tips of her eyelashes in work.

How about Mr. Prescott? Would he rise to the festive occasion and endure a couple of hours of cheesy Christmas music in my charming company, decking plastic pine-needles?

As soon as he cottoned onto the subject of our conversation, he stuffed his hands in his pockets, glanced up at the ceiling and sauntered downstairs, whistling a tune that doesn’t exist. Minutes later I found him stretched out in front of a James Bond movie.

I stood in the doorway with my hands on my hips. “Joyeux Noël!” I fumed, which is French for “get your cute little derrière into the bomb shelter and help me carry those boxes upstairs.” Well, it isn’t really; Joyeux Noël means Merry Christmas. But isn’t it the fuming thought that counts?

A few minutes later I could have been in (solitary) business. Instead, I sat down with a cup of tea and a Hobnob and pondered the joys of Christmases past. I then listlessly prepared dinner and, once my work was done, promptly went to bed.

It seems hard to believe that only twelve months ago the idea of decorating the tree was greeted with whoops of glee. Well, maybe I’m exaggerating the degree of glee previously expressed; my offspring’s 2008 response was more along the lines of “oh, ok, we’ll help, but only if we can listen to Coldplay instead of Haydn’s Messiah.” Which is fair enough; as it happens, Chris Martin does it for me too.

But here’s what’s troubling me: up until last year, decking the halls was still a joint effort, a family affair. (Not that Mr. Prescott has ever really been creatively involved in the actual decking process; his expertise lies more in the field of dealing with the inevitable collateral damage: putting boxes away, cleaning up broken baubles, and extreme vacuuming.)

How quickly they grow.

When I sat down yesterday evening in our as yet undecorated living room, my mind wandered back to Olivia’s first Christmas. I remembered how she wriggled along the floor blowing bubbles, all blonde and chubby and gorgeous in her navy blue romper suit with the penguin on the front. I remembered Greg’s first Christmas, picturing him so teeny-weeny at two weeks old, deliciously adorable in his red velvet Father Christmas suit that played “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer” when you tickled his tummy. I remembered icy, push-chair outings to the local garden-centre where my babies would gaze in wonder at the huge, magical Christmas display. I remembered carefully hanging the wonky kindergarten baubles so lovingly made by their podgy little hands. I remembered going bonkers year after year over terminally tangled Christmas lights, trying to convince the kids that I really didn’t need any help. I remembered it all, and I got all emotional.

Seventeen Christmases, gone in a flash…

Everyone always tells you that children grow up too fast, but it’s not until you wake up one day and discover they’re too grown up to get excited about decorating the Christmas tree that you realize just how mind-boggling “fast” actually is. Not that my kids are utterly blasé about Christmas; they both still love all the seasonal trappings and trimmings. It’s just that they’re beyond prancing around the coffee table, singing along to Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas.” They have more pressing things to do. The problem is: I liked prancing around the coffee table with them. It was brilliant!

So this morning, all alone, I set my iPod to a cheesy Christmas playlist. I turned up the volume, and then went to work assembling our artificial tree. I strung decorations and thought of all those noisy days when Olivia and Greg were little children. I relived it all like a giant patchwork of mini-movies, but I didn’t get weepy, I embraced it.

In fact, I spent two wonderful hours singing daft Christmas songs to the dogs at the top of my voice. As usual, the fairy-lights were terminally tangled, but this year I didn’t attempt to untangle them for more than a couple of minutes. Instead I chucked them in the rubbish, jumped into the car, headed for the shopping centre and bought new ones. When I got home, I wound them strategically around my tree, making sure they shone on the decorations Greg and Olivia had made as little children. Then I lit a fire, made myself a cup of coffee, and flopped onto the couch to admire my handiwork. On the stereo, Michael Bublé promised to be home for Christmas.

We won’t be home for Christmas this year. But we’ll be back soon afterwards and I know we’ll all be glad to walk into a house with a tree. It doesn’t matter that within a few days we’ll probably be heading up to the mountains for New Year, because we’ll all be pleased to see it when we come down again. Nor does it matter that, before we know it, Christmas will officially be over and we’ll all be moaning about having to take the darn tree down again!

Basically, at the end of the day, I know we’ll all be far happier remembering 2009 as “the year of the pointless Christmas tree” rather than “the year we just couldn’t be bothered!”

It’s possible that you’re the sort of well-adjusted individual that has never considered anything of the sort. If that is the case, then you’re either a) a cultural rarity, or b) a timeless, peaceful monk with a toothless smile – in which case, I would appreciate it greatly if you would teach me your indomitable martial arts, because I absolutely will not misuse them to further my own unsubtle sense of “good times.”

Being none of the above, I’ve thought a lot about meeting myself. I have the sort of ego that lets me seriously contemplate things like “How great would I be in person?” without any sort of chemical enhancement. And I ended up surprising myself a little. I’ll show you.

“Would we agree on things? “

This is why everyone wants a copy of themselves in the first place, isn’t it? We all want somebody who would get things the way we get them, without all the tedium of explaining, convincing, and threatening to withhold sex for a few weeks [1]. It would be amazingly easy to have somebody agree think that the same people are assholes, that the same TV shows are awesome, and that, as a matter of fact, not peeing for 2 whole days so that you can write the first three paragraphs of Moby Dick in the snow is an accomplishment, godammit.

Do Not Want

If this whole magical clone thing were to go down, we’d get about half of what we wanted. Sure, your copy would have the same vices, desires, and tastes that you do, but you’d also both be in the tenuous position of reviewing every single thing about yourself. Observing and interacting with another you would be just about the quickest and least gentle means by which to strip away all of your pleasant misconceptions. After all, we live in a society comprised of individuals that, on average, don’t have the self-awareness to feel bad about making things like Twilight, Akon, and goddamn Twitter [2] economically viable concepts. Hanging out with yourself for more than an hour would be the emotional equivalent of finding Freddy Krueger using your toilet when you go to brush your teeth at night.

Which leads me to my next important point…

“Could I kick my own ass?”

If I had to, I would guess that this is one of those “boy” questions. Nevertheless, it’s a vital one, because – at least in my case – it’s an issue that would come up pretty quickly. Similar opinions and classic lit-oriented urination only go so far.

Simply try to imagine the sheer number of things you don’t realize that you do or say. It’s very possible that your breath consistently smells like an outdoor lavatory during mango season, for example. Sure you’re funny at cocktail parties, but those perfectly-timed bon mots about the economy mean nothing when you have the sort of laugh that makes bystanders think somebody’s waterboarding a donkey. Combine that with the fact that the person the least obligated has to put up with your sh*t is you, and it’s inevitable that unpleasantness could arise.

The main problem with fighting yourself is obvious: they’re just as good or bad at fighting as you are. They’re just as strong, and just as willing to hold up their hands and surrender, right before squealing like a frightened sow and trying to bite you on the ear. And hell, you know they’re going to do it, because it’s exactly what you’d do.

I’ve thought about it from pretty much every angle, and there’s really no clear way to win. I honestly think it would come down to a matter of environment: who’s closer to the whiffle bat, or the garden hose, or the partially defrosted chicken breasts on the counter [3].

In the end, there’s no clear winner. You won, but you also lost. It would be cathartic, though, and fun.

If this sounds depressing, then you should be comforted to know that, at least half-way through, I and I would start laughing our asses off. We wouldn’t stop of course, and it would go on until we were too tired, bruised, or wised-up to continue on. But I think it would take something like that before we could be sickeningly cheerful pals that we were meant to be.

“Would I share with me?”

I want a lot of things, and only the good stuff for myself; I also know that isn’t necessarily nice. I would hate to have to split my car. I’d love to split my rent, but I’d also like to know that when I go to the bathroom, it’s different and, in some small way, special [4].

I would get twice the value out of all the clothes I bought – with the crucial exception of underwear, in which case each me would be an island unto myself. It would be great to split a car with myself because we’d never begrudge each other the chance to drive, and we’d agree on music. We’d never snipe at each other for driving too fast or slow, and we’d agree that pulling over for a Happy Meal is an indulgence that need not be judged, or even discussed.

I would be my own perfect alibi. After all, how could I be herding an musk ox into the living room of a guy who wronged me and subsequently feeding it an entire box of Ex-lax, when I was at the bowling alley? How could I possibly have knocked out my sworn enemy with a brick and tattooed “balls here, please” on their forehead when I was enjoying the merry-go-round at the fair? “Sure I had motive, officer. Lots of motive,” I’d say. “But without opportunity, you pigs don’t have a case and you know it.” And then I’d put my sunglasses back on and smile, because that’s what you do when you’re an outlaw like we would be.

I also feel I’m the sort of goon that would enjoy riding a two-seater bicycle with myself. I really would.

My friends, though, have enough trouble with just one of me, I think. They like me for my bizarre advice and my absolute willingness to taunt the animals at the zoo. But two of me would get tiresome quickly. Sure, it would be fun at first, but you can only make so many references to Queen in one conversation before it’s too much. And, as I’ve learned, you can throw so many rocks and half-finished juice boxes before you have a full-blown gorilla riot on your hands. It’s a delicate sort of balance.

Ultimately, I feel it would be a doomed effort to fit two of anyone into one life. It’s just a matter of time until you find something you aren’t willing to compromise on, something that’s simply yours, beyond all concept of fairness.

dum dum dum

See, I have this girlfriend, and just between you and me, I’ve sort of got a thing for her. And I’ll tell you, being with her while knowing I wasn’t with her is the sort of horrible, double-edged, “Twilight Zone” sort of proposition that I don’t really enjoy thinking about. Being part of some bizarre, perfectly isosceles love triangle is something I don’t have the emotional equipment for. Knowing how I feel about her, it’s impossible to imagine that another me wouldn’t feel the same way.

Now, she’s not the only thing, but she’s by far the most salient example in a life that I’m finding is filled with them. So maybe it’s a good thing, after all, that we don’t have the twins that we aren’t precisely asking for; we simply haven’t considered all of the logistics, the possible crime sprees, and self-knowledge that we almost certainly aren’t ready for. Maybe it really is better not to defy both quantum physics and a U.N.-backed ban on human cloning for the sake of some ideal companionship and just move forward. You were just going to end up chasing them around with a waffle iron, and you’ll probably forget all about it in five minutes anyway.

[1] If I’m being honest, this last one has never really worked, but it’s still a threat I make constantly – even to people I’ve just met.

[2] The fact that “to tweet” is worming its way into the modern lexicon makes me sigh so hard my ribs creak like a scary door in a Disney movie.

[3] I’m something of an unconventional combatant.

[4] I’m told I attach an inordinate amount of important to my bathroom time.

[5] We’d have to make a lot more food.