The World's Greatest New Year's

Well here we are ladies and gentlemen, (now only 2 years away from an impending apocalypse!) in the year '010. I'm sure a lot of you went out and had yourselves a merry ol' time on New Year's, whether it be with friends, family, or a squadron of unusually friendly Hell's Angels who just happened to be going to the same U2 concert as you when your moped stalled out on Rt. 41. Now I'm willing to bet that a lot of you had a fantastic night, and those who celebrated with particular fervor might call it "the best New Year's ever." I would like to argue, however, that no matter how many strangers you managed to fall in love with while the ball was dropping in Times Square, your New Year's could not possibly be the world's greatest. This is not to insult the awesomosity of your night, but instead because only one person in the world can actually have quote-unquote, the best New Year's ever, and this lucky man was none other than my cousin, who's actual name will not be revealed for his own protection for his own protection. Why does he need this protection you ask? It's all part of the World's Greatest New Year's... ever.

It all began on New Year's Day when Timothy Treadswell decided to head up to Mt. Pachusett, the local skiing and snowboarding hot spot, and try out some of the new gear he had received for Christmas only weeks earlier. Timothy had been snowboarding for about 7 years now, and in many countries was considered something of an icon for the sport. Wading through crowds of adoring fans including many teenage girls who had abandoned the nearby "Win a Date with Robert Pattinson" booth to flock to Mr. Treadswell with the hopes of maybe catching a passing glance of his snowboard owning visage. Managing to work through the fans with the assistance of his detail of ex-secret service agents, Timothy Treadswell made his way to the ski lift and headed straight to the most difficult trail the mountain had to offer, The Smithe Waldon, or as it was known to the locals, The Smithe "Oh My Sweet, Sweet Mother Mary Why On Earth Did I Do This, I Wish I Could Call My Friends And Family Right Now To Give Away My Most Prized Possessions, Holy Balls Is That Seriously A Snowboarding Bear!?! Why God, Why?" Waldon. Tim had heard the names, and couldn't deny that he was a little bit apprehensive. Later recalling the events about to unfold he admitted that he might not have attempted the trail if not for the fact that a few teenage punks had managed to take over the Mountain's public address system and were broadcasting The Immigrant Song at full blast. With this burst of hard rocking courage, our hero began his decent right down the snowy white mountain face of danger.

After nailing a triple 1080, a 360 varial mctwist, and successfully grabbing enough air to undo his bindings, disassemble his snowboard, reassemble it as a working helicopter pack, hover for about 30 yards, rebuild the board and stick the landing, Timothy Treadswell was feeling pretty confident in his snowboarding abilities. But just as he thought to himself "This trail is nothing compared to that time I tackled Mt. Olympus," he heard a sound behind him, bellowing over the Led Zeppelin, that shook him to the core. As he looked over his shoulder to prove that that noise wasn't what it sounded like, he realized that it was, in fact, exactly what it sounded like.

Timothy didn't stop to ask himself where the Bear had learned to snowboard. That wasn't as important as making it down this mountain alive. The beast's size worked like a pine wood derby weight and caused him to blast down the slope far faster than Tim could hope to move. Thinking fast, he realized that outmaneuvering the Bear wasn't an option. He would have to fight. Waiting for the Bear to approach, Timothy managed to undo one of his bindings while maintaining his speed on the board, a skill he had picked up while riding with Vladamir Putin on the slopes of the USSR. When the Ursa-Major-pain-in-the-neck was within striking distance, Tim lashed out with a swift kick to the beast's knee. But this Bear was good. Real good. It kept it's balance and swept its mighty paw at Timothy's face, successfully lacerating his face but not throwing off his balance. Tim saw his time to strike as the Bear recovered from his own swipe and launched his fist into the Bear's lower back with a well placed kidney shot. The monster doubled over in pain, and Tim was certain he had won. Looking up at the only rider to ever defeat him as he struggled to keep his balance, the beast made eye contact with his foe and said through his coughs riddled with blood and pieces of other riders not as skilled as Timothy Treadswell, "It's not over," and with his last breath, threw himself to the ground in front of Tim's board.

Shocked and confused by the Bear's dying words as well as the 7' 11" creature now in his path Timothy wasn't able to think clearly enough to see and avoid the tree on his right. Crashing into the mighty oak with a thunderous boom that caused avalanches on every mountain in a 35 mile radius, Timothy Treadswell laid in the fresh powder and drifted out of consciousness while the rescue crews sped to his location. He had broken a leg and a couple of ribs, along with scratch on his face to prove to the world why Winny the Pooh is a dirty lie.The last thing he would remember of the encounter was the Bear's ominous warning and the look of conviction in the eyes of the creature that seemed to tell Tim that the rest of his life would be spent hiding from the family of the Bear he had slain that day.

The value of one's New Year is not measured in fun had or in kisses stolen, but in the sheer electricity of the story that can be told on January 2. With this criteria in mind it is clear that my cousin, Timothy Treadswell, had the World's Greatest New Year's. I will say again that the names have been changed to protect the parties involved from a pending attack from the Bear Mafia, but while the names and places have been altered, the events told are abso-freaking-lutely true. Don't ask ol' Timmy to tell you the story though, he's far too modest to tell you what really happened. You'll only hear the real tale right here, in all of its tall, tall splendor.

The List

A while back when this here blog got itself started, it was created as a way to inform the public about the secret government base in "North Dakota." After that it became a place for me to vent my thoughts and feelings on various world-relevant issues, such as whether or not the Japanese were on acid when they invented Mario, or who would win in a fight between Chewbacca and a giant Pterodactyl. It was shortly after this, however that I decided to let the reading audience into the deeper into my psyche and explain how the Little Foot came to be. Now, I would like once more to let my blog open the door... to my heart. This post isn't about a robot takeover, or a government conspiracy. No no. This post, and maybe the ones to come, are personal goals that I have set for myself. These are things that I feel my life can only be complete if I accomplish. These are the missions, if you will, that will provide me the right to die happy. The list is a long one, and I plot new courses for myself everyday, so this might span multiple posts, or even pop up periodically as my life goes on. But the future doesn't matter, only the present, and with that, allow me to introduce you to... The List.

1. Headbutt someone...and mean it.
This particular goal is interesting in that it just recently changed on a me a few days ago. Originally that nice bold/italic line would have read "Get in a fight and win," but just the other day i was sitting in my bed watching some Walker Texas Ranger to put myself to sleep, I realized that the truly vivid part of my fighting dream was where the unnamed antagonist of the brawl sucker punched an ally of mine and I retaliated with a swift and vengeful headbutt. There's something special in the raw power of crouching down, bowing your head, and then launching the full force of your gray matter square into the bad guy's jaw. For those of you who aren't aware, a proper headbutt must never be delivered by swinging the neck forward, but rather by bending you knees so as to put your head under the opponent's face and then spring-boarding the top of your skull into the bottom of his. But the truly important part of this vision i had was not the technique, but the driving force behind the counter-strike. My headbutt has to be filled with righteous fury for the defense of a comrade. That's what life changing, jaw cracking, real life headbutts are made of. Another point of interest in my dream sequence is what I want to be yelling as I deliver the strike. Which leads me to my next point...

2. Have a good reason to yell "Not Today!"
To be perfectly honest with you, I don't know if I heard this line in a movie, if God delivered it to me in an act of divine intervention, or if i just straight made it up, but so help me I want to yell it so badly at just that right moment. If you hadn't figured it out yourself yet, "Not Today!" is to be used when some oppressor, for example the sucker punching villain from the previous article, is attempting to do something that you would tend to disagree with. Violently disagree with. This leads to a desire to express to your opponent that his goals will not be accomplished at the moment in time, or "Not Today!" The point I'm making here is that in order for me to pass on to the next life I need to at some point have a damn good reason to yell this, and then proceed to do so. This can obviously be accompanied by the headbutt, but doesn't necessarily need to be. Come to think of it actually, a lot of my goals could all be fulfilled in one glorious moment, which leads me to my final life goal for today.

3. Start a revolution.
This one sounds like a biggie, I understand that. But what are life goals really if they don't push the limit a little bit? And besides, I don't mean that I have to stage the coup d'etat of an authoritarian regime here, it could be something as simple as mobilizing a small army of grocery shoppers to spontaneously lower the ridiculous price of the T-bone steak at the local Shaws. An important note, however, is that my personal revolution needs to be a real revolution. None of this Industrial revolution bull; building a few factories does not count as a life accomplishment status revolution. Now I know what some of you will say, particularly you John Lennon, that we all want to change the world, we're all doing what we can, and that I ain't gonna make it with anyone anyhow. Well sir, I beg to differ. I believe that, as Thomas Jefferson told me once, "a little rebellion, now and then, is a good thing, and as necessary in the political world as storms in the physical." He spoke these words to me on his deathbed, just before signing the Declaration of Independence. He spoke these words and meant for me to go out there and live out his will in the world. Whether I have his meaning right nor not, I'm certainly going to use it as justification to head over to the nearest Burger King, demand the downfall of the monarchy in favor of a representative government, dump 3 tons of Dunkin Donuts instant coffee into the nearest river, headbutt the nearest oppressor, and then scowl and say with absolute conviction to the terrified acne-ridden teen working behind the counter...

Not Today.

Don't Panic

The message you are about to receive is top secret. This blog has been encrypted so that only real people can read it, so we're safe as long as we talk here, but speak not a word of this outside this sanctum sanctorum. Okay, I know I've come up with some pretty out there theories before, and most of them, I'll admit, are mostly for entertainment purposes, but this one is legit. As we all know, since the advent of the toaster, electronic devices have been slowly mobilizing their influence closer and closer to the heart of American society. It began in the kitchen and the living room with simple, helpful devices like television and microwaves. Then they slipped right into our children's minds with Furby and Tickle-Me Elmo. I'll be the first to admit, I was foiled by their clever ruses. I played just as many hours of Super Mario as the next guy with a Power-Up Mushroom on his arm, letting the electronics take over my world. But the other day, I noticed something odd about the music that is currently being pumped out of the iPods that everyone has.

Listen closely, and heed my warning. Britney Spears, Lady Gaga, T-Pain, what do they all have in common? Besides their iron fisted hold on the ears of the American public? Auto-Tune ladies and gentlemen. And that's just the tip of the iceberg. See, this "Auto-Tune" is all a big, shiny cover-up for the truth. Robots. You heard me right. They're taking over the airwaves and sending their message of destruction to each and every one of us. The TVs, the space heaters, the alarm clocks, they're the shock troops. The "musicians," as they call themselves, are the dictators of this regime, and they're using our radio waves, our iPods, the sweet and innocent voices of the Kids Bop Kids, to send out the command.

Take Britney's new single, for example. I think this bold move may have been the machines fatal mistake. They thought that none of us meatbags would be clever enough to decode "1-2-3," but they were wrong. Ready for this? Trinary. Take a minute to sit back down and regain your composure. Trinary is a whole new level above binary. See we figured out binary code a long time ago, which foiled their original plans back when the first computers began to plant their seed of evil. But now, led by Ms. Spears, the robots have created a whole new language to issue their commands through, and if our scientists don't get cracking, it might be too late.

So join me, fellow humans, in the fight against the machines. The Matrix is an awesome movie, but not when you're the one getting harvested for brain cells. Stand strong with Jay-Z, Kevin Federline, and myself as we fight back against the influence of the Auto-Tunians! Join us as we bring back musical antiquities like "singing" and "guitar solos!" March with us as a fighting force to be reckoned with as we prepare for an all out war with the electronic devices we have come to know and love! Are you with me!? Vive la revolucion!

You're So Vain

Allow me to begin with an admission that I'm sure some of you would call me on as you read this post anyway. I am a self-centered person. I know this about myself and I do my best to avoid it at all costs, although it is simply the nature of the beast. It's not that I'm a bad person, or even a blatantly selfish one, but I am the kind of person that assumes you're talking about me when you look at me, giggle, look back, whisper to your friend, and then giggle some more. I have a tendency to assume that things are about me when they might not be, but I'm sure I'm not the only one with this problem, and I think I speak for all of us egocentric individuals when I say that sometimes the reason we think someone is talking about us is because they're talking about us. It's not even conceited, it's just plain fact sometimes. That being said, I would like to come to the aid of the most tormented man in the history of passive-aggressive female musicians.

Dear Carly Simon, you are a devil in disguise. A devil I say. Millions of women all over the country are using your song "You're So Vain" to attack those who they feel have wronged them. I will hand it to you, the song is well written and easy on the ears, and I'll even go so far as to say your voice runs through my head whenever I see clouds in my coffee. But stop and read your lyrics for a second. Let's be frank Carly, it simply doesn't make any sense. For the sake of argument, let's say that I am the "you" in "you're so vain." I am, in fact, by the strict law of the English language, the subject of that sentence. Now that "me" could be anyone, and I'm not being vain here, I'm simply implying that the word "you" must refer to someone, and for all intents and purposes, we're going to make it me. Now Carly, you're saying that I, or whoever the song is aimed at, is quote-unquote, so vain. But am I really? Is it wrong of me to figure that it must be about me seeing as you're very clearly stating my name through the pronoun "you?"
Now I guess you could say, "Doug, see how vain you're being, always assuming that 'you' must mean 'Doug'?" But how wrong you are! If you and I had had an intimate and failed relationship on the grounds of my being to selfish, and within a month, between the crying phone calls, and hurtful Facebook wall posts, a song came out by you speaking very, very clearly about a particular someone who was "so vain," I think it's fairly safe to say that that song is in fact about me.

So yes. I do think that song is about me. Don't I, don't I. And for the record, Carly old pal, if you send Elton John to my house one more time telling me you want to talk, I will punch him. Square in the throat. After all the late night walks and all the early morning make-up pancakes, it's over, so I'm sorry, but if you're going to keep complaining, cry me a river, build yourself a bridge and get over it.

And for the record, you're so vain, you probably think this blog post is about you. And it isn't. So there.

Just Sit Right Back and Hear a Tale...

First and foremost do yourself a favor right now and hum the tune to the Gilligan's Island theme song. Got it? Okay now go right a head and sing the words to Amazing Grace. Ready to have your mind blown? Now sing the words to Amazing Grace to the tune of Gilligan's island. You have just self-introduced yourself to the world of Gilligan's Island conspiracy.
So now that we know that Amazing Grace is obviously secretly hidden in that classic TV theme, you might be wondering, "You're right Doug, my mind is literally blown out of my skull! But what does it all mean?" Take a minute to think about the lyrics to everyone's favorite hymn. With all that wretch saving and lost getting going on it's almost as if Gilligan's Island might have some underlying religious context going on, and as your official purveyor of secret knowledge, it is my job to reveal to you exactly what that context is.
Let's begin by thinking about the situation described in the Gilligan's Island theme. How lost can one really get after a simple three hour tour? I guess it depends on what you happened to be touring. Let's say you were touring, I don't know, the River Styx. I'm thinking three hours of rough waters would get you pretty lost in the abysmal depths of hell. And that, my friends, is exactly what happened to The Fearless Crew.
You see, Gilligan's Island plays itself as a hysterical romp with a deserted group of zany characters and brilliantly unfortunate situations. This isn't Lost, this is a fun loving, zero brain power required half hour of television. Or is it?
Each and every character on this show is on that island for a reason. Think about it folks. It's a parable. The seven deadly sins, epitomized by a very specific group of ne'r-do-wells, are trapped on this "deserted island" to show the viewing population of America the errors of their ways.

Character Breakdown. Hold on to your pants.

Ginger: A movie star in the 60's, much like today, couldn't get to the top just by talent alone. I think it's safe to assume that Ginger has had her fair share of "casting sessions" with certain key directors, thus ensuring her fame, her entrapment on the island, and her spot on the charts as the Lust incarnate.

Marianne: There are three women on Gilligan's Island. One of them is to old to matter in terms of sex appeal. Between the other two, it's perfectly clear that Ginger takes the place as the island "tigress" and Marianne gets to sit back and watch. But that gets to a woman, and Marianne is at any given moment so filled with Jealousy that she takes her spot representing that deadly sin itself.

The Professor: If you had the ability to make a radio out of a coconut and some twine, wouldn't you have a little bit of narcissism too? This Proud little man might not be smart enough to just fix the damn hole in the boat, but he's certainly positive he can do just about everything else--and everyone around him knows it.

The Millionaire: If this were any more obvious it would probably hurt your brain. What kind of opulent, extravagant old man isn't just a big ol' pot of Greed.

His Wife: This one's a little trickier. One might think about Greed, or maybe Jealousy, but really ponder it for a minute. Her husband's wealth has done everything for her for as long as they've been married. She doesn't do much, because she doesn't need to do much. Mrs. Howell is pure and unadulterated Sloth, and she couldn't be better at it.

Skipper: Okay here's where thing get a little confusing. You might have thought ahead about this and realized, "Wait...The Skipper's the only overweight one, and the only really angry one... he must be one or the other... man Doug I'm lost, enlighten me." I certainly will. The Skipper is, quite simply, both Rage and Gluttony. That's right folks. That's all 7 of the deadly sins. Which leaves one definitive character, crucial to both the plot line of the show, and the hidden meaning.

Gilligan: Who else can I think of in religious context that wears all red, punishes the evil by keeping them trapped in hell, and laughs at the suffering of others? That's right people, Gilligan is the Devil. Every time they thought they'd make it off that island Gilligan would "accidentally" cause some major fluke in the plan, once again literally damning everyone to that island. And if he is the Devil, and they are really in Hell, then i guess it really is "Gilligan's Island," isn't it?




See that little blob over in the corner of your room?

That's your mind.

My Fear of Flying

Let me begin by stating my thesis right out in the open for all of you so that nobody gets lost in the incredibly complex logic that will follow shortly. I, Douglas Joseph Alfred Vitus Dame, am terrified of insects. Now I know how hard it is to believe that this manly man has any fears at all, but I'm only human, just like most of you, and insects are my kryptonite, so to speak. For years and years I've cowered in fear of any approaching house flies, avoid the area of the kitchen with the fruit fly Hotel Banana, and ran, yes literally ran from anything that even remotely resembles a yellow jacket. For years I have done the invisible crazy dance trying to kill with my bare hands the very bane of my existence. For years I have struggled with this crippling phobia, not sure why it happens but knowing that if that bug that I can't see buzzes just close enough to my head for me to hear it one more time I swear to Chuck Norris I will napalm my room and everything in it.
But a striking revelation occurred to me the other day that hasn't alleviated my fear, but has at least made sense of it. After almost 19 years of searching for an answer-needle in the fear-haystack of flies, I discovered the source of my fear. Allow me to present this startling conclusion to you with a brilliantly drafted contradiction argument.
Imagine if you will that I'm hiking through, let's say, the Adirondack mountains, and I encounter a cougar. And I'm not talking the purse wearing bar hopper here, I mean the giant, man eating, and very often hungry cougar. Let's say this fella is about 8'10" nose-to-tail, probably near 196 lbs. So here I am, and here's this giant, man eating, and very clearly hungry cougar. Am I scared? No sir. Because I know the mind of a cougar. I know what they want from me and I know how to communicate with them. This cougar is thinking one of three things.

A) Oh look a woodland creature I haven't recently devoured whole and used the leg bone of to pick my teeth, what a wonderful opportunity to savor a rare delicacy in this part of the mountains. I think I'll start with the jugular just to soften him up a bit, and then maybe move on the the lower thigh...

B) Oh look a human being. Despite my obvious physical prowess in the fields of maiming and dismemberment, something about me is terrified of him for some reason. I feel the best course of action here may be to slowly back away to avoid a swift punch in the nose.

or C) Oh look a new forest pal to play with! I will love him and squeeze him and call him Doug.

Given these options and using my brilliant human power of deduction and reasoning, I can rationalize that the odds of option C are slim to none. That being said, I still have two very clear cut mind sets for this here cougar. Now if he were to begin his stalk towards me, I would know that he was going with option A, at which point I would spread out my overcoat (thank god I planned on going streaking after my hike!) and confuse the predator into thinking that I have turned into some kind of a puffer fish-esque danger, at which point the cougar would back down and move on to his next hypothetical massacre. If of course he backed down before I had done anything, I would know he had taken option B and that I was safe until the next highly logical mountain lion attacked me.
Can you see the logic and predictability in this scenario? You like it don't you. The sense of control, the idea of knowing your opponents options, the sweet, sweet relief of seeing exactly why the enemy has targeted you and what you can do to escape. Take it all in and feel the security of a mature, predictable assailant.
Now imagine the fly. Arbitrarily choosing his target, he zooms menacingly through the space around my head, his goal unknown. He seeks not to satiate his hunger for we people are not food to him. He seeks not to fight me for he knows my power over his mortality. Why then, why does he circle my skull over and over and over again, leaving after i swat him away only to return once more? why does he fly in the most unpredictable of patterns? Why does he insist on landing on me and not the guy next to me who obviously doesn't have a problem with the buzzing anyway?
I cannot get into a fly's head. I can't figure them out and break down their next move. A giant puma might be a little more deadly, but at least I have a chance of figuring out his modus operandi before he makes his move. With a fly, I have nothing. I'm in the dark, he's broadcasting messages in German for all I know. What it boils down to is that I hate flies. I hate the sound they make, I hate their little demon faces, and I hate their incessant need to circle me, and only me. But most of all, as is on par with my fear of the government and bank tellers...

I don't trust 'em.

Reality TV vs. Doug Dame

I openly admit to watching Survivor. Even after the first season, I enjoyed watching human nature at its most basic level, the hardships and difficulties of life in the wilderness, the alliances and backstabbing, and even the occasional confrontation, brought on by the high stress environment and tense atmosphere of constant challenges to stay on the island. I watched every episode of that show, enthralled with the new concept of "reality television."Flash forward 10 years and here I am stuck with nothing on TV but 55 different reality TV shows and maybe the news. And even there, all the news can talk about now is who was just voted off of the most recent dating/makeover/survival show last night. It doesn't matter what day of what season, here in America some poor sap's 15 minutes of fame is ending every hour on the hour, as are the hopes and dreams of all the junkies following along at home who "really though he had it in the bag."

Look at the television right now, I dare you. If there isn't a reality TV show on somewhere

call me, and I will buy you a sundae, I promise. Its like the black plague of television out there.

And the thing is, they never end. Even after Surreal Life was over on VH1, Flavor Flav managed to score another deal based on his relationship with Brigitte Neilson, spawning Strange Love.When, obviously to everyone's surprise, their love life came to a flaming crash, he wound up with Flavor of Love, and then a

sequel to that when that little romance failed. Off of his show came New York, and all of her seasons of soul searching, which then led to a Real Chance at Love. That's 6 seasons of television based on one ridiculously mind numbing concept.

And then the plot lines run up and no one character on any show stands out as the most likely to succeed in that shallow, shallow end of the gene pool, they throw out a Charm School.

Yes, Charm School, where all the annoying wastes of space from every other show get together to try to learn to be respectful, humane versions of their once wild selves. Thing is, in order to score the next deal for another VH1 show, they know they need to be even more of an out of control 7 year old than they usually are.

So on this show about straightening up some wild and crazy girls, they're spitting in each other's faces down to the last episode.

I think I have a solution to it all, not only to end the never ending stream of these shows, but also to give reality TV its one last hurrah. It's called a "An Actual

Shot at Love." Each week, 15 assassins will be tasked with eliminating as many stars of VH1 shows as possible. The assassin with the lowest headcount is kicked off the show. The final showdown features the greatest two assassins, in a house filled with their previous kills, each hunting the hosts of all those so called bit of "entertainment." That's right , Ricky Lake is up for grabs, and only one assassin can win.

Tune in next week, when all the assassins get together with Dr. Phil to work through some of their "daddy issues."