Whenever a short man does anything someone else dislikes, he is accused of having a Napoleon complex. Stubby landlord wants you to pay on time? It's because he's not 6' 1". Diminutive brother-in-law looks out for his sister? Clearly a French History major. And if either guy denies having a Napoleon complex, it's a textbook case of the Napoleon complex.
Let's clear this up: Napoléon Bonaparte was 5' 6.5", which was average for his time. So the alleged relationship between NP's actions and stature is undersized at best.
More importantly, why is Napoléon the only historical figure with a pop-psychology term named after him? Tubby drunks aren't told they have Yeltsin Disorder. Asians who don't brush aren't diagnosed with Mao Syndrome (boozed up, non-brushing fatsos have yet to produce an icon).
For the record, those whose actions actually resemble Napoléon's are typically tall. The average American CEO is 6' 0". American politicians too tend to be above average in height. Yet no one says, "Due to a lifetime of standing above their peers, these men develop a bullying nature that continues into adulthood."
No, they're just thought of as pricks.
But just imagine if Danny DeVito laid off 4,000 people: "AWWWW, AWWWW, he's just mad 'cause God downsized HIM!!!!! Know what I'm sayin'!? [High fives en masse.]
Monday, January 18, 2010
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
The Hipster Challenge
Do you get "nostalgic" about Cyndi Lauper tunes, even though you’re not nearly old enough to remember when she was on the charts?
Do you salivate over the latest iPhone while pining for the “golden days” of crappy gadgets like Atari?
Do you frequently take breaks on the 4th floor of your 6th floor walkup to remind yourself you’re “living the dream?”
Have you been contemplating going vegan for 12 of the past 12 years?
Do you know everything about chai and nothing about India?
Are the shirts in your closet divided into “slogan” and “non-slogan” sections?
Do less than 12% of those shirts actually fit?
Is the real reason you wear skinny jeans to make sure people notice the paperback in your back pocket?
Have you ever skipped a temp gig to start a petition demanding the government create jobs?
If you answered yes to more than 3 of these questions, I have some bad news for you...
Do you salivate over the latest iPhone while pining for the “golden days” of crappy gadgets like Atari?
Do you frequently take breaks on the 4th floor of your 6th floor walkup to remind yourself you’re “living the dream?”
Have you been contemplating going vegan for 12 of the past 12 years?
Do you know everything about chai and nothing about India?
Are the shirts in your closet divided into “slogan” and “non-slogan” sections?
Do less than 12% of those shirts actually fit?
Is the real reason you wear skinny jeans to make sure people notice the paperback in your back pocket?
Have you ever skipped a temp gig to start a petition demanding the government create jobs?
If you answered yes to more than 3 of these questions, I have some bad news for you...
Monday, January 11, 2010
Goldbug Exterminators
Gotta love the uncloaked disdain financial TV pundits have for gold. Not only are they incapable of talking the yellow metal without constant digs at “goldbugs,” but recently I’ve seen them mocking the “Hock Your Gold!” commercials that air on their own networks.
Yeah, "SELL YOUR HEIRLOOM!" ads are putrid spectacles (and gold permabulls can be pretty hopeless). But so are many of the technical analysis/STOCK ‘TIL YOU DROP commercials these channels run with nary a smirk. Never have I seen a pundit finger the hokey ads for shaman stock pickers as signs of an equity bubble.
Silly or not, "HOCK YOUR GOLD!" sponsors are still sponsors. It says a lot about the mainstream’s dismissal of gold that in an era of withering ad revenue not even gold oriented sponsors are safe from their barbs. If you're a TV finance hack who wants to crack wise about your advertisers to make it seem like no hype escapes your probing, seen-it-all eye, then jokes about technical analysis gurus should be head-and-shoulders above the rest (see how easy that was?).
Yeah, "SELL YOUR HEIRLOOM!" ads are putrid spectacles (and gold permabulls can be pretty hopeless). But so are many of the technical analysis/STOCK ‘TIL YOU DROP commercials these channels run with nary a smirk. Never have I seen a pundit finger the hokey ads for shaman stock pickers as signs of an equity bubble.
Silly or not, "HOCK YOUR GOLD!" sponsors are still sponsors. It says a lot about the mainstream’s dismissal of gold that in an era of withering ad revenue not even gold oriented sponsors are safe from their barbs. If you're a TV finance hack who wants to crack wise about your advertisers to make it seem like no hype escapes your probing, seen-it-all eye, then jokes about technical analysis gurus should be head-and-shoulders above the rest (see how easy that was?).
Thursday, January 7, 2010
WE GO LIVE TO THE SLIGHT DRIZZLE STORM DESK!
Among the many things I hate about news broadcasts are their clumsy attempts to switch from one topic to the next. This is especially painful when they try to toss it to the weatherman.
Anchor: "But for now, the Manhattan Rapist remains at large. And speaking of rape, I understand a cold front will be forcing itself upon us this weekend, right Chet?"
Weatherman Chet: "That's right, John! This weekend Jack Frost will be climbing through our windows at night and grabbing us when we least expect it."
When did weathermen become the center fielders of the newscast? Why does the entire show revolve around Ricky Raindrop? Weathermen all get their data from the same sources anyway. It's not like Channel 5 is going to predict partly cloudy while Channel 2 is forecasting The Rapture. All you should care about is which newscast has the hottest weather girl.
And how come no one riots when weather teams use dramatic, theatrical tones to report non-events? What does a 35% chance of rain actually mean? It means a 65% chance of no rain. Do we really need Avatar-caliber graphics for something with less than a 50% probability of occurring?
Worst of all, viewers are held hostage by these dubious data. Imagine you were off to a Yankee game, and before heading out, you heard a sports reporter say:
Reporter: “Tonight there’s a 35% chance Derek Jeter hits a homer.
You wouldn’t go, “Damn, better bring my glove!”
Of course, you can’t justify a spooky sounding S-T-O-R-M D-E-S-K if you telegraph that what you’re covering is a lack of something.
Why not just devote the whole newscast to wacky figures? Example: In 2008, there were 516 recorded homicides in NYC. Instead of a real crime beat, why not just set up a homicide “prediction” desk? Hire a hot chick, call her the Action 5 Homicide Honey, put her behind the SENSELESS VIOLENCE DESK and teach her to say, “Today we’re looking at 1.4 murders around town. The record high: 8 murders back in 1990. The record low, set all the way back in 1891, 0 murders.”
Anchor: “Hmm, not much murder back in 1891. Simpler times. Okay, speaking of bloodshed, we’ve got Rachel reporting from the Gaza Strip.”
Anchor: "But for now, the Manhattan Rapist remains at large. And speaking of rape, I understand a cold front will be forcing itself upon us this weekend, right Chet?"
Weatherman Chet: "That's right, John! This weekend Jack Frost will be climbing through our windows at night and grabbing us when we least expect it."
When did weathermen become the center fielders of the newscast? Why does the entire show revolve around Ricky Raindrop? Weathermen all get their data from the same sources anyway. It's not like Channel 5 is going to predict partly cloudy while Channel 2 is forecasting The Rapture. All you should care about is which newscast has the hottest weather girl.
And how come no one riots when weather teams use dramatic, theatrical tones to report non-events? What does a 35% chance of rain actually mean? It means a 65% chance of no rain. Do we really need Avatar-caliber graphics for something with less than a 50% probability of occurring?
Worst of all, viewers are held hostage by these dubious data. Imagine you were off to a Yankee game, and before heading out, you heard a sports reporter say:
Reporter: “Tonight there’s a 35% chance Derek Jeter hits a homer.
You wouldn’t go, “Damn, better bring my glove!”
Of course, you can’t justify a spooky sounding S-T-O-R-M D-E-S-K if you telegraph that what you’re covering is a lack of something.
Why not just devote the whole newscast to wacky figures? Example: In 2008, there were 516 recorded homicides in NYC. Instead of a real crime beat, why not just set up a homicide “prediction” desk? Hire a hot chick, call her the Action 5 Homicide Honey, put her behind the SENSELESS VIOLENCE DESK and teach her to say, “Today we’re looking at 1.4 murders around town. The record high: 8 murders back in 1990. The record low, set all the way back in 1891, 0 murders.”
Anchor: “Hmm, not much murder back in 1891. Simpler times. Okay, speaking of bloodshed, we’ve got Rachel reporting from the Gaza Strip.”
Thursday, December 3, 2009
It could be worse...your point being?
The other day I was chatting to an acquaintance of mine--being my usual dreary self--and the guy tried to cheer me up with the old “it could be worse” routine. Naturally, I responded in a manner befitting an Old World aristocrat like myself:
“Yes, you‘re right. It COULD be worse. But you know what else it could be…
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
B-E-T-T-E-R.“
I don’t know how so many people came to believe that recognizing you aren’t in the worst state possible is supposed to outclass morphine in the painkiller department. Next time I‘m performing a clitoral circumcision on the Ivory Coast, I‘ll be sure to tell the lucky lady, “It could be worse. At least I‘m using a clean boxcutter.” No doubt that will make up for having to go through life with avant-garde genitals.
Of course, even if things did get worse for me, all these imbeciles would do is reiterate that despite my newfound troubles, life could still somehow be worse. I could be in a gulag and they’d tell me, “Hey, it could be worse. You could be in Auschwitz. Now smile and show us where those gold teeth used to be.”
Up until the point of death, all these “it could be worse” stooges can offer as conciliation are meaningless captions about the sufferings of others. Not even death offers escape from their babbling, because at the funeral they always say, “At least he’s not alive and in pain.“
Yeah thanks...now I see this coffin as half full.
Knowing someone has ebola doesn’t make your cancer less painful. Meeting someone who lives under a bridge doesn’t make your trailer more luxurious. Seeing a guy whose wife is fatter than yours doesn’t cure the hernia you got from carrying her over the threshold.
The next time I encounter a fool who is giddy over trivial things, I‘m going to say to him, “Hey, it could be better. You could be anyone other than you.”
“Yes, you‘re right. It COULD be worse. But you know what else it could be…
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
B-E-T-T-E-R.“
I don’t know how so many people came to believe that recognizing you aren’t in the worst state possible is supposed to outclass morphine in the painkiller department. Next time I‘m performing a clitoral circumcision on the Ivory Coast, I‘ll be sure to tell the lucky lady, “It could be worse. At least I‘m using a clean boxcutter.” No doubt that will make up for having to go through life with avant-garde genitals.
Of course, even if things did get worse for me, all these imbeciles would do is reiterate that despite my newfound troubles, life could still somehow be worse. I could be in a gulag and they’d tell me, “Hey, it could be worse. You could be in Auschwitz. Now smile and show us where those gold teeth used to be.”
Up until the point of death, all these “it could be worse” stooges can offer as conciliation are meaningless captions about the sufferings of others. Not even death offers escape from their babbling, because at the funeral they always say, “At least he’s not alive and in pain.“
Yeah thanks...now I see this coffin as half full.
Knowing someone has ebola doesn’t make your cancer less painful. Meeting someone who lives under a bridge doesn’t make your trailer more luxurious. Seeing a guy whose wife is fatter than yours doesn’t cure the hernia you got from carrying her over the threshold.
The next time I encounter a fool who is giddy over trivial things, I‘m going to say to him, “Hey, it could be better. You could be anyone other than you.”
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Today's Lesson
Women are constantly offering naively confident theories about men’s sexual impulses. And lucky me, I am constantly overhearing them. One offhand comment I heard recently showcased such cluelessness I felt compelled to offer the ladies some words of wisdom.
As a teaching aid, I’m going to summarize a story by E. Hoffmann Price called "Satan's Daughter" that I truly believe should be taught to young women everywhere, right alongside Aesop's fables.
The story goes like this: An archaeologist unearths an ancient Babylonian statue called "The Daughter of Satan" (warning sign number one). The scantily clad statue comes to life and pays him a visit:
Her flesh was a warm, rosy amber…
Her delicately aquiline Semitic features were sweetened by the shadow of a smile that lurked at the corners of her sensuous mouth…
Her shapely body was a succession of fluent, rippling curves (If you need to stop reading now to go…be alone, I understand)…
The archaeologist also notes the: firm, full blossoming breasts and inward sweep of her waist.
The archaeologist can't actually close the deal because the temptress’s hips are guarded by a silver girdle; a girdle locked onto her by a jealous, ancient king (warning sign number two). The Daughter of Satan warns him that:
If you want me, we will meet in Kurdistan. But think well before you summon me in Kurdistan, first look at what remains of my long forgotten lovers.
Pretty straightforward.
But of course, the undeterred archaeologist still travels to Kurdistan. Along the way, he encounters a string of "desiccated bodies" resembling "the shell of a sun-dried insect." And shock-a-doodle-doo, all of them have "the red imprint of a woman's lips" on their foreheads (warning sign number three).
After a series of wacky twists, the Daughter of Satan reappears, girdle and all. She tells the archaeologist:
Deny and disown me, and go in peace. Your life will be long, but you will never forget the silver girdle that you could not remove.
She then hands him the key to her girdle and says: This is the key of doom. If you still have the courage and the will.
She literally tells him it is the key OF DOOM. When a person hands me the anything of doom, I run the other way. Someone says, "Hey Mike, this is the cotton candy of doom," I'm out the door.
Yet the archaeologist (presumably a man of letters) decides: It would be worse to wander with only the memories of a girdle without a key.
The moral of the story is that not even ancient, supernatural terrors and repeated warnings of certain, ghastly death can stop a man with sex on his brain.
And as I sit here writing this, I envy the archaeologist.
As a teaching aid, I’m going to summarize a story by E. Hoffmann Price called "Satan's Daughter" that I truly believe should be taught to young women everywhere, right alongside Aesop's fables.
The story goes like this: An archaeologist unearths an ancient Babylonian statue called "The Daughter of Satan" (warning sign number one). The scantily clad statue comes to life and pays him a visit:
Her flesh was a warm, rosy amber…
Her delicately aquiline Semitic features were sweetened by the shadow of a smile that lurked at the corners of her sensuous mouth…
Her shapely body was a succession of fluent, rippling curves (If you need to stop reading now to go…be alone, I understand)…
The archaeologist also notes the: firm, full blossoming breasts and inward sweep of her waist.
The archaeologist can't actually close the deal because the temptress’s hips are guarded by a silver girdle; a girdle locked onto her by a jealous, ancient king (warning sign number two). The Daughter of Satan warns him that:
If you want me, we will meet in Kurdistan. But think well before you summon me in Kurdistan, first look at what remains of my long forgotten lovers.
Pretty straightforward.
But of course, the undeterred archaeologist still travels to Kurdistan. Along the way, he encounters a string of "desiccated bodies" resembling "the shell of a sun-dried insect." And shock-a-doodle-doo, all of them have "the red imprint of a woman's lips" on their foreheads (warning sign number three).
After a series of wacky twists, the Daughter of Satan reappears, girdle and all. She tells the archaeologist:
Deny and disown me, and go in peace. Your life will be long, but you will never forget the silver girdle that you could not remove.
She then hands him the key to her girdle and says: This is the key of doom. If you still have the courage and the will.
She literally tells him it is the key OF DOOM. When a person hands me the anything of doom, I run the other way. Someone says, "Hey Mike, this is the cotton candy of doom," I'm out the door.
Yet the archaeologist (presumably a man of letters) decides: It would be worse to wander with only the memories of a girdle without a key.
The moral of the story is that not even ancient, supernatural terrors and repeated warnings of certain, ghastly death can stop a man with sex on his brain.
And as I sit here writing this, I envy the archaeologist.
Friday, November 13, 2009
2012: A Pyramid Scheme
In the new movie 2012, John Cusack plays a science fiction writer. Appropriate, because to Mayan doomsday believers, science fiction is interchangeable with science fact.
You'll remember that back when the millennium was approaching, Nostradamus-linked doomsday forecasting was all the rage. Then the millennium came and nothing happened. Now chumps who know even less about the Mayans than they did about Nostradamus are convinced that this time, it's for real!
Well unlike other popular doomsday scenarios like global warming, if the 2012 apocalypse is true, nothing can be done about it. It is basically preordained. So why sweat it? Why not just party accordingly? Hell, buy a new car. Chances are, your first payment won't be do until 2013.
Many 2012 believers even seem to be rooting for the world to end. If you're one of them, why wait for 2012? Why not just off yourself now? Like that old saying goes: Think globally, act locally.
You'll remember that back when the millennium was approaching, Nostradamus-linked doomsday forecasting was all the rage. Then the millennium came and nothing happened. Now chumps who know even less about the Mayans than they did about Nostradamus are convinced that this time, it's for real!
Well unlike other popular doomsday scenarios like global warming, if the 2012 apocalypse is true, nothing can be done about it. It is basically preordained. So why sweat it? Why not just party accordingly? Hell, buy a new car. Chances are, your first payment won't be do until 2013.
Many 2012 believers even seem to be rooting for the world to end. If you're one of them, why wait for 2012? Why not just off yourself now? Like that old saying goes: Think globally, act locally.
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