chris capel

Don't act like you've never LARPed.

2009-11-19T16:19:00.000-08:00

You're embarrassing yourself. Unlike this guy:

You wish you had this much passion. And time on
your battle-worn hands.

LARPing is fun and totally not lame at all. But only if you're making a parody of it in an effort to win twenty-five thousand dollars, an HD video camera and a one year supply of Wonderful Pistachios. Confused?

In case you're wondering, they are in fact wonderful.
(I've eaten them with my own mouth.)

So without further adieu, behold! My entry for the Wonderful Pistachios "Get Crackin'" video contest:

The voting ensues November 30th. I'll post the link when it's online. If you like the video, why not head over and vote for it? It would be like killing two Fire-Bellied Cockatrices with one Mana-Imbued Stone of Healing.

You know what I mean.

Screw you, old mop!

2009-09-04T16:57:00.000-07:00

When I watch those Swiffer commercials I can't help but feel sorry for that old, worn out mop. It seems kind of cruel to just throw him out, doesn't it?

Sure, it's kind of funny to see the poor guy hiding behind trees and sending flowers, but what about when the mop goes back to his crappy studio apartment in downtown Hollywood? Sitting in front of the TV obsessing over his lost love, sobbing all over his moth-eaten couch as he wonders how it all went wrong.

Hey, David Yates!

2009-07-18T19:18:00.000-07:00

Actually, just looking at this picture
makes me feel raped.

I'm willing to consider myself a Harry Potter fan. I've read the books and I think they're one of the best fictional stories ever written. That's why I'm also willing to go to jail for the rest of my life if it means saving the Harry Potter movie franchise from David Yate's incompetent hands.

The most effective way to explain just what Yates did to Harry Potter fans and the movie-going population in general is through imagery. See below:

For once, she didn't deserve it.

It's like he walked up to every kid in the world who's ever heard of Harry Potter and said, "I know you wanted to see a decent adaptation of your favorite books, innocent child. But I decided to punch you in the face instead. Oh, and that'll be nine to twelve dollars depending on where you live."

If anyone out there wants to help me plan the long, drawn-out murder of David Yates and his immediate family, meet me tonight behind the Circle K dumpster on main street. You know the one.

Oh, and bring donuts.

Extreme Makeover: #*$@! Edition

2009-04-23T23:26:00.000-07:00

The other day I was watching Extreme Makeover: Home Edition because that's what retired ninjas do. But I was shocked when... well, see for yourself:

In his defense, it was a pretty nice house.

I can only wonder what TV will be like when my future kids are my age. We'll probably have shows like Extreme Makeover: Murder Edition or My Bare Lady, where a group of U.S. porn stars travel to London and attempt to establish acting careers on the West End stage. Oh wait, that one is real.

Sorry, future children.

Two TV commercials that make me want to hadoken a small child.

2009-04-17T14:36:00.000-07:00

For those of you who don't know what a hadoken is, get a life. Or a copy of Street Fighter II for the Super NES. Or both.

Translated literally hadoken means "surge fist". Feel free to go
look in the mirror because I'm pretty sure your eyeballs just exploded.

Back on topic. I never thought I'd say this, but watching live TV has become a risky and dangerous pastime for me. I can't fast-forward through commercials so I never know when a ridiculously irritating one will pop up and annoy me into a mini-coma*.

min⋅i⋅co⋅ma*

-noun, plural mas.
1. A miniature coma lasting between one and seven hours. The victim usually wakes up with mild head trauma and self-inflicted rug burns from thrashing around on the floor like a rabid ferret.

It's real. Look it up.

This first example caught me off guard in a big way. The premise isn't necessarily bad. And the goofy white guy behind the counter is actually kind of funny. But it's the song in the last three seconds of the commercial that always seems to induce projectile vomiting.

I want to find the guy who wrote that jingle so I can chop him up
into little pieces and feed him to the guy who sang that jingle.

Seriously, the singer sounds like he's about to burst into tears. Ridiculous. Unless the director at the recording session was like, "Alright, Julio. I'll count you down. Here we go! Ready in five, four, three, by the way your wife was hit by a Mac Truck this morning and is in critical condition, two, one, aaaand..."

You're singing about a restaurant called "The Crazy Chicken", not auditioning for the part of John Proctor in The Crucible. Relax.

This other example will definitely incite uncontrollable violence. So if there are any small children around you, make sure they deserve to be kicked in the face.

I can't decide if this ad is trying to get me to go to
Six Flags or set a local retirement home on fire.

The guy who pitched this idea needs to be deported. To Iran. I heard that the day this commercial aired, police reported a 9,000% increase in head-smashed-in-with-a-television-related deaths. It makes sense.

Old people are good at three things: Pooping their pants, being scared of the Internet, and dying. Dancing is right up there with roller coasters and sex on the "Things that will probably kill me" list. In other words, not only is this commercial not funny, it's also a scientific impossibility.

That's a double whammy, Six Flags Advertising Department! And if that's not bad enough, I'm pretty sure that with enough time and/or scientists, we can directly link this advertising campaign to the current economic collapse. And the Holocaust.

On an unrelated note, how ridiculous is the heat in Arizona? Here's a picture of a newborn baby frying on a Phoenix sidewalk:

This is just a crude re-creation of the actual event.

Remember that time when Ryan Seacrest tried to high-five a blind guy on national television?

2009-01-15T16:43:00.001-08:00

Up high. Down low. Too blind!

In his defense, hosting seems like a really hard job. If that were me I'd probably get really embarrassed and softly high-five his face as a joke. It could have been worse, though. He could have told a paraplegic to "stand up".

He practically yells it at him. "Stand up, Chuck! Let em' see
how paralyzed from the waist down you are!"

If I were Chuck I'd have purposefully fallen out of my chair and rolled off the stage. Then sued.

For filmmaker Michael Bay slow motion is part of a complete breakfast.

2009-01-05T08:45:00.000-08:00

Last month my wife and I got an HD video camera and I'm pretty sure I love it more than our future children. Definitely more than our cat. Sorry, kitty. Maybe if you didn't snore I wouldn't want to throw you in a wood chipper. Seriously, a snoring cat? I thought that only happened in cartoons.

Anyway, this camera is beautiful. Eventually I'd like to use it to do wedding videos but in the meantime I made a short movie to practice editing, cinematography, etc. But before I post it I feel like I should explain something.

Now we've all seen at least one of Michael Bay's films. If you can't remember any off the top of your head just try thinking of the last movie you saw where the characters were sweating for no reason and every five minutes there was a mandatory explosion followed by a car flying off a building and crashing into a flaming helicopter in slow motion. All essential elements of any Michael Bay masterpiece.

I'm not criticizing the guy. You can't deny that his movies are successful. He could film himself taking a dump and call it Armageddon 2: You're Literally About To Watch Me Poop For Two Hours and people would go see it.

He just has a way of making the ordinary look epic, and I respect that. So the following video is an impression of Michael Bay eating a bowl of cereal:

Bad Girls Club: Proof that humanity needs a reboot.

2008-12-17T22:37:00.000-08:00

Is it just me or is this show trying to single-handedly usher in the apocalypse? God must not watch the Oxygen Network. Otherwise we'd all be dead by now.

Observe:

Classy.

The premise for Bad Girl's Club is similar to other reality shows. Gather 10 to 20 of the most irrational, unreasonable people you can find and put them in a McMansion with nothing but a hot tub and an endless supply of alcohol.

But these girls make Courtney Love look like Shirley Temple.

Relax, ladies. Neither of you should be allowed in public.

I understand that reality TV needs to push the envelope for the sake of shock value, but this show is really scraping the bottom of the gene pool. These girls seem almost proud of their social retardation. Like their glaring imperfections are part of a skill set that should be listed on a resume.

I feel I am most qualified for a position at Forever 21 because I am:

Easily provoked

Wildly promiscuous

And you best not get in my face cuz I be all like, "Get up outta my face, ho!"

One time I stayed home from work and watched a Bad Girl's Club marathon just to see what would happen. By the third hour I was on my front lawn in my underwear drinking vodka from the bottle and swearing at my neighbor's kids for "disrespecting me".

You think that's crazy? (it was) Once I encountered a "bad girl" in real life. It was a lot like being cornered by a rabid wolverine.

I was walking to my car after a particularly intense Tae Bo class when I noticed a woman stumbling toward me.

Like any bad-girl-fearing-man, my eyes went immediately to the woman's exposed midriff, where to my horror I saw what is most commonly referred to as the "Tramp Stamp". The defining characteristic of any "bad girl". See below:

At least they sell what they advertise.

Before I realized what was happening she was in my face demanding a cigarette. I politely told her I don't smoke and she replied, "SPRING BREAK!!! WAAAAAA!!!" It was at this point I realized that if I didn't do something quick she was going to kill me with her bare hands and eat my soul.

If you ever find yourself in this situation try to keep a clear head, because the solution is surprisingly simple.

Just give the rabid "bad girl" something she absolutely cannot resist. Something that will distract her long enough for you to sprint to the nearest police station. I'd suggest either of the following:

Hard to go wrong with free alcohol and
a trashy gift card.

Because let's be honest. She's going to get pregnant.

Unfortunately I had nothing like that on me. I did however have one of these:

You can't argue with 50 milliliters of Ketamine. One dart from
this baby can take down an elephant. So use at least three.

Five darts in and around her jugular did the trick! Before I knew it I'd stashed the body in a nearby dumpster and was home in time for Deal Or No Deal.

That night, as I watched Howie work his magic I realized something. It's not just Bad Girl's Club. Reality TV in general is like a giant, throbbing pimple on the ass of humanity.

Someone needs to put out a nationwide casting call for a hot new reality show called Fornication Island. Then put everyone who shows up to audition inside a giant rocket and fire it into the sun.

Maybe then our nation's youth will think twice before sodomizing their last shred of dignity on national television in exchange for free booze and fifteen minutes of fame.

Registered sex offender looking for work. (babysitting preferred)

2008-12-05T00:14:00.000-08:00

Last night I was listening to the John and Jeff show while driving home from a friend's house. The topic was a news story about a Minnesota couple who hired a 23-year-old man off of Craigslist to babysit their kid.

Yes, you read that correctly. They hired a complete stranger from a shady website to spend six hours alone with their offspring. In their defense, at least he wasn't really, really, extremely creepy-looking.

Oh wait.

According to myfoxtwincities.com, after these mouth-breathers left for the evening, the man proceeded to "...coerce the child under his care to engage in sexually explicit conduct while videotaping it." Which means he probably showed up to the job looking something like this:

"Do you guys have a basement?"

This waste of space could be facing up to thirty years in prison, and I'm sure we all hope he gets the maximum sentence and then some. But lets talk about the parents for a second.

What event could possibly have been important enough to these people to warrant leaving their child with a complete stranger? And if you have to go online to find a sitter, why pick Craigslist? That site is for finding used washing machines and adobe-themed furniture. Not childcare.

This kind of irresponsibility should be rewarded with at least a few years of community service. Or maybe you could give them a test consisting of one multiple choice question. Get it wrong and the punishment is life in prison.

The question could be: "If a train leaves St. Louis at 3:35 a.m. and travels west for seven hours, then which of the following babysitters is most likely to shatter your child's innocence?"

And the choices (click to enlarge):

Any parent dumb enough to leave their child with a creep from the Internet deserves life in prison. Which I hear consists mainly of getting raped, crying, and crying while getting raped.

Talk about suspension of disbelief...

2008-12-02T14:01:00.000-08:00

Today's movies can sometimes be a little over the top. With advances in visual effects, filmmakers are becoming less and less limited in terms of what they can put on screen. But there's one premise that no moviegoer should ever be asked to buy into:

She looks like she's about to Jazzercise.

I can sit in a darkened theater and believe that cars transform into giant robots and say stuff like, "My bad." Or even that a giant ape that lives on a dinosaur-infested island prefers blonde's. But a 110 lb. woman taking down her psychotic 200 lb. ex-husband? No way.

I don't care how many Judo lessons she takes. One solid punch in the face and she's out cold. Trust me, I punched a girl in the face in the 9th grade and knocked her down some stairs and she easily had 30 lbs on me. It was awesome.

Maybe if the unhappy couple was played by these two:

And that's a big maybe.

But it's not just Enough. It's any "tough chick" in any movie or TV show. The idea is too ridiculous to be believable. Now lets say you and one other person are the last two survivors of a zombie apocalypse. Who would you rather have at your side:

There is definitely a wrong answer to this question.

If you guessed the old man with the walker, you are right. Do you know how easy it would be to replace that walker's legs with sawed-off shotguns and chainsaws? Any respectable zombie would take one look at that human weapon and limp the other way.

If you guessed the "tough chick" you are wrong and will not survive the zombie apocalypse. She may look tough/annoying in that photo with her leather and chains, but put her in the middle of a zombie-infested city and watch how quickly she locks herself in the nearest public bathroom and starves to death.

As annoying and unbelievable as "tough chicks" are, they're not going anywhere anytime soon. So if you're a big shot director and the studio execs are breathing down your neck to cast a female in the role of the troubled ex-Marine who's haunted by her dark past, I urge you to at least find an actress who is the following:

1. Hideous

This photo was taken right after someone asked the question,
"Who here has ever taken a bath in infant blood?"

2. Butch

Don't let the smile fool you. She knows her
way around an automatic weapon.

3. A member of the WNBA

After this photo was taken she literally finished eating that net.

A woman cannot be attractive, petite, and tough at the same time. It's a scientific impossibility. And stuff.

Some celebrities can be really annoying. And by some I mean Pink.

2008-11-19T12:55:00.000-08:00

I'm not usually one to voice my opinion on the subject of which talentless female pop star most deserves the gas chamber. But if it was the final question on Millionaire and I HAD to choose, I'd say Pink before they even finished reading the question. And I would win. Here's why:

Dr. Seuss haircut + beer bottle + itchy crotch = Hardcore.
Or crabs.

It's like the photographer was saying, "More annoying, Pink.
Come on, make me want to punch you in the throat. That's it."

One time I was stopped at a red light on my way to The Pottery Barn (they were having a sale) and I decided to turn on the radio. The last thing I remember hearing before I blacked out was "iiiiiii'm comin' up so y-". I woke up several hours later in my still-running car, covered in dried vomit. It took two months and almost four hundred dollars to get rid of the smell. Nice one, Pink.

But this isn't just about her music. An autistic chimp could write better lyrics, sure. But it's her personality that really makes my blood boil.

I hate it when celebrities sing about something they know nothing about. Take Weezer's song Beverly Hills for example. The chorus goes something like, "Beverly Hills. That's where I wanna be!" Umm, you are. Or if you're not then you could be if you felt like it. You have millions of dollars. Shut up.

Pink wrote a song to George Bush accusing him of a lot of things including not knowing anything about hard work. Move over, Shakespeare:

Let me tell you 'bout hard work
Minimum wage with a baby on the way
Let me tell you 'bout hard work
Rebuilding your house after the bombs took them away

Let me tell you 'bout hard work
Building a bed out of a cardboard box
Let me tell you 'bout hard work
Hard work
Hard work
You don't know nothin' 'bout hard work

While I kind of agree with this sentiment, Pink is hardly the one who ought to be bringing it to his attention. She spent a whopping nineteen years on this planet being not-famous before releasing her debut album at the ripe old age of twenty-one and becoming a millionaire.

And since when is building a bed out of a cardboard box hard work? Bums hate hard work, Pink. That's why they're bums.

The song should have gone something like this:

Let me tell you 'bout hard work!
Doing a photo shoot after pulling an all-nighter in
the clubs of North Hollywood!

Let me tell you 'bout hard work!
Deciding which car goes best with my current hair color!

Let me tell you 'bout HARD WORK!
Having to stay in a four-star hotel while mansion #3 gets renovated!

Pink needs to spend less time telling the press how hardcore she is, and more time working on her songwriting abilities. Because as it stands, I've found more meaning in the theme song to Charles in Charge than I have in all of her music combined.

Monsters vs. Aliens trailer hits the web. Watch it or I will kill you.

2008-11-16T16:15:00.000-08:00

It's crazy to finally see this trailer online. I worked on the movie for over a year and a few of my shots are in this preview. I animated the guy scanning his hands, feet and butt (comedy gold) and the shot where Dr. Cockroach says, "I'm not a quack! I'm a mad scientist."

Are you sitting down?

2008-10-07T21:09:00.000-07:00

You may want to. Because what you're about to see is probably going to rock your face off. Nine out of ten people that went to mine and Lindsey's wedding reception said they left feeling like they'd been kicked repeatedly in the teeth/throat. In a good way.

This is why:

I'd like to thank the academy.

In hindsight, this video is only lacking three things: Explosions, dinosaurs, and exploding dinosaurs.

My name is Elder Capel and I'd like to almost burn your house down.

2008-09-30T10:38:00.000-07:00

When I was nineteen I served a mission for the Mormon church in Toronto, Canada. I was there for two years knocking on doors and talking to people on the subway.

I spent most of my time in the city, which I was grateful for. I loved how multi-cultural it was. Every door we knocked on was answered by someone of a different nationality or religion. And surprisingly we were met with very little hostility. The only people that didn't like us were Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus, Catholics, Jehovah's Witnesses, Lutherans, Methodists, Evangelicals, Pentecostals, Baptists, Anabaptists, Presbyterians, Anglicans, Congregationalists, Christadelphians, Eastern Orthodoxes, Western Orthodoxes, Chinese Orthodoxes, the Religious Society of Friends, Pagans, Puritans, Rastafarian's, Scientologists, Wiccans, Amish...es?, Atheists, Agnostics and various African diasporic religions. But other than that.

I loved how every culture had it's own smell. I got pretty good at telling them apart because the door that was being slammed in my face also carried with it a burst of air from the inside of their apartment into my nostrils. East Indian apartments were my favorite. Thinking of that curry-and-body-odor smell hitting me square in the face still makes my eyes water. (seriously, it stings.)

After serving in the city for a little over a year I was finally transferred to a smaller town about three hours northeast of Toronto called Kingston. I had two companions and one of them was coming to the end of his two years. Missionaries have a tradition where every six months they burn part of a suit. The first six months you'd burn a tie. The second six months, a tie and a shirt. The third, a tie, shirt and pants and at the end you'd burn a whole suit.

I'd been in my new area for maybe a month when my companion, for the sake of embarrassment we'll call him Elder Aaron Fluhman (because that was his name), decided he wanted to burn a suit. So one really really hot, dry summer day we set out to find the perfect spot. Now I'm no eagle scout, but if there's one thing I remember from all those camp outs it's that if you want to set something on fire, find an area with lots of tall, dry grass. Preferably near a lot of really expensive houses, in case you have to go to the bathroom. Oh, and the wind needs to be blowing toward those houses. Here are some examples of what I'm talking about:

I like the amount of grass here, but where are
all the houses?

Getting warmer. Note the light poles in the backgroud.
A sure sign houses are nearby.

That's more like it. Perfect conditions and more than
enough fire to burn a suit.

If you want to be extra cautious/lame, make sure there's a water source nearby and bring a tiny bucket with you. (like you'll need it)

After ten minutes or so of driving around we found a spot just like the one I described above. It was perfect, so my companion hung his suit on a tree branch and wasted no time hosing it down with lighter fluid and setting it on fire. We each took a picture standing next to it and afterwards stood there watching it burn.

I don't remember which of us was the first to notice but after a few minutes it was clear that we had made a mistake. The tree the flaming suit was hanging from was on fire. (don't ask me how that happened, okay. I'm not a rocket scientist.) From there the fire spread to the grass and the wind carried it toward the surrounding houses. We tried filling the tiny bucket we brought with us at the nearby pond and it helped a little but we knew we needed to call the authorities. Our bucket was just too tiny.

We ran to the nearest house and told them to call the fire department or the Mounties or a lumberjack or whoever takes care of fires in Canada. By now the whole neighborhood had gathered along the street to marvel at the inferno. It was near the end of June so I thought it might be convincing if I started running around yelling, "HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY EVERYONE!" but I didn't have any of those little American flags to hand out. Plus I was in Canada.

To make a long story a little less long, the police and fire department showed up, (i was really hoping for a lumberjack) and put the fire out before it could do damage to any houses. We still had to take a ride with the police and give them our statements and the whole time all I could think was, "I hope they have Playstation in Canadian prison." But nobody pressed charges and by the end of the day everything was back to normal.

That night my companions and I drove home in silence, but I knew that we were all thinking the same thing. Next time, bring a bigger bucket. Lesson learned and no harm done.

I think I'd be a good racecar driver. Just ask the old hispanic woman I almost killed.

2008-09-16T13:58:00.000-07:00

In an older post I mentioned that I used to work for Super Shuttle. While I absolutely hated that job, it did provide me with a few good stories. Here's my favorite:

I had just dropped off my last passenger of the night who wouldn't shut up about me doing 80 on a 55 mph freeway. I gave her the usual "I'm sorry that you're such a wuss. That's probably why your kid wouldn't stop crying." speech and headed back to the airport. This was before I got three speeding tickets in one month and finally decided to slow down.

So I'm on the I-17 freeway going south and I'm in the far left lane. You know, the lane designated for people who like to drive as if they're being chased by a T-Rex. (I like dinosaurs. My favorite is the Velociraptor.) It's late in the evening on a Saturday night so the freeway is pretty open.

All of a sudden the SUV in front of me swerved hard to miss another SUV and flipped upside-down, turning over and over on it's side before it crashed into the freeway median and came to a stop. The other SUV spun around and an old Hispanic woman flew through the back windshield and flopped onto the freeway right in front of my van. The SUV continued to spin until it slammed into the median and all I could do was hit my brakes and hope I didn't run this poor woman over.

When I got out to see if I could help I'm pretty sure I looked something like this:

Maybe my biceps were a little bigger at the time
but you get the idea.

I ran around to the front of my van hoping for the best and what I saw was scary and relieving at the same time. The woman was lying on the pavement alive, and her head was maybe a foot away from my front tire. I checked her out and she was okay. She was bleeding and in shock but she seemed in tact. Her daughter got out of the car and ran over to us flipping out. I told her she was gonna be okay and ran over to the other SUV. It was upside-down so I started kicking the back window because the other doors wouldn't open.

It was at this point that I finally looked around and saw that I was the only person doing anything. There were people all around me sitting in their cars just watching. I yelled at this guy to come help me and he did. We opened the back door of the SUV and pulled four screaming girls out. They were hysterical, but okay. One had snot running down her nose and into her mouth, though. Gross. I thought about saying something, but decided against it. Seriously though, I don't care how many times your car rolled over. Wipe your nose.

By this time the police were there so I figured my work was done. I tried to get back in my van but these cops wouldn't stop trying to give me the Medal of Honor so I said, "Isn't that a military medal?" and they were all, "We have extra." Then this lady came up and was like, "You're a hero! Please bless my child. He's sick." and I was all like, "Is it contagious?" (he looked pretty bad) But before she could answer, everyone had gotten out of their cars and were giving me a standing ovation. Next thing I knew I was being hoisted up on everyone's shoulders and people were throwing confetti.

At this point you'd think I'd be crying or asking those cops for money instead of a medal, but all I could think about was the fact that I didn't run that old Hispanic lady over. It felt good to not kill someone. Some might say I was lucky, or that God intervened. But if that's true then why didn't God inspire me to just take a different freeway so I could get home in time for LOST. That police paperwork takes for-EVER!

I love my fiance. Like a lot.

2008-08-28T15:09:00.000-07:00

It's pretty ridiculous how beautiful my future wife is. Her hair is always cute. (I have to say cute or I go back in the cage) Her teeth are whiter than my legs. Her eyes are ginormous, and I mean that in a really really good way. And the way her eyes squint when she laughs makes me wish everything I said was funny. But there are a lot of other reasons why I can't wait to marry this amazing, smart, funny, responsible, pine-scented, gorgeous girl. Here are just a few:

She is the funniest girl I've ever met. I'm not just saying that. If any of you have read her blog you'll see what I'm talking about.

She has a hard time pronouncing/using certain words. She says 'reef' instead of 'wreath'. 'Periphial' instead of 'peripheral'. 'Components' instead of 'opponents'. 'Stompede' instead of 'Stampede'. 'Snuggle' instead of 'Smuggle'. As in, "Isn't it illegal to snuggle immigrants?" Yes, Lindsey. Yes it is. This is a quality that I love, mostly because it makes me feel smarter. Or is it more smarter?

I think the best part though is that I can tell that she loves me as much as I love her. (which is a buttload) I remember the first time we met. It was so weird, but I felt like I already knew her. We were never really uncomfortable or awkward around each other. It was the closest thing to love at first sight as I've ever experienced. Okay this is starting to get cheesy so I should probably stop.

23 more days....

Disaster Movie: Oh the irony.

2008-07-31T17:01:00.000-07:00

If you haven't seen the trailer for Disaster Movie, odds are your eyes are still in their sockets. Personally, I gouged mine out along with everyone else in the theatre the minute this bad boy came on screen. Even when I watched it on TV in my living room during a commercial break it still made me feel awkward and embarrassed. Like I'd done something wrong.

See for yourself:

You're welcome.

The trailer itself begs a lot of questions. How did this movie get green-lit? Who managed to read through the entire script without lighting it on fire and burning their house down? And finally, where do I find the studio executive who said, "This is comedy gold. This needs to be seen." I want to kill his family.

Okay relax, I don't really want to kill his family... probably because I haven't seen the whole movie, but still. Anyway, I have a theory on why stupid movies continue to make money. See below:

People are un-smart.

Now I think it's safe to say that this woman doesn't really believe that elephants are larger than the moon. Odds are she just wasn't paying attention. But doesn't that require a certain kind of stupidity in and of itself? Why go to all the trouble of getting yourself on a game show if you're not even gonna take a few seconds to read all of your choices. "Elephant! I know this one! It's elephant! Trust me, Regis! I don't even need to see the other choices. Elephants are freakin' HUGE, okay! I mean good luck thinking of something BIGGER than an elephant, am I right?!!! LOL!!!"

Simply put, stupid movies keep making money because stupid people keep watching them.

The average American IQ is 98, lower than almost every other country that isn't considered "third world". So it should come as no surprise that movies like Beverly Hills Chihuahua and Wild Hogs do so well at the box office. I only ask that movie theaters start giving non-retards some kind of pre-trailer warning. Here's an example:

click to read

Is this too much to ask?

Have you ever crapped your pants in front of six people in a Super Shuttle van? ...yeah, me neither.

2008-07-30T14:12:00.000-07:00

For those of you who don't know me, I'm Lindsey's ridiculously photogenic fiance Chris. She's become a little obsessed with blogging lately so I figured it was time for me to see what this is all about. And what better way to break the ice than by telling an "I crapped my pants" story.

Let's be honest for a second. We've all, at some point in our lives thought to ourselves, "If I try to fart right now, there's a ninety percent chance that I'm going to poop a little. But you know what, I know my colon better than it knows itself and I'm calling it's bluff." This is commonly referred to as "gamble gas".

Anyone with a colon has at some point, gambled and lost. Whether it's a mini-shart after a 2 a.m. Filiberto's run or a total colon blowout extravaganza after five-too-many churros at Disneyland, we've all been there. In public. With our pants/shorts/sweats/capri's/socks (I'm just assuming that if you were wearing a dress the poo would slide down your leg and into your sock) full of poop.

But I digress.

Before I moved to California I worked for a company called Super Shuttle. They prided themselves on having creepier drivers per-capita than any other airport shuttle service. See below:

I'm pretty sure I saw one of these guys chewing on
a human elbow in the holding lot.

It's like he's saying, "I can drive you home! I know where
you live! ...no seriously, I've been inside your house."

Anyway, I was one of the few un-creepy drivers at the time, (although after you read this post you may disagree) and I worked for Super Shuttle right up until I moved to California.

It was an okay job. My van had over 300k miles on it and we had to pay for most repairs out of our pockets even though we were only responsible for a few thousand of said miles. Most of my co-workers would steal every passenger they could get their hands on when they weren't busy telling dirty jokes or just mumbling incoherently over the cb radio. And in the barren wasteland of Arizona it was nice to know that your a/c would blow cold as long as you were doing 60mph or more. Like I said, it was okay.

Anyway, one stupidly hot summer day in Phoenix I was driving around the city picking up passengers to take to the airport. My van could hold seven people including the driver and I was on my way to the sixth, so this was shaping up to be a pretty great run. The last guy lived in an apartment so I left my van running in the parking lot while I went to get him. He answered the door and said he needed a few more minutes. I said, "Okay. I'll just wait for you in the van. We're parked outside."

So far so good, right? Well on my way back I was feeling pretty good about the money I was about to make so when my colon was like, "Hey, wanna make a bet?" I was all smiles and confidence. Little did I know that I was about to lose the biggest hand I'd ever been dealt. I gave one little push and suddenly this happened:

I chose Niagara Falls for two reasons:
1. It closely resembles the consistency of my poo on that particular day.
2. The amount of water. Seriously.

The people in that picture symbolize the people sitting in my van, wondering why their driver suddenly stopped in his tracks and shuddered like he'd just seen a ghost.

I had to think fast. I managed to waddle back up to the guy's apartment all the while thinking, "You know, if I could live this day over again I probably wouldn't wear shorts." He answered the door and I asked if I could use his bathroom. He obliged and I walked through his living room, being careful not to "spill" of course.

I locked the bathroom door behind me and cleaned myself up as best I could, considering they were out of toilet paper. I almost used one of their towels but decided to keep that last shred of dignity my colon had left me.

To be honest, I couldn't smell anything as I walked back out to the van. And I wasn't about to try. I have my limits. I just assumed that underwear previously filled with poo = smelly shuttle driver. But on the way back to the airport nobody said anything. Maybe the smell of the van and it's five thousand previous drivers overpowered my own. Maybe they could smell it, but were too embarrassed to say anything. Personally, I'd like to think of it as divine intervention.

By the way, i told Lindsey this story when we first met and she instantly fell in love with me. Romantic, huh?