I'm sorry if some of you have already heard this story, but I can't stop telling it! I was on the treadmill at the gym the other day and, due to the scuff of my shoes on the belt and the dry desert air, I kept getting shocked by static electricity every time I accidentally touched anything around me. It wasn't that big of a deal, so I just ignored it and plugged my headphones into the treadmill. I had been listening to Obama's speech in the car, and I wanted to keep listening, so I tuned the headset to CNN.  I was smiling placidly and listening to the promise of new green energy when all of sudden, a jolt of static electricity traveled up my headphone wire, into my earbud, and electrocuted my entire ear canal at a voltage reserved for movies like One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.  

I shrieked "JESUS CHRIST!" at the top of my lungs, possibly offending and definitely terrifying the woman running next to me. I just clawed the sizzling wires away from my face and wadded them into the drink holder. I was shaking. Am I alive? What year is this? Who's the president? Where am I? Luckily, nine out of the ten TVs confirmed that Obama was the president, and after glancing around the room and seeing that everyone looked a little bit like they could be on Rock of Love, I confirmed that I was in California. 

I actually placed my trembling hands on the heart rate sensors, mostly out of curiosity. The good news was my heart rate wasn't too crazy from my shock, the bad news was that everyone in the gym was staring at me. I thought about pointing to the TVs and saying, "Sorry guys, it's just the state of the economy. Terrifying. Shocking," but I just smiled weakly and attempted to read Obama's lips for the remainder of the broadcast.  

These Pants Are Hot. Literally.

How much do these pants look like what wrestlers wear to lose weight? You can tell the model is so pissed to even be photographed wearing them. How sweaty do you think she is in there?

Designer: Let me zee, ow can I make zee pants to flatter zee woman's bodee? First, I must taper zee leg. Zecond, I must enlarge zee crotch. Third, I must make zem so that no air can ezcape. 

I can't get enough of the last three shots. 

1991

We were trying to figure out what movie to see the other day and Scott was like, "What's that movie called? 'I Don't Really Like You?'" I thought it was so funny.

Barf

World's Creepiest Teddy Bear

I was researching an article on creepy Valentine's Day presents and I stumbled across this teddy bear. How scary are its eyes? How uncomfortable do I feel looking at its shoes? Is it haunted?

Grasp The Skull Gauntlet's Power!

Steve is Ricky Martin

The picture quality may not be great, but the message is clear. Steve is Ricky Martin. In order to prove this, I've superimposed a picture of Ricky onto Steve's face and the features are so uncanny, you may not even notice a difference. The photography is WSU circa 1999 made evident by the presence of the Busch Light can in Steve's hand and the unmistakable visage of Charlie in the lower right hand corner.

You be the judge.

Do you hear something?

I was scouring the Internet looking for a story I couldn't quite remember about someone whom I thought had skin cells removed from their ear, and then grafted onto their nose due to skin cancer. The story went, in my mind at least, that the ear cells were so hellbent on continuing their life's mission to become an ear that the patient's nose started to grow some sort of ear-like growth on the end of it. The person had, in a sense, a total earnose. 

Man, I wanted that story to be true! I now actually think it may have just been a dream I had. In any case, as I was obsessively googling it and finding nothing to support the reality of my fabled earnose, I did come across this guy.

This guy has an armear. You can read the full article that I stumbled across here. He's a Greek-born Australian performance artist named Stelios Arcadious, which is like, four letters away from Stadium Arcadium, the Red Hot Chili Peppers album.  Some people call him "Stelarc." I call him "reason I can't sleep at night."

He spent 10 years searching for a surgeon willing to perform the controversial operation and, as I understand it, his "third ear" is really human cartilage that has been grown into the shape of an ear, kind of like the Batman cakes my mom used to bake for us as kids, except those solidified into the shape of Batman. And we did not implant them in our body, but rather ate them whilst drinking Super Sips purchased at the red store that subsequently and without fail burned our throats like battery acid. 

In any case, to further enhance the living art exhibit of his own body,  the artist hopes "to have a tiny microphone implanted [in] it that will connect with a Bluetooth transmitter; that way you can listen to what my ear is hearing."

Okay, let me just repeat that. 

He hopes to have a tiny microphone implanted in his arm ear, so that people can hear what his arm ear is hearing. Wow. How committed to the arm ear is this guy? He just wants to maintain the authenticity of a real ear that badly. Can he take it out? Will it be there forever? Is he going to put a dorsal fin on his back? Or some sort of finger mohawk on his head? Because I'm totally getting a second set of eyes and a mouth installed and its going to look a little like this.

I also loved how many Bluetooth and hearing aid ads ran up and down the page alongside the original article. 

What's that? Oh, you wanted to cry today? You wanted your heart warmed? Well, consider it done.

How I Know I'm Old

Many times a day, I'm reminded of how old I am. Maybe it's because neon shirts and skin-tight jeans are in style again. Or maybe it's the fact that walking through the cloud of thunderous music and teargas cologne leaking out of Hollister gives me an instant migraine. God forbid I go inside and actually try to percieve a tiny tank top in its darkened hallows; I would probably pass out on a pile of sweaters from the eyestrain. In any case, I certainly feel old. But, I've never felt quite as old as I did when I listened to that Lady GaGa song, Just Dance, while sitting in my car. You really need to listen to it to get the full effect.

I had a completely unexpected, and elderly, reaction to it. A youngster, perhaps a Whitney Port or a Gossip Girl, might hear the song, hop out of her car, and heed its imperative message to just dance by actually dancing; I, the old one, had this inner monologue happening.

Oh-oh, eh

I've had a little bit too much, much

All of the people start to rush, start to rush by

How does he twist the dance? Can't find a drink, oh man

Where are my keys? I lost my phone, phone

Oh no, she lost her phone? She needs that! It's really hard to get back all those phone numbers. Wait, she can't find her keys? They probably fell out of her purse! They're probably on the floor! Lady GaGa! Check the floor!

What's going on on the floor?

I love this record baby but I can't see straight anymore

Keep it cool, what's the name of this club?I can't remember but it's alright, a-alright

Just dance, gonna be okay, da da doo-doo-mmm

Just dance, spin that record babe, da da doo-doo-mmm

Just dance, gonna be okay, d-d-d-dance

Dance, dance, just, j-j-just dance

Did someone give her roofies? She doesn't even know where she is! It is not gonna be okay, nor alright, this is getting really, really dangerous.

Wish I could shut my playboy mouth, oh oh oh-oh

How'd I turn my shirt inside out? Inside out right

Okay, now I'm seriously worried. She can't see, she doesn't know where she is, she may or may not have been slipped a date rape drug, and now she's engaging in alcohol and drug-related risky behavior. Somebody help her! She's going to get a DUI! Get her out of there!

It pretty much continues on like that for awhile, until my favorite part of the song, which goes

Spend the lasto(I got it)In your pocko(I got it)

I think it means spend all your money, but who knows, it could some sort of code for everybody do ecstasy. The point is, I don't know because I'm old. I'm so old I want to take care of a pretend girl in a song lest she get into sketchy trouble at the imaginary club that doesn't even exist. I'm going to go spend the lasto in my pocko on Golden Girls DVDs so I can just see what's right around the corner.

I'm obsessed with this car. I saw it parked oustide of a Von's in Rancho Mirage and it's totally for sale. If you want to buy it, you can see the craigslist ad here. Who owns this? A cartoon character? How long is the hood? Steve was like, "It looks like something Mr. Burns would drive."