Funny Strange is Lori Culwell's blog.

A Guest Post That Might Offend You.

I would like to apologize in advance to Stephan's grandma and anyone else who may be sensitive to adult language.  Because you see, sometimes I put up something like this post where I was giving someone a hard time for a comment that was giving me a hard time, but then I ended up being wrong, they weren't really giving me a hard time, and sometimes the comments from a post like that are so funny and make me laugh so much that I ask one of the commenters to write a guest post.  This is the explanation for what you are about to read.  If you'll recall, this post was referencing the fact that sometimes I write ironic things about products and advertising, and this in turn will cause the Google Ads that you see to the right to generate advertisements for those products, which is unintentional and funny at the same time.  This got my friend Rachel started about Google Ads, and this is the post that resulted.  Again, do not read any further if you are offended by strong language.  Because some strong language is about to start, and I want to make sure you're on board, ok?

And now, I give the microphone over to Rachel, a writer and overall funny person.  You can read more of her funniness over on her blog, especially this post, which is about why you should proofread your resume and which features my favorite line "You know what makes me want to throw up?  Your resume."

So, apparently saying, “Dick Cheney can suck my balls” in the comment section will get you a guest blog spot on Funny Strange. Good to know.

 

Anyhoo,  the previous post, comments, and subsequent apology post brought up the issue of content-based ads. I’m generally opposed to being subjected to ads pretty much at any time, but years ago when I first joined gmail, a friend pointed out that the contents of our emails dictated the ads that showed up on the side, and this delighted me. Drunk with the power of controlling the Internet, my friend and I decided to see what crazy ads we could get to come up. I won’t go through the whole conversation stream, but in the end we got ads for “delicious tinned haggis,” school lunches, and buying flasks.

 

That was way back in 2004 though, and I think we can do better now. I’ve really matured since then, and I think Google has too. I’m really excited to see what we can do on this larger platform. I think Lori’s blog is a great place to delve deeper into this issue; to discuss privacy in the age of the Internet and rampant consumerism in general. So, without further ado:

 

Anal beads

Anal probe

Nannies who kill

Chlamydia

Chlamydia outbreak

Chlamydia pandemic

Chlamydia pandemic causing little children’s faces to melt off

Halliburton To Blame for Chlamydia Pandemic

Halliburton CEO implicated in Chlamydia Pandemic Scandal

Halliburton CEO spread Chlamydia through improper use of Anal Beads

Halliburton CEO apologizes to Denmark, Liechtenstein, and Andorra.

Apology not accepted

Halliburton CEO missing, rumored to be hiking Appalachian Trail

CEO found dead, clutching a tube of Summer’s Eve douche, a hot pink Sharpie marker, and a framed picture of Spencer Pratt

LA Times editor confused by cub reporters use of redundancy, as Summer’s Eve douche and Spencer Pratt are the same thing

Spencer Pratt totally has Chlamydia, or should

 

Well, I think we all learned a lot about advertising here today. Let’s see what AdSense has to add to the conversation.

 

For more about Chlamydia, check out my blog at www.ilikeq.blogspot.com. I haven’t updated in forever, but I hope to soon.

Today's Post.....Is in Another Location

Oh yes, people-- today I am ranting about the "Six Weeks to Lower Your Cholesterol" Cheerios campaign, only I am doing it as today's guest blogger over on the awesome blog "Where's My Damn Answer?"   They are also giving away copies of Hollywood Car Wash, so there's two reasons you must go over there right away.

That's right.  I'm not even going to preview the Cheerios rant on here, because that's how much I want you to check out this other blog.  Do it!  Nothing to see here!

Green Pimpin!

I probably don't even need to preface this by saying that Stephan has some extremely funny friends, but I will. Every once in awhile, Cory, Jim, and Stephan start (and continue) some of the longest, funniest email chains I have ever seen.  Like, you leave your computer for an hour or so, and when you come back there are 25 new messages with them going back and forth, and you have to backtrack for all the funny that you missed, and by the end of the thread you have your head on your desk because you're laughing so hard. That is how the email funny usually goes: someone throws out a topic, and if all the stars line up (if everyone is by their computer and in a funny mood), then the funny starts pinging back and forth through cyberspace at a pace so rapid, it would make your head spin, and then one of them says something so witty, so droll, that they "win" the funny-off, and everyone bows to them. This week's winner was Jim.
 
Oh, also? This is a guest post, and it’s about pimps, so it has some strong language and themes. Just wanted to get that out of the way.

This is what happened on Wednesday, when Stephan noticed a hybrid Cadillac Escalade in Beverly Hills, and send an email around about how the Cadillac Escalade is the perfect vehicle for the environmentally-friendly pimp. The title of this email, of course, was "Green Pimpin'." The result was an erstwhile "Guide to Green Pimpin’," with the following guidelines:


Some Helpful Tips to Show and Prove Your Green Pimp Hand:
 
·      Recycle all your St. Ides empties. A nickel is a muthaf*ckin’ nickel
 
·      Insulate your pimp crib with recycled cellulose, and swap out all black lights with energy-sipping CFLs

·     A green pimp decides what he wants to eat BEFORE opening the refrigerator door, thus saving electricity
 
·     Use only recycled, earth-friendly metals in your crunk teeth
 
·     Try regulating the bitches on foot for a day. The rubber on a heel ain't faster than the rubber on a wheel, but the satisfaction you’ll get from doing your part to save the erf will last a lifetime.
 
·     Fair trade ice for your bling. Blood diamonds weigh a pimp down
 
·     You can leave a smaller carbon footprint on the earth while leaving a standard size footprint in a bitch’s ass with footwear made from non-endangered species
 
·     A green pimp intimidates litterbugs with braggadocio and doggerel
 
·     Solar-powered rim spinners
 
·     A true green pimp rolls with local, organically grown produce

Best. Olympics. Ever.

Yep, still too swamped to meet my daily blogging obligations, but my hilarious and articulate husband is subbing in for me this week.  Here are his thoughts on the closing ceremonies of the Olympics, for your enjoyment:

Best. Olympics. Ever.
--Stephan Cox

Lori and I were a little sad to see the Olympic torch fade out after two incredible, Tivo-jamming weeks of events, and we both agreed that these were probably the best Olympics ever. Say what you will about China (and there’s plenty to say), those cats know how to put on a show.

So much so that last night it became clear they may have raised the bar a little high even for themselves. Certainly, the closing ceremonies were lovely, but they couldn’t match the Opening Ceremonies. You hire Jiang Yimou, director of two of the most visually stunning films ever, “House of Flying Daggers,” and “Raise the Red Lantern,” add a cast of about ten thousand, and that’s what you get. As Jiang said, “We had the people and we had the money, so why not?”

Accordingly, everyone was left wondering what the hell the Brits could do in 2012 to live up to such a scorched-Earth presentation. As far as Lori and I were concerned, the only logical answer was to go minimal. That, or see if they could do a Monty Python reunion, one that resurrected Graham Chapman from the grave. Or better yet, a Beatles reunion. Featuring John and George.

As it turned out, the Brits were on hand at last night’s closing ceremonies to give us a little taste of what they’ve got in store for us in four years. And, well… I’m wracking my brain to come up with the proper metaphor here: Bringing a gun to a knife fight? Wearing Toughskins to a Prada show? Putting peanut butter on caviar?

Or better yet, how about “trotting out an aging rock star and what looked like the cast of Rent to compete with a four-story Memory Tower decked out with a thousand people in two-tone leotards on harnesses who are performing intricate synchronized movements intended to simulate the movement of a flame”?

I mean, you have to feel kind of sorry for them. But come on. A double-decker bus outfitted with Astroturf? And, look, I like Jimmy Page. I think most people like Jimmy Page. But Jimmy Page’s time is past. Didn’t they have anyone a little more… current on hand? Someone to show that England’s “hip” and “with it?” Or, if you’re gonna go the geezer route, then for God’s sake, at least get Plant to sing with him. Instead, they opted for some bubblegum poseur whose name Lori knew but I didn’t standing atop what looked like Liberace’s wedding cake. In the words of Tim Daggett, “Absolute disaster.” Too bad Amy Winehouse wasn’t available.

The flag handover was a tip off, too. Again, say what you will about Chinese stiffness and efficiency, but at least their leaders know how to comb their hair and wear a suit when they’re in public. But representing Britain was the newly elected mayor of London, Boris Johnson, looking like a sack of potatoes stuffed into a suit. They hand him the flag, and… I never thought it was possible to wave a flag flaccidly, but that guy swung Britain’s newly inherited Olympic flag like a spent teabag. Huzzah.

I have to mention, China did have one down moment, when it decided to trot out its cavalcade of freshly scrubbed pop stars on the Memory Tower. Did you recognize any of them? Me, neither. You know when you go into a karaoke bar, a real karaoke bar, one frequented by Asian people taking it all extremely seriously and singing Asian pop songs? Those songs were originally done by these Chinese pop stars. It’s crazy when you think about it. Our pop stars have a few million fans. Theirs have billions.

Clearly I’m a tough critic. But those Brits have a long way to go before they convince me to show up in 2012 and pay $38 for a plate of bangers and mash.

Special Guest Blogger: Stephan Cox Names Worst Videos of All Time

Well, we got back from New York on Saturday, went literally two hours after landing to a Christmas party, and have been in sort of a Christmas fugue state ever since-- a state involving errands, and wrapping paper, and online ordering, and the UPS man knocking on our door approximately every seventeen minutes with something someone ordered for us, or something we ordered for someone else-- you get the idea.

Considering all this, you'd think that I wouldn't have the time to come up with funny stuff for my blog, and well, you'd be right.  But-- lo and behold!  My charming and clever husband has agreed to be my guest blogger today, providing you with what I think is one of the funniest breakdowns of bad eighties videos I've ever seen.  Because frankly, we know you're in your office, and you've probably just given up on working altogether now, right?  And now you're just looking for funny stuff. 

And now, without further adieu, I give you:

Worst.  Video.  Ever.
by Stephan Cox

So, in a fit of pique induced by attempting to find the worst rock video ever (and by worst, I sort of mean best), I managed to unearth a gem I hadn’t seen since it first was aired on Friday Night Videos in the early 80s. (Note: I grew up in a very rural area that didn’t have access to cable, thus, no MTV. So in order to see any music videos at all—without a doubt the lingua franca of my peers at the time—I had to watch the ghetto version, Friday Night Videos, on whatever the hell network channel it came on. On Friday nights no less. It was fuzzy and I had to adjust the antenna (!) to get a picture. I was probably 14 at the time… Good Christ. This both dates me and makes me look like a bumpkin loser at the same time.)

 

All this started yesterday when my friend Cory, for reasons only known to him, forwarded me the video of ”One Night in Bangkok," by Murray Head:




For you younger folks, this piece of pop culture ephemera comes from a simpler time. A less ironic time. A tackier time. This was a song from a hit Broadway show called “Chess,” about, well, chess. The video features Mr. Head (and BTW, if your family name is “Head,” a) change it, b) pronounce it differently, or c) for the love of God, don’t name your child “Murray”) walking along in his skinny tie and suave je ne sais quoi, surrounded by assorted musical theater types dancing and emoting Cats-style. This was the 80s, after all. By any standard, this is a bad video. A cringe-worthy video. But not one for the ages.

 

The next video he sent along, to torture me presumably, was for the cover version of "Puttin' on the Ritz," by a singer named Taco:




Now we’re getting somewhere. This particular video is likely shown on a continuous loop in Dante’s 8^th or 9^th circle. It features a heavily made up, really, really gay man (Note: It’s okay—as Lori has mentioned before, we were both drama majors, and we’ve lived in San Francisco, LA and Manhattan. We’re honorary gays) sashaying about a sound stage in thick pancake makeup, wearing a white tuxedo, and sporting a neon cane.

 

I remember when preparing for a garage sale during my youth my parents going through some old boxes, finding some of their old clothes—two-tone platform shoes and matching vest for Dad, ultra-suede dress with peasant blouse for Mom—and them blanching about the styles they wore in the 70s (and these were the clothes they got married in, I shit you not. I have photos). After watching the Taco video, I can somehow relate. It’s not that I ever walked into high school in with a neon cane and white tuxedo, God forbid, but I remember thinking when I first saw that video, “Hey, that guy’s pretty outrageous. That takes some forward thinking. A man wearing makeup. Maybe it’s only a matter of time before we’re all doing it.” Much like my parents likely thought when they ordered out of the Halston catalogue for their wedding outfits.

 

The song in the video is unbearably bad. It wasn’t a song that needed to be remade, and certainly not to an electronic beat. (Another note to those of you who grew up on the 80s: remember when you first heard electronic music? I sure do. I remember being so completely blown away by Depeche Mode, New Order, Yaz. I thought, “Wow, they don’t even need actual instruments to make this music. We’ve clearly arrived at the apex. Music will never sound more modern. There will never come a day when people play this music for kitsch and nostalgia sake. I will never grow old. I will never die. I think I’ll take up smoking.”) So, as the guy does his little fruity two-step through the sound stage while lip-synching the song, crowds of musical theater types dressed like 1930s homeless people pop up hither and thither, doing little soft-shoe routines. I can imagine the pre-production meeting for this video: “We need hoboes. But hoboes who can dance!”

 

It’s a terrible, terrible video for a terrible, terrible song. Embarrassing. Awful. But not great-awful. Not even close. Not when compared to the Rosetta Stone that is Journey's video for "Separate Ways."  This one has a strange Casey Kasem intro, but don't let that throw you.  It's pure Journey goodness.



I know, I know, this video gets voted worst video of all time by VH1 and whatever the hell, but I promise you, I hadn’t seen it since it aired on Friday Night Videos back in the day, and I just happened to remember it in the clutch after Cory had sent the previous two videos. I needed something good. Something jaw dropping. Something featuring grown men playing air instruments. I found it.

 

Please, please, if you’ve never had the pleasure of seeing this video, do so now. I’ll wait.

 

There’s so much going on here, it’s hard to know where to start. First of all, there’s the locale. At this point, the band is a major touring act, selling out stadiums all over the world. They have, like, three platinum albums. And for some reason, they’re shooting a video on a shipping dock in Oakland, and playing air instruments. For no particular reason.

 

Then, there’s the woman, who is... so 80s. The curling-under pompadour, the makeup, the leather skirt. And as my wife said upon seeing it, you just know she’s got a giant bush. One of those monsters that creeps up the belly and out over the thighs. No one seemed to mind those back then. It boggles the mind. Anyway, this woman walks in and out of the frame, and every time she exits, she walks into the same warehouse. What’s in there?

 

The most compelling thing, of course, is just how seriously the band is taking the whole thing. Steve Perry, with his noodly little arms poking out of a muscle shirt, is giving it all he’s got, as the band alternately plays a) their actual instruments, b) no instruments, and c) their instruments on a wall. The drummer actually does a drum fill on a set of garbage cans at one point. The audio track goes off at a point when Steve is lip synching. What makes it great is that they’re all just so damn committed to the song, at one point, fanned out like a gay barbershop quintet, leaning enthusiastically into the camera and exhorting us that, “one day, love will find you, break those chains that bind you…”

 

What is mind-boggling is that even after a full day spent shooting this video, after watching the rushes and the dailies of their performances, and then, at last, watching the finished product, the entire band went, “Yep. Looks great! Ship it!” Not one of them thought to yank the emergency break on this sucker.

 

Anyway, lucky for us they didn’t. Oh, and my friend Jim then sent me this video of some obviously bored youngsters who did a shot-by-shot reproduction of the Journey video:



These kids get it. There is hope for the future.

Story Songs, Part II (Special Guest Blogger)

On Friday I posted a list of story songs that I find particularly humorous (which I have now updated to include some relevant information sent in by readers-- thanks!).  Anyhow, in response my friend Jim Maloy sent over HIS list, which made me laugh out loud, so I decided to make it today's blog post.    You can see some more of Jim's hilarious writing over on the MySpace page for Hindge Creek, where he's written some amazingly funny blog posts.  Jim is also the absolute GENIUS behind the German post-punk band "Spieltod," which you must certainly go over and enjoy right this minute, because one of the songs features one of my favorite lyrics ever:  "Out of tune cuckoo-- I now accept you as my timekeeper."

Story Songs, Part II, by Jim Maloy

1.  "Ramblin' Man," by The Allman Brothers Band: The song starts off promisingly, with the narrator telling us a little about his personality and the circumstances of his birth. But he just throws in the towel during the second verse: “I’m going to New Orleansto get laid. Bye.” Then again, should we really expect an epic saga from….a ramblin’ man?

2.  "Up on Cripple Creek," by The Band: what really sends this story of a pretty f-d-up couple into orbit is the line in the last verse, when the narrator makes it clear that the woman he’s singing about isn’t even his main squeeze.

3.  "Paul Revere," by the Beastie Boys: F@*k Sergio Leone, this is the greatest spaghetti western ever. Especially the part about the wiffleball bat.

4.  “Maybellene”, by Chuck Berry: the Albert Einstein of story songs gives us a tale of a guy who’s insanely possessive and jealous. How possessive and jealous, you ask? He and Maybellene are clearly not seeing each other anymore ( otherwise he would have known about her new Cadillac ), but he still feels like he has the right to force her over to the side of the road. We never find out what happens when he catches Maybellene at the top of the hill, and maybe we’re all better off that way.

5.  "Wig in a Box," by Hedwig and the Angry Inch: a botched transsexual in Kansas gets ready for the graveyard shift at the supermarket by getting drunk and trying on wigs. Never mind story songs, this may just be the greatest song ever, period.

6.  "Scenes from an Italian Restaurant," by Billy Joel: Like a Bruce Springsteen epic, but one where no one ends up pregnant and working at a gas station. And did Bruce have the genius to use a tuba on his songs? I think not!!

( Oh, wait. “Wild Billy’s Circus Story.” I’m so fired. )

Jesus, the square root of all these songs is that men are dogs! Well, except the Billy Joel one.