Showing posts with label blah blah blah. Show all posts
Showing posts with label blah blah blah. Show all posts

Monday, July 12, 2010

All Hail Paul, the Oracle Octopus!

Eight picks, eight correct, eight tentacles. Paul the Oracle Octopus is clearly the biggest winner of the World Cup after recording a perfect prognostication record whether he knows it or not (he probably doesn't).

The big question was whether Paul's predictive superpowers would translate to the final - the first match he was asked to predict that did not involve his native Germany. But such piddly concerns did not bother Paul. Mostly because he's an octopus. Just as he predicted, the European champions Spain became world champions for the first time with an Andres Iniesta goal in extra time. And as the Spanish celebrated, Paul floated in his tank, sure of his genius and probably craving a fresh clam.

Since Paul is an international celebrity of the highest order now, everyone wants a piece of him - both literally and figuratively. Italy is trying to claim that he was caught in Italian waters, Spanish businessmen are trying to buy him for €30,000 ($38,000), and Dutch priests tried to dismiss him.

But in Spain, Paul is an icon. The Spanish prime minister has already spoken of his desire to protect "Pulpo Paul" and the mock up of a new version of Spain's flag could be dangerously close to becoming real.

So what becomes of Paul now? Well, he'll probably continue to live out the remainder of his days at the Sea Life aquarium in Oberhausen, Germany, no longer forced to pick his food out of flag-covered boxes while surrounded by an obscene number of media types. He will swim at his leisure and continue to be oblivious to the existence of sports. He will retire a winner and a global sensation - what every other octopus (and even a few pundits) wishes they could be.

All hail Paul.

Sunday, March 21, 2010

Stuff Hipsters Hate: When Their Friends Go to Law School



from http://lizbert.tumblr.com

"Janelle: Hey dude, Jason is having a fucking awesome party tonight at some loft in Bushwick. Wanna get there early? Like 1 a.m. or somethin’?

Tyron: Sorry, lady. I have to study.

Janelle: What the fuck do you have to study for? You’ve been outta school for five years…

Tyron: The LSATs.

Janelle. Are you shitting me?

Tyron: Naw, I mean, this whole poet thing isn’t really working out. I mean, no one wants to pay me to write, so I figured I would, like, learn a trade.

Janelle: Are you going to be an LSAT tutor…?

Tyron: No, asshole. I’m going to law school.

Janelle: What the fuck? When have you ever expressed interest in the law? You don’t even like motherfucking Law & Order—and there’s like six versions of that show to choose from.

Tyron: Well, lawyers make a lot of money, which is something I don’t have. I can’t shelve books at an indie bookstore and do poetry slams forever, Jan. I can’t. I need stuff like, I dunno, a real bed. A room with walls. Last week I brought this chick home and she took one look at my so-called room—a shower curtain and bed sheets do not a bedroom make—and announced that she had to get up early. She’s a fucking freelancer. How many freelancers do you know who have to “get up early”? I can’t deal with this anymore, dude. I need to eat. I need to get laid. I need cash. I mean, yeah, I would probably have to wear a suit year-round to cover up my sleeve tats, and, sure, I would have to shave more often and probably move to Manhattan and drink with I-bankers at shitty places like Blondies, and I would most definitely have to pretend to get excited about sports and shit—but I can do it. I can suck it up. I’m almost 30. It’s time to get serious.

Janelle: Dude, you’re not going to get into law school. I mean, that’s just a stone cold fucking science fact.

Tyron: Why the fuck not? I got like fucking straight A’s in college.

Janelle: Well, for one, you majored in abstract sculpture and Victorian poetry, and two, the most experience you’ve had with the legal system was that time you got arrested for breaking into that construction site, getting smashed and passing out in your own vomit.

Tyron: Dude. That was like a fucking minor offense. Like, you know, a misnomer.

Janelle: Um. I rest my case."

xoxo,
Rebel