Bud Light Platinum: nectar of the demigods

I've already gone on the glorious record (where else but here?) calling coffee (oh sweet sweet coffee) drink of the Gods. So obviously the next drink I want to talk up will have to do being nectar of the mere demigods. That drink is none other than Bud Light Platinum (or BLP, as it is reverentially known among its devoted followers) - a top notch offering of St. Louis'  Belgium's very own Budweiser InBev SAB Miller.

Launched with much fanfare in early 2012, BLP became an instant sensation with its sleek shape, deep blue color with bold silver accent, and  - more importantly - 6% ABV. The beer was in short supply (probably intentional?) in the initial weeks to the point where any schmuck who brought a six pack to a house party was the instant center of attention. I can personally attest to that, by the way. Oh the joys of wielding such power over the thirsty masses clamoring for a taste, nay just a sip of the sweet nectar!

Think I am exaggerating? Just look at the image below. Go on, spend a good two, three, five, eight, thirteen minutes staring at it and you'll see what I am talking about.

mmmmmmm

Budweiser describes BLP thus - "Bud Light Platinum is a premium light beer with a bold taste and a smooth, slightly sweet finish. From the moment you grab one of our signature cobalt blue bottles, you’ll be ready to make it platinum."

Quite possibly for the first time in history a company may be underselling its product. BLP is not just a light beer with a bold taste. It is a light beer that provides a truly life-altering experience the first time you touch that bottle to your lips, tilt the bottle and go glug glug glug. It has a silky smooth taste with just the perfect amount of intensity to it that you feel right as it hits your throat. Looking to go all out on the town with your friends? Blaze through a six pack right before and they'll thank you for it. Hosting the perfect super bowl party? Grab a 24 pack off the shelf and pass them out as generously as you would salsa for the nachos. BLP is the ultimate versatile beer with the same good taste each time. (Speaking of which, I am available to write copy for your ads if you are hiring, InBev. I am already a convert so I don't even have to lie!)

Now the snobs will all get themselves in a tizzy over this. Bud products have been called everything from 'pisswater' to 'water' to 'an insult to beer'. That's ok. You can let them froth all over while you relax on your recliner nursing your ice-cold BLP.

Something happiness is as simple as enjoying the simple things in life.

So next Friday night treat yourself to a BLP (6% alcohol, 137 calories, 0g in fat and just 4.4g in carbs). For a glorious moment you too will live like the demigods. 

The terrifying specter of death by car wash

Not many things on this planet, material or otherwise, scare me. I am not afraid or terrified easily. Valor is practically my middle name and courage my favorite drink. In fact I am regularly known to indulge in acts of bravery and daredevilry (I once jaywalked in Washington, DC! A mere two blocks from the White House!). One might safely say that I live and thrive right on the edge. 

But that's not what I am here to talk about today. Today it is time to discuss my fears. Fears with a capital F. FEARS.

Now you may wonder - why is this guy blabbering about his fears? 

And I will counter right back - what is braver than discussing our deepest fears, our strongest foibles, our starkest shortcomings? Take the case of the philosopher/vigilante billionaire Bruce Wayne. He embraced his fears and look where that got him. 

On that note, let's move on. 

The five most badass quotes of all recorded time

Quotes. Everyone has them, everybody loves them. In this day and age of internet memes, corny motivational posters, and shitty self-help books with untenable nonsense, quotes are a dime a dozen. They have flooded our cultural psyche, polluted our minds.

Let us then harken back to simpler times (when the life expectancy was south of 35 and the food scarce and bland) when quotes actually mattered. Nah I am just kidding. These quotes are taken from all eras - fictional and not. Enjoy.


Coming at a comfortable #5...

For a suitcase of cash you too can be a marquis

Contrary to public perception, The Economist doesn't always deal in dreadfully serious articles about, say, the state of the Swedish bank system (which is doing mighty fine thanks for asking) or the fragility of the cotton commodities market. The boffins who run this very British institution know their regular readers (and other casual bystanders) occasionally like to partake in a little spice here and there. I have alluded to this before (here and here).

Take this week's issue. Did you know that for a mere $5000 you can be dutifully anointed a baron in Rwanda? Or for $130,000 you can triumphantly attach the lofty moniker 'Baron von' to your name? If you are brave (and rich) enough you can shell out $2 million and gleefully call yourself 'Prinz'. 

It's true! This is a thriving market around the world. 

Most of the allocators of these titles are people who were either: 

a) deposed by democratic governments in their countries (the Rwandan ex-king Kigeli) 

b) aides in former royal households (some Vietnamese dude now in Texas sells medals for $38 - shipping and handling separate)

or my personal favorite:

c) pretenders to thrones ('Prince' Davit, a pretender to the Georgian throne which has been vacant since, like, the early 1800's)

You gotta hand it to these entrepreneurs. They have cleverly seized upon society's lamentable obsession with all things royal.  

Of course, dear readers, you and I both know there can only be one king, don't we? Long live you magnificent brooding bastard.

The real King

Rest assured your humble blogger will never stoop so low as to buy fake titles. He will remain, through eternity, your comrade, true and always. 

The sensation that is Johnny Manziel

Let's take some time to talk some college football. Now normally I wouldn't even dream of devoting precious blog space to the mediocre world of college sports, but every now and then something happens that forces me to make an exception. This is one of those occasions.

If you are a rare individual who (for some bizarre unfathomable reason) is not acquainted with this person phenom Johnny Manziel, here's a quick recap: he stormed the world of college football (and subsequently our collective psyches) with his dazzling on-field exploits last season. As a redshirted freshman (i.e. he is technically a sophomore who sat out his first year), he went on to win the Heisman trophy, an award that despite having not much predictive value does a reasonably good job of identifying good college players. All cool? I am feeling bubbly today, so let me throw in a Manziel highlights package for ya:



You will notice this dude has a remarkable ability to escape the vicious clutches of multiple defenders and still throw explosive touchdown passes that leave you salivating for more action. Pretty soon the lore of Johnny took off. He attempted (and I believe succeeded) in getting his nickname trademarked - "Johnny Football". Don't we all wish we were blessed with such an awesome nickname?

Now it can be told: the traumatic tale of switching hairdressers

You are forgiven for thinking I fell off the face of the earth (although technically that metaphor makes no sense, but whatever). I did not write for most of last month and most of this month. There is a reason for that: I was wallowing in immense sadness. I suffered a great traumatic event last month, and it took me all this time to recover fully. Well, not fully. I still have nightmares, but don't tell anybody that.

But now, dear readers, it can be finally told. Just for your collective sake and just for your entertainment (for, if you read the banner of this blog closely, we do promise to sacrifice our well-being for your entertainment) I have summoned every picogram of courage I possess to write this piece up. You're welcome. We accept checks, although we really prefer cold, hard cash. Email me to find out where to send the goodies.

WTF pictures - Don't f@$k with Vespas

Saw this hilarious sign on the sleepy streets of Pismo Beach, CA:

This was outside local Italian restaurant Giuseppe's. Quite the protector of Vespa owners' rights, this Giuseppe.

Horsing around during a hurricane

Horsing around during hurricane Sandy, quite literally, is this guy:



Like a boss.

"Even if I am a school of medicine professor..." - showdown at orientation

Howdy. Our serene and mostly peaceful school has been recently hijacked by hordes of eager, goggle-eyed first-years. The firsties started orientation yesterday and a majority of them spent last week getting to know each other and the great city of St. Louis by participating in a community program.

Yesterday wise second years who are involved in various student-run groups were invited to give brief presentations (and by brief, I really mean brief. We were told not to exceed 45 seconds) to the firsties. Yours truly grabbed the opportunity and gave a smashing presentation. Standing ovation and all. Nah just kidding.

Anyway, that's not the story. The story is something that happened right before the event. Our benevolent school always provides enough Pappa John's pizza to feed an army regiment at most events like this. Since the welfare of students is priority numero uno, a bunch of stern guards admissions staff guards the pizza with great zeal and pride.

Perhaps tempted by the sweet aroma of the sausage pizza a faculty member stopped by. Now I know quite a bit about this dude, and he is a baller. Baller with a capital B. He is young, charismatic, creative, and insanely smart. He sauntered up to the lunch table and the following scene ensued:

The greatest western blot machine west of the Mississippi

Readers of this blog: I want you to pause whatever it is you are doing (the redditing can wait till later) and take a brief moment (or two or three) to behold the greatest western blot machine west of the Mississippi, aka me.

For those uninitiated in the glorious ways of molecular biology, you might be scratching your head (or in some cases, that glaringly obvious bald spot), "What the hell is a western blot?"

Here's a brief primer (for those who get this lame pun, you can politely snigger): a western blot is an experimental technique used to detect proteins from sample/tissue/organ/cell/culture plate of your choice. Let's use me as an example. I roll into my research lab some time around 10:30, grind up tiny mice brains in a solution, do some hand waving - and voila! - I end up with some protein. Over the next few hours, I put my feet up and beast people around on Scramble with Friends, solve a couple crosswords and chug coffee. By some force of nature, the proteins are ready to be visualized on a digital imager the next day. And the cycle begins anew. Also, a bunch of rabbits and mice were probably bled to make the process work.

I sold my precious urine for $20

So here's how it went: I met the guy in a parking lot, took a vial out and quickly exchanged it for a crumpled twenty....

Obviously that's not how it happened. That would be too easy and too convenient.  Brace yourselves for the real story. If you are squeamish or weak of the heart, close the browser window now (or maybe you were about to do that anyway).

I surmounted unfathomable obstacles to win this rare honor. I had to vault over a herd of overeager first-years to grab this opportunity. I crushed hopes, mangled dreams on my way to the finish line. Bloodied and bruised but my spirit unbowed, I picked up the pen and signed myself up for a urine study sponsored by my renal physiology professor. Somewhere in the background, the "Rocky" theme song began playing spontaneously. Wiping the sweat off my glistening forehead, I sauntered out of the class like a champion, savoring the ruined landscape around me. And that is how it really happened.

Join me on Monday when I, along with 11 other vicious warriors from my class, piss every 30 minutes for 2 hours and give 4 10 ml samples for analysis. All for a $20 gift card to Panera. A lucky competitor will win an additional $20 for having the most concentrated urine.

Here are the tools of the competition: a beaker, a plastic test tube and a dropper.

Lethal weapons

Here are the rules:

1. Wake up Monday morning and measure volume of urine. Take 10 ml sample to class. DO NOT consume any liquid or food between then and class. Diuretics are forbidden.

2. Participants will be divided into three groups in class: dehydration, isotonic saline, and water. Each will consume (or not, if he/she is in the dehydration group) an amount of liquid proportional to one's body weight.

3. Every 30 minutes, each participant will visit the bathroom (or do it under a blanket, as was suggested by our professor) and bring back a 10 ml sample. A total of four samples will be collected.

4. Everyone will receive a $20 gift card to Panera (or St. Louis Bread Co., as it is known here) for his/her graciousness and magnanimity. 

4. Results will be announced on Thursday. One with the most concentrated urine will be crowned champion for eternity and get exclusive rights to be called "ratboy" or "ratgirl" (apparently, kangaroo rats have very concentrated urine). The others will weep with despair and will be in a state of inconsolable grief.

Are you ready? I know I am.

Pleasure of taking pleasure in the misfortune of others

Germans are known for their efficiency. German engineering is known for its precision and innovation, and its spacious roads lauded and emulated all around. It is hardly surprising that the language follows the dictum of efficiency as well. Then again I suppose if your language is liberally peppered with (and I kid you not) 38 and 39 letter words you are uniquely equipped to be judicious with your words. Why hello, rechtsschutzversicherungsgesellschaften. It's a pleasure to meet you.

I have a friend who is very fluent in German and would probably find a lot of faults with my analysis below, but I don't think he reads this blog. So for the purposes of this post, I am your resident expert on German words.

Since English is a Germanic language (linguist wonks classify extant languages in "language families" and under that system, English falls under the Germanic family, which itself is a sub-division of the Indo-European language family), we have borrowed plenty German words over the years. Did you, for instance, ever experience angst at having to eat sauerkraut when you were in kindergarten?

But there are some German words that are so awe-inspiring for their frugality and precision, we have borrowed them without any modifications and with apparent gusto. Meet schadenfreude. Sham-what? Exactly. Schadenfreude. 

The word schadenfreude means "taking pleasure in the misfortune of others." Now why would you want to use seven words to describe something when just one awesome German word would suffice? Plus it makes you sound oh-so bourgeois.

Schadenfreude's precision is clearly admirable. It is not quite jealousy. Nor is it meanness or malice. It is somehow a combination of all of the above and some more. It perfectly captures a complex feeling in one succinct word - something that English fails to do in this case. Let me demonstrate: 

Medici, McClellan and Star Wars?!

I am currently reading a book called "The House of Medici: Its rise and fall" by Christopher Hibbert. The Medicis were a political dynasty who "ruled" Florence for 200+ years. I put ruled between bunny ears because technically Florence was a republic - by their standards, not ours.

They were bankers first and foremost, but under the watchful tutelage of three generations of very capable Medicis, they seamlessly branched out into politics, art patronage and even the clergy. And Italian politics of the age was pretty freaking nasty. It was like playing a boisterous game of Risk. Elusive alliances, ruthless backstabbing, mind-bending diplomatic overtures - the whole package. I think it is fair to say the Medicis birthed the renaissance. Look at the list of painters, artists and sculptors they discovered and supported lavishly: Donatello, Michelangelo, da Vinci, Brunelleschi. Man that thing reads like the Louvre's guidebook (up top!).

Two of the Medicis went on to become popes. Did you read that? Two! Giovanni di Lorenzo de Medici became Pope Leo X in 1513. His cousin Guilio de Medici became pope in 1523. Both were related to the family's greatest member, Lorenzo de Medici (also called Lorenzo the Magnificent or, for you Italian fetishists, Il Magnifico) - Giovanni was his son and Guilio was his nephew whom he later adopted.

In short, the Medicis were Kennedys, Rockefellers, Vanderbilts and Carnegies all rolled into one. And their names are just so awesome you can't help but savor them like Bazooka Joe bubble gum: Cosimo, Giovanni, Guiliano, Lorenzo, Piero.

I was always interested in finding out more about the Medicis and their rise to power. So when my friend JP gave this book as a birthday present I was quite elated. It has been a pretty interesting read so far - I am about half done - and I want to share a few interesting passages from the book.

Ready? Here we go:

-"Lorenzo was now twenty, virile, clever and inexhaustibly energetic...he was was quite strikingly ugly". This is how Hibbert introduces the greatest Medici to the readers. Way to put someone down, dude. Pretty hilarious, though. His pic doesn't look that bad. Judge for yourselves:

Lorenzo deep in thoughts about discovering the next budding artist. Or pwning the next fiefdom.

-"When urged by the Florentines to move his [Florentine army general] men more quickly, he ridiculed such exhortation from 'mere mechanics who knew nothing of war'". When I read this line I thought, "Hmm. Where have I seen this tactic of belittling your leaders at the time of war before?" And then it struck me. General McClellan, the commander of all Union troops at one point in the Civil war, had nothing but contempt for Lincoln and the cabinet. In letters to his wife, he called Lincoln well-meaning baboon. Wow.

From left to right: man and baboon.

-To avert a pan-Italian crisis that would have consumed Florence Lorenzo took a peace mission trip down to Naples. Florentines were suspicious of the King of Naples. Why? Apparently, "King Ferrante [of Naples] was reported to preserve bodies of his enemies embalmed in a private museum".

Doesn't this sound a lot like a scene in a certain sci-fi classic made by a gentleman by the name of George Lucas? Maybe this picture of Han Solo frozen in Carbonite by King Ferrante Jabba the Hutt will refresh your memory:

This could have been Lorenzo instead of Harrison 

Fortunately for Lorenzo and the Florentines (that could be a great band name, BTW), the King wasn't that bad and let Lorenzo come and leave in peace. Literally. They signed a peace treaty in about ten weeks.

Finally let me leave you with a quote by the quintessential renaissance man Leonard da Vinci to give you a glimpse of the power of the Medicis.

"The Medici made me and the Medici destroyed me"

Rod Blagojevich is so infamous

That even Indian newspapers are putting his 'deeds' on the front page.

Take a look at this:

Rod: the legend of the toupee

WTF Pictures! - 4: Awaken YOUR animal passions

From good friend and roommate (with whom - and I cannot stress this enough - I run a highly successful webcomic On Bogosity) shared this picture from Amazon's Kindle store today:

Not very subtle, are they?

Now I get why Amazon sold more Kindle e-books than print books this year.

WTF Pictures! - 3: A very unique proposition

UCLA's student newspaper, The Daily Bruin, is hardly the beacon of true journalism. While the paper serves its own, limited purpose well, let us not pretend that its news will bring about earth-shattering changes. Which is why it was hilarious when, a couple years ago, they featured a massive front-page ad by ice-cream specialist Haagen-Dazs and then promptly condemned its own decision in a very solemn editorial. 

Anyway, this ad caught my eye today and I thought it would make a great installment for my new series (plus, it saves me the effort of writing some new and original):

 

Now I have seen my fair share of ads that are weird, but this one clearly wins the award for the most bizarre ad of the year.

Excuse me while I move this blog to...the nearest urinal

This blog is relocating to a bathroom urinal because the great genius Stephan Pastis thinks random stuff written on urinal walls gets more readers than blogs in this hilarious Pearls before swine comic:

Kilroy was here,right?

MCAT: The gateway drug to despair

My local library has a used book store and as I was merrily browsing the various sections, this disturbing image caught my eye:

ACCKKK!!!!!

Now having taken the MCAT and having gone through all the assorted misery that comes attached with it, I gotta say the screaming face is pretty accurate. Alas, this image must have scared the life out of the original buyer because the CD was still in its original shrink-wrapped condition!

Blast you MCAT, you took yet another victim...

San Francisco doesn't like missiles

Currently on a road trip of sorts through Northern California with an old buddy. We made a quick stop at San Francisco en route to Sacramento. 
From the Golden Gate bridge:

Yes, the good folks in charge of the bridge would like you to refrain from launching your very own Tomahawk missile. Good day.

The antithesis of music

According to facebook, a total of 1,900,411 people have shared it. The event based on it has 291,277 confirmed attending guests. Its youtube view count is a staggering 9,568,832. And this is the official version alone. There are countless other clones cluttering up youtube.

People have reported its strangely addicting qualities. Its effects, although not fully understood now (science may have to advance another hundred years before we can examine this question), are may very well rip a giant hole in the space-time continuum. 



"It" is a dungpile masquerading as a bona fide song. Say Hello (or more accurately, Boooo) to Rebecca Black's "Friday".

My roommate (and my fellow comic strip artist over at On Bogosity,our webcomic) is a gentle soul and tried to rationalize her journey into the abyss of horror as a smart parody of Justin Bieber and other teen singers. Quit it dude. Even you have the full license to unleash your anger at this travesty of everything that is pleasant on this good earth.

Her work is such a monumental atrocity to our hearing faculties that I wouldn't be surprised if, a decade from now, the toddlers of today decide to become ENT doctors just so they can fix the incurable damage caused by it.


Plug your ears with cotton and be ready to take the plunge:


"Where is your music video, eh ace? After all, you are so eager to bash her", one might say. But you see mi amiga/o, that's the point. I am prudent enough to realize my limitations. I wish well for my fellow human beings, sojourners on this bewildering journey we call life. Which is why the world will never hear me record anything of any kind. So long.