media

The News That Nearly Stopped the Internet

Stop the muther-fucking Internet, people! I’ve got a BIG announcement…

Wait, how do you stop this thing? Is there a button somewhere…no that’s just brightens the screen…maybe this one? ª No, it just makes a tiny floating “a”….okay, I don’t know how to do it. The fact that I can’t stop the Internet in no way diminishes this AMAZING breaking news:

Noted Elvis Presley impersonator and part-time manwhore Rob Schneider has changed his political affiliation from Democrat to Republican.

I’m just going to give you a moment to let that sink in…and to google who Rob Schneider is.

Big news, amirite?

It’s almost as big as that time Fred Sampson said he wasn’t going to shovel the curbcut in front of his house if the plows were just going to pile big mounds of snow there.

It’s nearly as monumental as that time Ginny Smith was asked “How was your weekend?” by Amy Nedrow and answered “Kind of sucky” rather than the requisite “Fine, how was yours?

And it’s practically on par with that time that bear shit in the woods that one day.

Schneider blames the California Democrats for killing the creative spirit that could have made Deuce Bigalow: Beating a Dead Horse With Another Dead Horse a reality.

robsreasonsThe Democratic Party “no longer serves the people of this great state,” opines Schneider. “When the sitcom Rob was canceled, it was like a seagull was suffocated by the great big donkey that rules with its iron hoof.”

He also had to move his “vitamin company” out of the state due to state regulations that demand vitamins actually contain more than sawdust and lost hope.

That logic is as solid as the plot of Hot Chick. 

Instead, Schneider is throwing his slight build behind California Assemblyman Tim Donnelly’s bid for governor. Donnelly is a leader of the California Minutemen, and once attempted to erect a fence on the California-Mexican border.

robbigthoughts

A Farewell to Penis

I’ve been having difficulty writing lately, and now I’ve finally figured out why:

I possess a vagina.

It gets in the way of everything. When I’m attempting to squeeze a big thought out of my tiny woman brain, my vagina interrupts the process with demands for chocolate. When I attempt to hold a pen using my weakly woman arms, my vagina shrieks about being too fat. When I try to write a post on Speaker7, my vagina threatens to set itself on fire.

It’s no wonder the ladies get paid less, amirte fellas. Up top.

David Gilmour gets it. He sees no value in teaching the drivel excreted by ladybits in his Big Dick Writers 101 seminar.

“Women be stupid,” Gilmour laments.

That’s a slight paraphrase. What he actually said was much worse:

“I say I don’t love women writers enough to teach them, if you want women writers go down the hall. What I teach is guys. Serious heterosexual guys. F. Scott Fitzgerald, Chekhov, Tolstoy. Real guy-guys. Henry Miller. Philip Roth,” Gilmour huffs whilst sticking his enormous plumbing into the biggest glory hole one has ever seen.

doucheI should probably amend the paraphrase to add women and gays be stupid, but Gilmour is likely the type of specimen to think the terms interchangable.

Gilmour is able to stop masturbating over his copy of Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer to give props to lady mouthpiece Virginia Woolf, stating “she made a mean bundt cake.” (slight paraphrasing)

O Captain! My Captain! …Shit! I’m trying to stand on a desk to salute this brilliant professor, but I’ve got my period and whole slew of laundry that needs a-washing.

By the way, what the blazing fuck is a woman writer anyway?

I’m answering my own question:

One who writes with her vagina.

This profile in misogyny made me harken back to my days of playing drums in a rock band that no one–apart from my parents and that guy at the bar–ever heard. I can’t tell you how many times I heard:

You’re one of the best female drummers.

I don’t know. . . is that a thing? Did male drummers have some sort of advantage by being able to use their penis to bang on the floor tom?

All great questions, but too taxing for my smaller, less interesting brain.

My vagina’s tired of writing anyways and is angrily demanding chocolate.

Tips for a Successful Marriage

Today is my wedding anniversary.

Many people ask me, “Speaker7, why is your marriage so successful?”

My marriage has truly been a partnership as we have raised our two boys with great hope and optimism that they would one day become fine young men. Mr. Speaker7 has often said that God put him on this earth to be a wife and a mother. Our family, of which Mr. Speaker7 is the heart, is testimony that he has embraced that calling. Over the last 28 years, we have loved, cried, laughed, despaired and celebrated. I reveled in featuring my giant pumpkin head, grating Southern accent, and condescending shitball personality on Oprah while making loads of dough exploiting other people’s mental illness.

….Wait a second….Oopsies! I just plagiarized the majority of that last paragraph from Dr. Phil McGraw’s book Family First. My bad, everyone.

The truth is no one has ever asked me about my succesful marriage and Dr. Phil is a colossal fuckstick.

dr.doucheMy marriage is successful because I have no trouble admitting when I’m wrong.

The other day, I ate what I thought was a plain roasted edamame. Instead it turned out to be coated in wasabi, a substance slightly hotter than the surface of the sun.

It immediately felt like I flicked a bic lighter inside one of my nostrils. I dipped my tongue in cleaning fluid to dull the burning hemorrhoid sensation on my tongue.

I knew I had fucked up.

If you would like to know some other tips to a successful marriage, they are these:

  • drink plenty of cranberry juice
  • drink plenty of water
  • avoid consuming irritants like caffeine except for the six to eight cups one needs to wake up in the morning
  • wipe from front to back

Interestingly this will also keep you from getting a urinary tract infection.

The Cyrus-versy™

I am commenting on the Miley Cyrus controversy because I’m very concerned.

About my page views.

They’re low.

By now, you are aware that Miley Cyrus twerked and gene-simmonsed her way through a performance of her hit song “Mediocre Pop Song.”

If you’re not aware, it looked like this:

mileytongue

Like many, I was shocked. Shocked that the Video Music Awards was actually still a thing and that humans actually watched.

And then I saw that the performance became a news story and real-live journalists were talking about it. Even that Mika Brzezezzezzzzzzzzzzazzzzzzskii who famously tried to burn a story about Paris Hilton’s release from jail because she deemed it “trivial.”

mikatweetParent bloggers or Ploggers™ were up in arms over the performance and wondered if their children would view their Hannah Montana vibrating toothbrushes in a different way.  And zombies…well the zombies just said “BRAAIINNSSSS.”

Why has this performance gained so much traction? When you break it down, it really is the story of a young commodity trying to break out of her target market into a new synergized market share. A story as old as time.

And yet here I was doing this in Adobe Illustrator:

fartSee, it looks like Miley is on the receiving end of a fart in the face.

What did it all mean?

Later in the performance, Alan Thicke’s semen creation came out to ruin Marvin Gaye’s “Got to Get It Up” whilst Miley poked at his privates with a giant foam finger. If I didn’t know better, I would have pegged the performance a brilliant parody of what passes for “sexXy” in American society. In case you didn’t know, this is sexXy:

hamburgerhelperI don’t know how this any less foolish than Madonna kissing a female Gremlin birthed out of Lady Gaga’s robotic birth canal or Katy Perry dressed as a skunk spraying whipped cream from her anal cavity.

As an aside, please make both happen for next year’s VMAs.

But I think we’ve lost sight of the real issue and that is, both songs really sucked. I mean, what the fuck, America. Get better musical taste and this would not happen. So I blame you.

All of you. Even Donald Trump.

donald

Donald Trump Explains it All

Donald Trump is the news again because. . . um . . . there have been no shark attacks? I’m not sure why.

ABC scored the interview after a bull shark from Discovery Channel’s Shark Week had to cancel.

Trump is our generation’s P.T. Barnum, if P.T. Barnum was a raging hemorrhoid covered in silly string.

Here’s what happened: A moistened hole opened in that giant orange face and spewed out something. What he said was a mystery because I had the interview on mute. I just got over a debilitating case of diarrhea; I didn’t need a relapse.

I can only imagine the important news Trump imparted:

donald1

arabicdonald

donaldnetworth

donaldbreath

ivanaanddonald

donaldbankrupt

donaldgollum

donaldhair

And perhaps the biggest surprise of all:

braindeaddonald

Making Robotic Whoopie

I’ve been on this kick of reading books that illuminate how our immediate future will soon resemble a Philip K. Dick novel.

The latest was Alone Together: Why We Expect More From Technology and Less From Each Other by Sherry Turkle. Turkle is a professor at MIT. She is able to understand science stuff even though she possesses a vagina, and didn’t get the memo from possible future fed head Lawrence Summers that chicks should stick to their capabilities like cooking and transvaginal wand-mounting.

barbiedum

Turkle was teaching when Joseph Weizenbaum unveiled the ELIZA program in the 1970s. ELIZA was a computer program where users could engage in a conversation with a machine. Like a person could type “My boyfriend is making me sad” and get the response “Tell me more about your boyfriend.” Weizenbaum found his students wanted to be alone with ELIZA and was alarmed by their attachment to it.

Today, the talk is of sociable robots caring for our elderly in nursing homes. Nursing homes are already using Paro, the robotic seal, to provide comfort to patients with dementia.

paroRobots are also being considered as caretakers for children to free up adults so they have more time to spend on tweeting about their on-again, off-again relationship with Siri and Instagramming their dic picks.

Turkle is not a fan of this nor of the inevitable future of human-robot relationships. She believes people–children especially–need to be around other humans to keep that pesky thing called empathy alive. Empathy is like soooooo 1994.

Research–the thing that’s the opposite of gut reaction–is showing that Americans are increasingly insecure, isolated and lonely.

Turkle believes the future of robots as love partners will compound this.  It is the gateway to new narcissistic experiences. The robot is cast in the role of what you need. You can power it off when it begins to nag you about the dishes. How can it be a relationship if one of the parties is not really alive and capable of human emotions? I’ll tell ya how.

roombaI can see some advantages to a robot partner, for example:

  • farting freely
  • minimal engagement with the in-laws since they don’t exist
  • dance marathon advantage

But I may be siding with Turkle on this one. It seems very much like dating oneself and who would want to do that?

kanyeAs of now, we seem more fixated on our distraction devices than we are on our relationships to people who physically occupy the same room. Go to any airport and you’ll see what I mean. At some point, I can see people becoming frustrated with their robot partners, which will inevitably lead to this:

cosmo

And no one wants that.

Is Gangnam Style Still Fresh?

You know, I never really thought about it until YouTube emailed me.

YouTube initially guilted me for forgetting Gangnam Style’s 1-year-old birthday and then posited that existential question:

youtube

I really wanted to answer: “Fuck yes, it is!” But before I did, I figured I should ask YouTube since that’s what the computer was telling me to do and you do not say no to your computer, amirite humans?

YouTube was surprisingly reticient. It wanted to show me parodies of the song, but didn’t–or wouldn’t–provide the answer.

This was a journey of discovery I had to make on my own.

I figured I should probably watch the video having never seen it, but jesus, who has that kind of time? Those candies aren’t going to crush themselves.

Apparently 1.7 billion people found the time. I am lazier than 1.7 billion people.

I decided to consult a trusted advisor.

hugoganghamHugo, I’m sorry to disturb you, but I need to know if Gangham Style is still fresh a year later.

hugogangham2True, but not very helpful.

Nowhere closer to an answer, I looked it up in the dictionary and realized I had been spelling it “gingham” all along.  Gangnam is something like the Korean version of the soul-killing phrase YOLO, which is an acronym for “Nearly as Annoying as You Go Girl”

What makes something fresh? Doesn’t everything–except radioactive isotopes and styrofoam lunch trays–have an expiration date? I would think anything Internet-based is fresh for about as long as it takes to pin The Towel Workout onto a Pinterest board.

Mathematical formula: Viral video + Today show - quinoa recipe - sharkando = freshness.

Mathematical formula: Viral video + Today show – quinoa recipe – sharkando = freshness.

I guess since YouTube is still talking about Gangnam Style a year later means it is still relatively fresh so I will stick by my original response because, after all, you only live once and you go girl.

Amusing Ourselves To. . . I Forget

My brain is distracted.

I realized this when I was reading a book called The Shallows: What the Internet is Doing to Our Brains and I would hear the siren call of Facebook. I put the book down and lunged for my computer so I could look at stuff like this:

facebook

There, all better. Now what was that book saying?

Something about how distraction has always been around since the advent of electronic media, but:

(N)ever has there been a medium that has been programmed to so widely scatter our attention and to do it so insistently.

I knew it was happening to me. I saw it when trying to read The New York Times online and finding I could only make it through three paragraphs before losing interest and clicking elsewhere–usually on ads for the Chillow pillow

chillow

I can read the physical paper in its entirety as long as I can continue to check Facebook every ten minutes.

facebook2

It’s probably unsurprising, but reading print materials activitates different parts of the brain than reading online. For instance, as you read this, the part of your brain that regulates break dancing has been stimulated. That book readin’ activiates them language, memory and visual processing parts. Now you tell me, which is better?

breakin

I’ve experienced the moment when it feels like the whole world recedes as I look at a Buzzfeed list of the craziest bras ever created. That’s what the Internet does. It grabs our attention only to scatter it like a bra made out of birdseed.

In Neil Postman’s book Amusing Ourselves to Death (disclaimer: I tried to read this online and made it three sentences in before giving up. I’m reading a print version now), he brings up the two varying views of the future: George Orwell’s and Aldous Huxley’s. Orwell predicted a totalitarian world where information was scarce. Huxley’s world was one of excess where people willingly gave up their autonomy in exchange for their distractions. Information was everywhere.

I wonder whose view is more spot on?

snowdenkimyeIt would appear that the notion of the U.S. government collecting the phone records and Internet searches of millions of Americans, an act that is in direct violation of the 4th amendment, would be somewhat troubling.

Shouldn’t it be?

I don’t know because while I was looking up the NSA story, I was sidetracked by a video of Justin Bieber pissing in a mop bucket.

My journey ultimately ended here:

facebook3There, all better.

Speaker7’s Journey

So it begins again, dear reader. On May 27th, ABC will roll out its stained red carpet and gas up its dirty limo for another installment of The Bachelorette or what I like to call The Loss of Hope.

This season’s “star” is Desiree, a woman tossed aside by Bland The Blandest Bachelor because her brother called Bland “a player.” The correct verbiage is “douchetool.”

I watched a promotion on ABC’s “news” website because all news is entertainment at this point. Another ABC product churned out by Sylvester McMonkey McBean’s Star-Off Machine (re: American Idleautotunes in the background while we glimpse Desiree’s “journey.” It’s as inspiring as a turd’s journey from bowel to sewage treatment plant. As to be expected, there is this:

sadnessI already know what will happen. Men will call each other “bro.” Desiree will profess “This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do” while she sends home a man as remarkable as a used tissue. And Chris Harrison will earn substantially more money than cancer researchers for saying things like: “There is one rose left.”

This got me thinking about my own “journey.” In the past, I have watched the rectal sausage produced by the ABC meatprocessing plant, and produced recraps that some find enjoyable and some find lead to acute gastroenteritis. Am I ready to start all over again and accept a mildewed rose?

I guess it comes down to my vision for this blog. It began as a mechanism to force me to write. I would continually say how much I wanted to be a writer, and then plop myself down in front of the TV for hours.

Unlike my other blog, The Official How To Blog, this blog seems rather rudderless. Do I want it to be a recrapping blog? A commentary on current events? A marketing platform for the Shakeweight™?

These are the questions that keep me up at night–or at least until 8:30 p.m. when I crash because I have the constitution of a newborn.

So I leave the question to you, dear reader. I will put forth the effort, but only if you desire it, and I won’t feel hurt if you have reached your limit.

Do you want to read the alcohol-infused ramblings of brainless meat sacks on their “journey” to find “love” and guest appearances  at wet T-shirt contests? Have you grown tired of my recycled jokes where I describe the multitude of objects I will use to bash in my skull? Or is it time we moved on. . . maybe to more serious topics like Tanning Mom’s music video?

Before you decide à la poll, I present you with this:

knight

Hooter-rific!

Mother’s Day is quickly approaching.

Before you resort to yanking a handful of dandelions out of the yard and purchasing this card:

Mothersdaycardconsider taking Mom here:

hootersHooter’s is offering moms a free meal on Mother’s Day as long as they bring proof of their mommyhood like a child or a photograph of their stretched out uteri, which will then be placed on the Hooter’s Loves Your Cooter bulletin board.

Apparently Hooter’s is having trouble attracting a female client base. Hm. That’s puzzling. Maybe ladies aren’t into the oversexualization and objectification of the Hooter’s girls or the rape den-like atmosphere?

But a free meal!?! Well then get me a white T-shirt, spray me with a hose and let me wrestle in jello because I am so there, buddy. With my child too!

Let marketing wizard Dave Henniger explain: “We know you don’t think of Hooters as a typical place to take Mom, but we want to make it more appealing for Mom to come in. We view Mom as a pair of tits with legs too.”

“And we have salad, ladies, so you don’t get all fat on us!”

Happy Mother’s Day, everyone.