Joel Murphy

I wanna be a man, mancub
And stroll right into town
And be just like the other men
I’m tired of monkeyin’ around!

- “I Wan’na Be Like You,” The Jungle Book

War is hell.

And the War in Afghanistan is its own particular brand of hell. The War in Iraq gets the bulk of our country’s attention and resources, the last guy in charge of the effort in Afghanistan destroyed his career and undermined our efforts by mouthing off to a Rolling Stone reporter and now a leak of classified Pentagon documents could put individuals and operations in that country in jeopardy. Not to mention the fact that we are fighting against an elusive enemy that is often tough to identify on their home turf.

It’s an understatement to say that things aren’t going well over there. But it could be so much worse. Fighting the Taliban is hard enough already, but imagine if the insurgents had a loyal army of monkey soldiers, armed to the teeth and ready to take down American troops on sight.

It may seem farfetched, but a newspaper in China was convinced it was actually happening. The Chinese newspaper The People’s Daily, citing unnamed British journalists and American troops, reported that the Taliban was teaching macaques and baboons to shoot at anyone wearing a U.S. military uniform. According to the paper, using a reward/punishment system, the Taliban “taught monkeys how to use the Kalashnikov, Bren light machine gun and trench mortars.”

As you would imagine, it didn’t take very long for this story to be debunked. A diligent reporter over at LiveScience even found an expert to weigh in on the chances of training monkeys to kill –a psychologist and professor emeritus at the University of California, Davis named William Mason. (I wonder how many times the reporter had to call Mason back to convince him he wasn’t a student prank calling him.)

“They can be trained to do things like turn off lights and open faucets and so on, but eventually that breaks down,” Mason said. “If we’re talking about animals going out into the field or a fortress with an AK-47 or whatever, it seems very, very implausible.”

(Implausible or not, I really hope that someone over at SyFy is hard at work on the script for a Monkey Soldiers movie. I picture Tiffany as the female lead.)

While it would be adorable to see machine gun toting monkeys in tiny little military uniforms, I have to admit I am relieved to know this story isn’t true. Sure, photos of these monkey soldiers would give the people over at I Can Has Cheezburger? enough material to last a lifetime, but the risks of training monkeys to kill are just too high. Once they are trained, what’s to stop them from taking over the world?

I think it’s safe to say monkeys have an ax to grind with humans. After years of forcing monkeys to accompany our organ grinders, clean our bathrooms and star in movies alongside Ronald Reagan, I don’t think it will take long for the monkey revolution to begin. Have you ever seen how quick monkeys are to fling poo at us from inside their cages at the zoo? Imagine those monkeys being freed by their militarized brethren, handed an automatic weapon and asked to join the cause. Do you really think they’d hesitate to take us down?

Before long, these damn dirty apes would take to the streets. It would be absolute pandemonium. Banana stands would be raided, the monkey who played Marcel on Friends would undoubtedly gun down David Schwimmer and it would only be a matter of weeks before the monkey mob headed to New York to blow up the Statue of Liberty.

While this monkey doomsday scenario will certainly keep me up at night, I don’t think all hope is lost when it comes to weaponizing animals. I just think we need to avoid putting guns in the hands of the only other animals on Earth with opposable thumbs. That being said, there is still room for animal innovation.

So let’s stop monkeying around and instead look to other members of the animal kingdom for troop support. To start, I suggest we send an army of black bears over to Afghanistan to help our soldiers win this war. Last Friday, a black bear in Colorado broke into a Toyota Corolla to steal a peanut butter sandwich, then began honking the horn of the car before slipping it into neutral and rolling it down a hill. While it is believed that the bear did this all inadvertently after accidentally trapping itself inside the car, clearly these bears have an aptitude for driving. I think if we get the right punishment/reward system in place (perhaps offering them a nice picnic basket if they succeed), we could train these bears to drive humvees for us. Undoubtedly, the Taliban would surrender in no time – finding their new enemies unbearable. (I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist.)

And if the bear thing doesn’t work out, I plan on training an army of pugs to sing the Batman theme song on command. It may not help in Afghanistan, but they will certainly keep me entertained as I hide in my cellar to avoid being captured by our new monkey overlords.

Joel Murphy is the creator of HoboTrashcan, which is probably why he has his own column. He loves pugs, hates Jimmy Fallon and has an irrational fear of robots. You can contact him at murphyslaw@hobotrashcan.com.

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Aaron R. Davis

Stating your opinions anywhere online is always going to mean one thing: people who are so irrationally pissed off by the very existence of your words that they just have to slam on the keyboard until enough hateful bile spews forth that they can be sexually satisfied.

At least, that’s how I like to imagine it, because it’s not like I’m going to attribute any higher functions to people who answer a dissenting opinion with unfocused rage and diatribe instead of reason. Like Paul T. Riddell taught me, when someone disagrees with you, don’t say they’re wrong, ask them what they mean. But that would be a conversation, and these people aren’t after conversation. They’re just upset that what you said made them feel bad, and they imagine that by making you feel even worse, they’ll feel better about themselves. And anyone who puffs up their self-esteem that way is a sad human being indeed.

So I’m once again pulling out hateful comments from my online life and answering those comments right here.

And, of course, all of these comments are anonymous.

1. If you went to college, why do you seem like an ignorant pervert?

Because you’re someone who scores cheap ego points by strafing someone online with anonymous comments, so you don’t really know any better.

2. Ewww, you’re fat! No offense, but you’re obnoxious. LOSE SOME WEIGHT DUDE!

Well, who could be offended by that? No, seriously: why would I take the time to be offended by a some rude, graceless little pig who doesn’t even have the courage to leave a fake name? People who don’t own their comments are cowards whose words are completely empty. Oh, um, no offense.

3. Your scary looking.

Yes, but I’m also polite, decorous, forthright and honest. And I’ll still be those things when I’m thinner and healthier. But you’ll still be an asshole who doesn’t know anything about pronouns.

4. FAAAAAAAAAAG!

You truly impress me, Chim-Chim; you managed to tear yourself away from furiously masturbating to type a very small word that probably takes up a lot of space in your very small brain. The fact that you even know how to turn the computer on is a testament to your can-do spirit, Chuzzlewit, and it means that, in a world that needs button pushers, you will never be unemployable. (Rather a lot of extra a’s, though, so hopefully no code input for you.)

5. dude your gay

Possibly, but I can spell, capitalize and use proper grammar, so I’m still three up on you. Oh, and I’m not a moron, so there’s four.

6. Too bad you’re not as good at defending yourself in real life as you are on the net.

Huh, I didn’t know people still used the term “the net.” That’s so cute, by the way, how you pretend to know me in an attempt to make me insecure. Except that I barely know anyone because I don’t go out. And, of course, in real life I’m polite to people because they’re not hiding and will instead speak to my face. Anonymity is for cowards who don’t deserve the consideration.

Short answer: go fuck yourself.

7. im wack because im black and your fat because you’re a fag! you can’t talk back bcuz whitey just struck back so go to hell bitch and never come back and no matter how much fucking god damned crap you reply it won’t be as tough as this. Owned

Don’t sell yourself short: you’re also a total dipshit. You can own that. As an English teacher, I’d give you an F, but that’s the least of your problems. Evolution really let you down.

Now stop hitting on me and go back to drinking.

8. yo mamma aint a mozza

I admit, my mother is unfortunately not made of cheese.

9. You don’t want people to do anything but agree with you.

I’d tell you how wrong you are, but then I’d be disagreeing with you, and I don’t want to ever do anything that makes you feel smart.

10. When are you going to stop posting so many pictures of Kristen Bell? She’s plain and has stubby little legs?

How can you use a computer if you can’t see? But, on the off chance that you are sighted, I do apologize for doing such a shitty job of reflecting your tastes on a blog that isn’t yours. Doesn’t the world just suck sometimes?

11. Jeez, sorry the world isn’t the perfect place you think you deserve.

Oh, I don’t know what I deserve, really. The world’s not a perfect place. It’ll never be a perfect place. We all have our dreams, and sometimes they can’t come true, but they’re pleasant enough alone.

I’ll tell you what my ultimate fantasy is, okay?

I live in the mountains, but also near a lake. It’s nice up there in the summer, even though the air is a little thin, and I have all of my groceries delivered by a service. It’s the middle of July, so it’s my birthday, and except for my big-screen TV and my Internet connection, I’m pleasantly removed from humanity.

Meanwhile, roadhouse music is blaring on the CD player while Jessica Simpson is barbecuing outside. She’s wearing cowboy boots, a cowboy hat and Daisy Dukes, and her shirt is unbuttoned all the way down and tied up in a bunch just under her breasts. She gives me a wicked smile as she grabs me a Coca-Cola in an old-fashioned bottle, with a little condensation trickling down and then kisses me a substantial, candy-flavored kiss before serving me a birthday dinner of ribs, fries, garlic breadsticks and a marvelous dessert of ricotta strawberry shortcake. Then we sit together by the lake, wrapped in a blanket and softly singing together while we watch the sunset.

And also you were never born.

The wonder of Internet discourse.

Aaron R. Davis lives in a cave at the bottom of the ocean with his eyes shut tight and his fingers in his ears. You can contact him at samuraifrog@yahoo.com.

Courtney Enlow

From 1987 to 1995, one family appointed themselves as the moral guideline for the entire nation. That family? The Tanners, of San Francisco.

The TV show Full House was an incredibly important part of the televised upbringing of my entire generation. The program was known for a polite, clean and very white 192 episodes of pure sweetness.

Or was it?

I would argue that the perfection of the Tanner family was nothing more than illusion. An illusion made up of seemingly sweet children with a seemingly sweet relationship with their seemingly sweet father and co-father figures.

The frequent watcher will tell you this was not the case.

Exhibit A: Donna Jo “DJ” Tanner

DJ was the eldest Tanner daughter. A clingy, self-involved shrew, she at various points refused to let her father date, she throws tantrums every time anyone in her life acts like a parent, she tackled Kirk Cameron because he wouldn’t play with her and she had really awful half flip-up, half flip-down bangs for far longer than acceptable.

She has a horrible time with boys. She dates perfectly nice, super-rich Nelson and two-times him with a doober named Viper and then dumps them both. She dates Steve, and that goes well, but then she climbs a mountain and dumps him. That’s pretty much how it happens. Also, Danny catches them having what he thinks is sex (which was ridiculous as they were on separate sides of the couch and very obviously asleep) and instead of doing the sensible thing and a) calmly telling her father that they were not doing such a thing, and/or b) just having sex with him (the guy was Aladdin, COME ON) she has another tantrum and forces her dad to apologize to her for her staying over at a guy’s house. My dad would have slapped me.

Exhibit B: Stephanie Judith Tanner

Stephanie is the classic middle child. Desperate for attention, shrill and exhibiting all signs that she will one day become a meth-head, Stephanie is the worst of the Tanner children. Mean to her classmates such as Walter the Duckface, a nosy eavesdropper, and insistent upon having not one, but multiple catchphrases, Stephanie is basically a tiny blonde nightmare who happens to be quite proficient at the Running Man.

Stephanie drove a car into the fucking kitchen. She does not get in trouble. She also runs away, gets herself on a plane to Auckland, turns her house into absolute chaos because she can’t find her teddy bear when she is well into her teens and befriends Marla Sokoloff, which you really shouldn’t do.

Also, she drove the car into the fucking kitchen.

Exhibit C: Michelle Elizabeth Tanner

Michelle was a really ugly baby. That is not her fault. She didn’t do it. But she looked exactly like her stuffed monkey and that cannot be ignored. Not content to let her sister get all the string-pull doll glory, Michelle also insisted upon having a catchphrase. This catchphrase was “You got it, dude.” This is barely a catchphrase. It’s no “Did I do that?”

In fairness to Michelle, she was the only Tanner who acknowledged that black people are real and deserving of friendship. One of her black friends was a Mowry, as in Tia and Tamara, and the other one was revealed to be the niece of Little Richard, because it was very important to Full House to point out that all black people are related.

Michelle fell off a horse, lost her memory, split into two and talked to herself, then ended the series that way. This was stupid.

Exhibit D: Danny Tanner

Danny was severely obsessive compulsive and in serious need of psychiatric care. He also hugged people a lot, often inappropriately. I think we have another Belding situation on our hands.

Exhibit E: Jesse Katsopolis

If that’s even his real name. Jesse Katsopolis entered the television world with the far less ethnic name Jesse Cochran. Inexplicably, his name became Katsopolis in the second season. Theory: his attempt at a false name was an effort to hide that he was totally not the mom’s brother. Jesse was the Greekest man alive. His sister produced three incredibly Aryan daughters. Basically he read the obit and moved in.

At the beginning of the series, he didn’t just have a mullet; he had a Kate Jackson layered shag.

He plays a lot with the Beach Boys, but subscribes to the belief that Mike Love, not Brian Wilson, is the true genius of the band. This is ridiculous.

In the research of this piece, I discovered that his wife could fuck you up.

Exhibit F: Joey Gladstone

First and foremost, his name was not “Uncle” Joey. He was never called “Uncle” Joey. If I hear anyone call him “Uncle” Joey, I will call you out for being stupid.

Maligned nomenclature is the lease of Joey’s worries. Joey never dates much the entire series, choosing instead to spend his longest televised relationship with a beaver puppet. Okay, it was actually a woodchuck, but the Mel Gibson similarities just seemed so timely. He is a failed comedian, then a failed advertising man. He was basically a giant lump of fail, and much like Screech before him, was alternately perfectly intelligent and mostly retarded.

For spending seven years making our families seem inferior, the House of Tanner was built on shaky ground. The three girls were bratty disasters, the three men were overreacting messes who I wouldn’t trust to lead a parade.

The only person who escapes unscathed and was largely normal and okay? Kimmy Gibler. They should have been nicer to her.

Courtney Enlow is a writer living in Chicago and working as a corporate shill to pay the bills. You can contact her at courtney@hobotrashcan.com.

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• Leonardo DiCaprio and Christopher Nolan
• Contractually-obligated Fun Time
• “Skullcrusher Mountain” by Jonathan Coulton

 

 Hobo Radio 141 - It's French for The Bruce [59:52m]: Play Now | Play in Popup | Download

It’s not every day that you see a “video art zombie film” about a man convinced he is an alien zombie roaming the streets of L.A. on the prowl for brains and gay sex. Unfortunately, moviegoers in Australia won’t be seeing the film anytime soon, since L.A. Zombie has been banned from being screened at the Melbourne International Film Festival.

This week, Joel Murphy and Lars praise L.A. Zombie for its originality and urge Australia to reconsider. They also discuss Leonardo DiCaprio’s insufferable smugness, the improved goodies being given out at the Red Cross and Teddy Almond Turtle, the adorable pug who says “Batman.”

How much does Lars love Christopher Nolan? How much does Joel Murphy want to punch DiCaprio in the face? Does the pug really say “Batman”? The answers to these questions and more are in this week’s podcast.

Hobo Radio is the official podcast of HoboTrashcan, brought to you by The Podcast Network.

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Joel Murphy

It’s tough being Playboy these days. Sure, there are still plenty of guys who would gladly switch places with dapper octogenarian Hugh Hefner in a second if it meant living in the Playboy mansion and consorting with a half dozen perky 20-year-olds. But that doesn’t change the fact that Playboy itself is outdated – the magazine industry is slowly dying and, making matters worse, Playboy is attempting to peddle glossy, airbrushed photos of tastefully-posed nude women in a world where their target demographic spends their days watching video of “the girl next door” getting tagged teamed by the mailman and the pizza delivery guy on countless free online porn sites.

It used to be that celebrities looking to extend their 15 minutes of fame posed for Playboy. It was a bold move that made a starlet seem edgy. Now, they just release a sex tape online. (Even former playmate Kendra Wilkinson has one.) The only big name celebrity still going the Playboy route these days is Marge Simpson. It’s a brave new world. And in the hedonistic future world that is the Internet, Playboy just seems downright quaint.

So what is a struggling nudie mag to do? Playboy has decided to become even more quaint by getting rid of the nudity altogether. Yesterday, the company officially launched The Smoking Jacket, a “safe for work” site which aims to be “a juke box of cool” according to Playboy’s editorial director Jimmy Jellinek, who is under the mistaken impression that juke boxes are still cool.

“A lot of our audience logs on (to Playboy.com) after work,” Jellinek also said, “and we saw that we were missing a golden opportunity to reach guys when they’re online the most: when they’re sitting at their desk, not working, sending e-mails to their friends.”

On the surface, it seems counterintuitive. It would be like the Outback opening a restaurant that didn’t have any steaks and instead served nothing but blooming onions. But, strange as the idea seems, it could actually work. While countless “I read Playboy for the articles” jokes have been made over the years, the fact is that the magazine usually does have engaging feature articles, short stories written by notable authors and interviews with big name celebrities. So offering that content on a SFW site could actually be a recipe for success, since it would allow men a chance to read these quality articles out in public without receiving dirty looks one gets when carrying around a Playboy.

Unfortunately, The Smoking Jacket doesn’t actually feature any of that content. Instead, the site has photos of sexy women in their underwear, thinly-veiled advertisements masquerading as product recommendations and incredibly boring, generic articles. Essentially, The Smoking Jacket is an online version of Maxim.

The articles boast eye-catching titles like “10 Ways Not to Suck in Bed,” “7 Signs That You’ve Given Up on Getting Laid” and “How to Get Laid at Work” (which is technically SFW, but I wouldn’t recommend leaving it up on your work computer unless you want a visit from HR). “10 Ways Not to Suck in Bed” offers “insightful” advice like “Don’t refer to your penis by its nickname” and “Don’t use Twitter to announce you just got laid.” (Hey, if a special lady meets the Octagon, James Westfall and Doctor Kenneth Noisewater, I’m going to tweet about it.) “7 Signs That You’ve Given Up on Getting Laid” includes the use of paper plates, the presence of sweatpants and poor dental hygiene. (Personally, I would also add “Logging several hours on a nudity-free version of Playboy” to the list.)

“How to Get Laid at Work” doesn’t actually offer advice on how to score with a coworker. Instead it offers advice on how to keep an office tryst a secret. The advice itself is all common sense – things like “Never Use Your Corporate E-mail” or “Plan the First Kiss Offsite” – and after offering up this generic advice, the article essentially admits it was a waste of time to read by stating “eventually all office romances are discovered.” At least that article is honest. All of the other pieces on the site I came across were also a waste of time; they just didn’t have the common courtesy to admit it.

There is also a question of just how safe for work the site actually is. While there is no nudity, the scantily-clad photos of women featured on the site are not exactly something you want to have to explain at your next employee review. Also, the fact that most of the articles deal with sex (there is even a “Sex” tab on the top of the site) means that if there is a filter in place, there is a good chance your job is going to block access to The Smoking Jacket.

At the end of the day, whether it is SFW or not is irrelevant. The Smoking Jacket is a boring waste of time released by a dying company that no longer has its finger on the pulse of what its readers want. All the site does is guarantee that no one will ever be able to claim they read Playboy for the articles ever again. The time of Playboy is over. Just don’t tell Marge Simpson though – the last thing I want to see is her and Homer in a sex tape.

Joel Murphy is the creator of HoboTrashcan, which is probably why he has his own column. He loves pugs, hates Jimmy Fallon and has an irrational fear of robots. You can contact him at murphyslaw@hobotrashcan.com.

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