Terrible Analogies

Playing Fallout 3 this afternoon I found myself knee deep in Super Mutants while trying to track down my scientist father who skipped out on me (thanks, dad) in his relentless pursuit of supplying the war torn landscape with clean drinking water.  Scanning through my Pip-Boy 3000 I noticed this odd contract in my inventory I picked up after being attacked by a band of renegades whilst wandering the vast wastelands:

For the uninitiated, Robert Paulson is the name of a character in Chuck Palahniuk’s novel Fight Club:

And so I, the protagonist of Fallout 3, am named after a charter whose nickname was “Bitch Tits”.  Fantastic.

I’m constantly amazed at how this book (and movie) has permeated into the consciousness of America.  It couldn’t have happened to a finer work of fiction (at this point I’d like to name drop Chuck’s best (IMHO) book, Survivor.  Go read it.  Now.)

If I didn’t take a moment to point out this Fight Club sighting, I’d forever regret it

Spotted this outside our local grocery store this weekend:

I wonder how many bumpers he goes through each week

During these recent holidays the local news was encouraging people who drink not to drive while intoxicated. The talking heads urged us to take advantage of taxicabs, busses, and the local trolley system:

Screw the taxis and the trolleys.  My drunk ass would want to be in that train that freakin’ jumps over the trolleys and busses!  I mean, just look at that air time!  Is Keanu Reeves the conductor?  Yeee Hawww!

With our baby due at the end of February, the wife and I have been busy getting things ready in preparation for the big day. We’ve been making up the baby’s room, putting together a solid clothing ensemble for the little guy, picking up the odd toy here and there, as well as perusing some prime reading material.

As luck would have it, Karin’s parents sent us a nice library of children’s books that were published in the 60′s. Flipping through this amazing stash from the past, more than a few of the illustrations stood out as being a bit…unusual:

And what was the secret ingredient that made the soup so tasty?  Children, apparently…

Not only was this enraged goose of gigantic proportions, it had the strength of ten monkeys and a hatred for mankind.  I wonder if he dangled the old man over the rail like Vanilla Ice in the hands of Suge Knight, feet in beak, before finally dropping him to a crushing end.

This is morbidly disturbing.  A baby tumbling from a tree, whose fall is going to be broken by a thin sheet of cotton held taught by two little girls?  Factoring in the weight of the baby and the basket, the inertia built up during free fall, and the tensile strength of the agreed upon arresting device, one question instantly pops into my mind….how the hell did that baby get up in the tree in the first place?

My God…look at the size of that spider! For the love that all is holy…run! What they heck were they feeding those things in Holland at the turn of the century?  Oh, I get it…babys!  The “Hush-a-bye, Baby” poem suddenly makes total sense to me now…

This is perhaps the most depressing poem I have ever read.  I sure hope she doesn’t break her legs upon impact.  Tuck and roll, Joan.  Tuck and roll…

It always amazes me what we’re willing to do to ourselves all for the sake of vanity.  From gym rats to liposuction queens, more than a large chunk of the populace endures our fair share of physical pain and financial hardship just so we can keep up the appearance of eternal, unflinching youth.

Take, for example, this following video.  The technique is unique and interesting, but the questionable and cringeworthy bit at the 1:25 mark really makes me wonder why we do these sorts of things to ourselves.

Whatever makes you happy I guess, but when is enough enough? As the years fly by, is there such a thing as a “limit” for some people?