A blog is not about facts–thus do I offend everyone with a blog. But it stands that emotions are not facts. Opinions are not facts. The way your dog barks when confronted by dandelions is not a fact, no matter how cute you think it is. If we wanted facts, we Pressers would write for journals. We would have sources and research cited, and we would care about footnotes vs endnotes. In my early days, I foolishly thought that everything needed to be supported; everything had to be proven. My first two long posts (on Rupert Murdoch and Justin Bieber) involved heavy Googling and Word documents filled with facts, only half of which were deemed relevant. But in the end, neither of these posts were true to what a blog is. While some blogs make very good points and other blogs are reputable news sources masquerading as blogs, the driving idea behind blogs themselves is the expression of self.
Freedom of speech gets thrown around a lot where I live. With my American arrogance, I will name blogs as the very essence of the First Amendment. Here, I can argue for the superiority of texting without emojis. I can proclaim my discomfort with sculpted dogs. I can even confidently inform all and sundry that hula hoops began when Galileo Galilee tried to incorporate the rings of Saturn into his wardrobe, and the site moderators will not tell me that I cannot write these lies.
Of course, if I tout such blatant untruths as fact, I will not attract a serious following. The consumers will punish me for my missteps; the government need not step in. If the government could and did step it, we the people would be conferring upon that body the ability to define what is true and what must be persecuted as false.
Basically, blogs show us why and how free speech is so cool and works on its own. Wow, isn’t Murica cool? Even my bombastic eloquence must run dry, so L out. See you never.
“It’s cute how you think I care.” “I’m happy, don’t wreck it by talking.” “it’s all about me, deal with it.” Who remembers Happy Bunny? Who spent endless minutes sniggering over these witticisms with their friends, secure in the knowledge that this, this was high humor? Comedy of the most refined kind? You could tell by how adults didn’t get it; it went high, high above their unfunny heads. You were superior in your knowledge that this was the greatest thing to happen to the comedic world since that guy who voiced the genie in Aladdin.
Those days are long gone now (I hope), and we have put those days behind us (I tentatively assume). But recently, I stumbled across this notebook emblazoned with these words: “i’m just pretending to take notes.”
And it brought back the memories. Older and wiser as I am, though, I started wondering: who comes up with these things? Here is what my brain provided me with. This is the Terrible Truth Behind Happy Bunny.
A fat bureaucrat sits at the same desk he’s sat at for fifteen years, soullessly approving and denying notebook designs. “‘I’m just pretending to take notes.’ Sounds like the kind of bullsh they’ll like, the puerile little brats.” Overhead, the fluorescent lights rattle and flicker.
The eager young intern suggests uncapitalizing the “I”–because he explains with careful nonchalance, he’d heard from his little sister that it was the cool thing to do these days. “Children,” he may go so far as to mutter fondly, nostalgically shaking his head, firmly ensconced in superiority and adulthood.
The fat bureaucrat is not even annoyed by these antics. He is busy thinking about the lunch sitting in the refrigerator in the break room. He packed it himself this morning in the icy silence his wife managed to project from the bedroom. It contains yesterday’s dinner mixed with yesterday’s lunch in Ziploc bags; all the Tupperware sits unwashed in the sink. More of the wife’s revenge.
“Sir? Sir, what do you think?” The intern’s voice breaks through the haze, and he rouses long enough to grumble, “Yes, yes, acceptable, put it through.” He does not notice as the child goes into ecstasies. At dinner, one family will smile indulgently as their son rambles on about how the Assistant-Design-Checker had listened to his advice and how he was sure to move up in the company soon. Perhaps he could wrangle a favorable reference from the man in a year’s time.
Thus the design is passed along. As predicted, the puerile little brats love it, and the lower-case “i” is indeed considered hip by the withered production team. The intern attempts to take credit, but no one listens to him. Everyone knows interns are too young for good ideas. Eventually, he gains a reputation for brown-nosing–this may or may not be legitimately deserved–and becomes a loner in company’s the social scene.
Guys. Justin Bieber is the new face of Calvin Klein jeans and underwear, and it’s hilarious.
One commercial starts out with the timeless theme of past meets present, which is to say that Justin Bieber is #throwbackthursday-ing his baby drumming skills while reminding us of his transition into douchebaggery by yet again refusing to clothe his torso. What? You say that Calvin Klein male underwear models don’t wear shirts? Hush. When Justin Bieber doesn’t wear a shirt, it means he’s a douchebag.
The clip continues with rapid jump shots of two scenes: Bieber drumming and a female model named Lara Stone working her strut towards Justin Bieber. Once she gets there, normal sexy-times ensue for a few frantically jump-cut seconds until Bieber says, Screw this sharing schtick, it’s solo time! and kicks Stone out of the frame for long enough to stare soulfully into the camera and say, “My Calvins,” over his bicep. Stone makes a triumphant comeback for the last two seconds, however, doing her famous “rug” impression over Bieber’s shoulder.
SNL already did a ruthless parody where Bieber tries desperately to show that he’s “a big boy” now. But he’s got nothing to prove to us here at blockedletters. There’s really no more “prepubescent boy next door” image to milk after the whole peeing-in-a-bucket episode. What Bieber is really trying to do here is show the world that he’s more than a blotch of shame on Canada’s proud history. O Canada, we stand on guard for thee—Bieber will never cross this border again.
Speaking of being a big boy, Calvin Klein seems to think Bieber needs some help in that department: apparently they photoshopped some manly hair onto his nether regions, which is really weird in today’s world of waxing. And, well, apparently this is the norm for male underwear models, but since it’s Justin Bieber, it will be mocked–there was some serious cuppage down there. Not padding. Just cuppage. Like, maybe the first cousin of padding. Stuffage’s foster brother.
We can only assume that Justin Bieber has reached that point in his career burnout where he needs money and will do many things to stay relevant. Calvin Klein has apparently reached that point in their company’s future where they’re…going in a new direction?
No speculations can be made about Lara’s Stone’s motivations for working with Bieber, however. We just don’t know. Perhaps a corporate Calvin Klein big wig said, “Jump,” and she said, “Nope, so much nope,” and they said, “You’re almost fired,” and she said, “How high?” Or maybe she was broke enough not to care about the things that happen to Bieber’s lady associates. If she did her research before the shoot, she can’t be surprised now at the death threats erupting from staunch remaining Beliebers like Old Faithful. The most memorable, I think, was, “Go kill yourself with a cactus,” which says a lot about the creativity of the average Belieber.
I have offended possibly everyone possible. Think I’m good now. L out.
P.S. Here, at the end of all things, I’d like to make a note. This article started out a fun mockery. Then I got into the research bit, and it went downhill. You know who still covers Justin Bieber? TMZ and the ClevverNews Rumor Patrol. I watched them so you didn’t have to. And I wrote the word “cuppage” so you could think to yourself, “Well, I might be reading this article but at least I didn’t invent the word ‘cuppage.’ “
J.K. Rowling has come through yet again for her fans. Her rebuttal on Rupert Murdoch was fire; her composure and method were flawless; I drew a happy stick figure dancing in celebration of her general all-around coolness.
Now, what was Murdoch saying again? And wait, who the help is Rupert Murdoch?
I had no idea before this article brought him to my attention. Some quick and dirty Googling fixed that right up, however, so a) disclaimer: I might not know what I’m talking about, and b) I now know everything and am fully qualified to boil it down for you all.
Rupert Murdoch was born in Australia in 1931, which makes him 83 for everyone who hates math. His father was a respected journalist and ran two Australian newspapers, News and Sunday Mail, which gave young Rupert a running start in the media game. At a young age, he took over these newspapers and systematically demolished all of his father’s respect with his transformation of News into a tabloid of the lowest order. Sex, sports, crime–yes, it was indeed the forerunner of the Sun in the UK, which Murdoch bought soon afterwards. Because humanity is a cesspit of despair and celebrity gossip, sales soared.
Now, we here at blockedletters certainly wouldn’t want you to think Murdoch is just a leech who survives on the gushing lifeblood of privacy as it lies stabbed and dying on the floor of the 21st century. Around the middle of the 1960s, Murdoch rehabilitated his journalistic image with the Australian, Australia’s first national newspaper. Even more impacted was his image as a zoologist; to ensure that all Australians received this paper, he personally trained an army of wallabies to deliver copies to those living in the more inaccessible parts of Down Under.
I’m sorry for that last sentence. It’s a lie, and I shouldn’t have said it. But I refuse to apologize for that wallaby.
Anyway, Murdoch’s many other newspapers follow the same story line: a lot of sensationalist rags like the San Antonio Express-News and some very respectable news sources such as the Sunday Times of London. But Murdoch’s newspapers are far from all he owns.
Has anyone ever heard of Fox News? I have, mostly in jokes about conservative news sources being blatantly biased, completely unreliable, and a stain on news broadcasting. Of course, this was liberal humor, but Fox News has experienced some serious shade action. Murdoch not only owns Fox News but also Harper Collins as well as parts of quite a lot of other media companies.
This is the bare bones of Murdoch’s media career. Fear not, there were events like the time he fought print unions in Wapping in London (it ended up with over 1,000 arrests, 400 police injuries, 365 days wasted, and a win for Murdoch. Well done, Rupert). And we can’t forget that time his paper News of the World hacked a missing girl’s voicemail for news. Hacking seems to be the NoW method of fact-finding, actually. Now, the last time Murdoch was attracting heat like this was a scant month and a half ago when he was tweeting
followed by pearls like
But the reason he’s coming under fire now is because of this:
referencing Charlie Hebdo and the terrorist attack there.
Now, here’s why we should care.
Remember the Sydney hostage crisis? The general takeaway was that heart-warming #IllRideWithYou. Warm fuzzies were had by all, and the world went, wow, those forgiving Aussies.
But there was also this. (Lakemba is a suburb in Sydney that’s heavy on Muslims.)
The ADL is definitely a fringe group, and practically everyone was mad about that post, but there were others, guys. There were others.
Rupert Murdoch is the new ADL. He’s the face for that insidious whisper that sees a Muslim and thinks, right, ISIS is a thing that exists. He embodies the reason that Charlie Hebdo is, as well as an international tragedy, another nail in the collective Muslim PR coffin**. This guy, who was ranked 32nd in Forbes’ most powerful people. This guy, whose net worth is $13.9 billion.
But luckily for us, J.K. Rowling exists in an awesome way.
Of course, the news is jumping all-the-eff over Murdoch for being an idiot and exalting Rowling for being totally awesome because we’re not slavering dogs indiscriminately calling for all Muslim blood. Yet.
**I don’t mean to gloss over the deaths of the Charlie Hebdo employees. Everything about Charlie Hebdo is tragic. Everything, ok? It’s tragic that those Charlie Hebdo employees died, it’s tragic that historically free speech so often must be bought with blood, and it’s tragic that even more fear and prejudice is being directed at innocent Muslims.
Someone is definitely going to yell at me about this.
So I guess it’s time I make myself known, since as of yet, L has dominated this blog thing we have started. My thoughts are no where near as deep and thoughtful, I feel obligated to say. Be prepared for ramblings on TV shows and people and books that I absolutely love, and think everyone else should too. So, yeah, Hi!! –E
Be proud, Generation Y. Be proud. I’d add some pithy analysis about a new age of media and how it’s progressing or regressing, but I’d rather get back to making unfounded generalizations in my next post. -L
Genius, the startup formerly known as RapGenius that began as a place for crowdsourced rap lyrics and now provides a platform for people to annotate everything from songs to historical texts, has scored a high-profile new hire: Renowned New Yorker music critic Sasha Frere-Jones.
The New York Times was the first to break the news on Sunday evening, reporting that Frere-Jones will join Genius as an executive editor. In an interview with the paper, he said he will be looking to hire three to four more media and music industry experts. He’s quoted as saying, “My remit is going into the lyrics site and building a team… [to work toward] that Twitter moment when suddenly the smart kids stop holding their noses up in the air and they take part, and it just improves.”
It’s a big loss for the New Yorker, but a huge coup for…
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