Hyperion-X

2007-12-31T23:59:00.000-07:00

HYPERION X TABLE OF CONTENTS

Here is the List of HyperionX topics, each one capable of blowing your mind (bwuah ha ha ha ha!)

HyperionX955 - What Child is This?

HyperionX956 - Smells like Keen Spirit

HyperionX957 - Glorious Wood of the Morning

HyperionX958 - Riled (Hyperion hates Cameron Diaz)

HyperionX959 - Ragtime (Hyperion confronts bigotry, as only he can)

HyperionX^{960 - The Pile Grows Evermore}

HyperionX^{961 - Whitewash (The Media goes into the Pile)}

HyperionX⁹⁶² - The Pile (people I hate)

HyperionX⁹⁶³ – IRREVERSIBLE (Movie Review of a film so controversial I had to put it here)

HyperionX⁹⁶⁴ – WAITING (Movie Review, with such great dialogue that I had to put it here)

HyperionX⁹⁶⁵ – Animated Jungle Fever (What it would be like to sleep with various Disney Characters)

HyperionX⁹⁶⁶ – 100 Things you need to know about Women (‘Cause they sure as hell aren’t going to tell you)

HyperionX⁹⁶⁷ - "Just Like That" Hyperion's first public attempt at erotic literature; now over on Hyperion After Dark

HyperionX^{968 - The Hate List Grows (more things that piss me off)}

Hyperion X⁹⁶⁹ – T&A Q&A (Questions about sex that people are afraid to ask)

Hyperion X⁹⁷⁰ – Things that Piss me off (The ins and outs of Jumprope. What do you think this column is about? I’m disgusted you’d even read the explanation after that title)

Hyperion X⁹⁷¹ – The Great Debates (Socrates would be proud)

Hyperion X⁹⁷⁶ – In Defense of Blasphemy (What are you lookin’ at?)

Hyperion X⁹⁷⁷ – Wha-The-Fuh? (More small items)

Hyperion X⁹⁸⁶ – Hodgepodge (Hyperion X’s version of potpourri)

Hyperion X⁹⁸⁹– Poetry Corner (Just what it sounds like, Moron)

Hyperion X⁹⁹² – Bloodrage (Hyperion is VERY angry)

Hyperion X⁹⁹⁶ – The List (People and things that piss me off)

Hyperion X⁹⁹⁷ – Hate Haiku (Hate Mail in the wake of #123 All Women Are Martyrs)

Hyperion X 999-998, 995-993, 991-990, 988-987, 985-978, and 975-972 were all movie reviews (albeit with sometimes salty language), and can now be found over at Movie-Hype.

Other HyperionX Material

Best Tee-Shirt Ever - Just like it sounds
Let your Freak Flag Fly - a Test to determine how much of a "freak" you are

HyperionX 655

2007-06-11T04:00:00.000-06:00

I first heard the monumental news driving home Friday afternoon. I’ve never had any thoughts on Paris Hilton one way or the other, but this latest event caused both my mother and girlfriend to get up in arms, angry they let Paris out in the first place, gleeful she was sent back in such horrible fashion. What is it about this woman that causes so many people such strong feelings? Who knows? That is not my purpose today. I realized I have been missing out on comic opportunities here. The following is what I wish WOULD HAVE happened after Paris returned to jail, and frankly: there’s still time.

HyperionX955

What Child is This?

From Sinner to Savior in Three Acts

First, Paris continues to get worse from her mysterious illness. Within a few days she’s in a coma.

"That's so not hot"

The Perfect Storm

A veritable cottage industry of medical commentators pops up on the cable news networks. (Much like how there were suddenly 887 retired generals when the Iraq War started and by the way: have you noticed that cottage industries are always “veritable”?) Former Surgeon General C. Everett Coop comes out of retirement, but by the time he’s ready to offer his services the only place left for him to opine is HGTV. (This fall he has a new show called “This Old Coop,” which will feature birdcage makeovers.)

The other idea was "Coop on Coops"

News anchors, fans, followers, crazies and zealots all show up at UCLA Hospital to stand vigil for Paris. You know how L.A. has China Town, Korea Town and Little Tokyo? The area surrounding the hospital is now known as Chez Paris. Think of a Shanty Town, if it were outfitted by Dolce and Gabbana.

Many of her fans, led by TV partner Nicole Ritchie, who has had a spiritual awakening, vow not to eat until Paris wakes up and is able to as well. Thus the Paris Hilton diet is born.

Deepak Chopra writes “The Simple Life: The Tao of Paris and the Zen of Hilton Maintenance.” It instantly becomes a bestseller, outselling the 7th Harry Potter book 3 to 1. Because of the book, and a vast reinterpretation of Paris’s show “The Simple Life,” thousands flock to L.A. They cast off family, jobs and life and come to live in Chez Paris, wearing nothing but hot-pink robes. (Which you can order in the new Donna Karan catalog for $189.99.)

(Calvin Klein prayer beads cost extra)

As Paris lingers in a coma a growing chorus of voices calls for her feeding tube to be removed because “Paris wouldn’t’ve wanted to have bad skin.” Conservative politicians had been blasting Paris non-stop as the cause of all things wrong in our society. Now, however, they find themselves torn. She’s evil, but now there’s a chance for Schiavo: Part II, and a prettier version at that. Pat Robertson gets involved, claiming that Paris’s coma is a result of her wickedness, and boldly predicting that if she does not turn from her wicked ways California will suffer a devastating earthquake and plunge into the sea. (How she is supposed to repent from a coma is not explained.)

It even looks like her (If you've seen the infmaous tape, that is...)

Then the Perfect Storm becomes a Perfect Hurricane.

It is revealed that Paris Hilton has become pregnant while in the coma. Vegas sets up odds on possible fathers and over 350 billion dollars are wagered. Frontrunners include the L.A. Sheriff who let her out in the first place and the judge who seemed to have such a hard-on to put Paris back in jail. (Turns out that hard-on was more literal then we thought.) Other frontrunners: Fez from That ‘70s Show, Haley Joel Osment, George Michael for some reason and even Bill Clinton, who had been very moved by Paris and visited her more than a few times.

Nicole Ritchie has one that says "Do Not Feed"

[The preceding paragraph implies a sexual assault of some kind, and we here at the Hyperion Institute DO NOT advocate that, not even to Paris Hilton. The way we imagine it, Paris has one of those Medical Alert bracelets on her wrist that reads: “In case of coma, all sex consensual, cuz THAT’S hot.” Admit it: with Paris, it’s entirely possible.]

Is that Paris, or just some fungus?

As the arrival day grows nearer people start seeing Paris in everyday objects, like Armani handbags and Manolo Blahniks. A theory is put forth that perhaps the child growing within Paris was immaculately conceived, causing thousands more to come to Chez Paris to worship. Surprisingly, Pat Robertson is among them.

Jimmy Kimmel jokes in a monologue that what really happened is that there was so much sperm in Paris Hilton’s body already that some of them simply hid out until they could make their move. The resulting uproar is so intense that ABC is forced to fire Kimmel, replacing him with Don Imus.

The baby is born. The National Enquirer offers twenty million dollars for pictures. Days go by until a hospital orderly manages to sneak a cell phone image out. The picture is grainy and blurry, but definitely seems to show that Paris’s baby is a bit more “dusky” than one would have guessed. Imus immediately calls for all black men in Southern California to be DNA tested against the baby, with execution for the father. For some strange reason suspicion falls on Gary Coleman.

"Whatchu talkin' about, Paris?"

Different Strokes indeed.

Meanwhile, the REAL father sneaks into the hospital to see his son. He originally found Paris while in Chez Paris looking for the “real killers,” and felt connected to the young woman. After all, had they not both been mistreated by the justice system?

"These are my baby-handling gloves!"

When OJ Simpson saw mother and son he knew he had to get them all out of there. (Later it was revealed that the boy was named “Au Jus,” which both parents assumed was French for “OJ.”) Simpson grabs the two and makes his escape not in a white Ford Bronco, but on a white bronco, an actual horse.

Not Pictured: Al Cowlings

If you thought the original chase was slow, you should see this one. The bronco moves off at a steady clip-clop as residents pour out of the hospital, following their hometown savior. (The pace is slow enough for cripples in wheelchairs, crutches and canes to follow. Many will later claim spontaneous healing when they saw Au Jus.) The Glaucoma and Cancer patients lead the way, waving Marijuana leaves around the bronco and shouting “Hosanna!”

You'll never look at Palm Sunday the same way again

Meanwhile, the up-and-down motion of the horse rousts Paris, and she begins to stir. OJ stops the steed and motions to everyone that Paris is awake. The crowd hushes expectantly, hopeful to hear the first spoken words by their messiah. Paris takes a long look at the crowd, her baby Au Jus and her baby daddy OJ. Finally she opens her mouth and says….

And here is where I need your help! I’ve come this far but can’t decide what Paris says! Leave a comment saying what the first words from Paris Hilton’s mouth are, and Wednesday we will declare a winner. And remember: keep your fingers crossed: this could still happen. In Southern California, I’d believe anything.

"Bow down before the one you serve...you're going to get what you deserve"

HyperionX956

2007-06-07T06:24:00.000-06:00

HyperionX956

Smells like Keen Spirit

Or

Aroma Therapy, Hyperion-style

Recently I wrote about Morning Wood. Next up, I wish to probe an even more delicate situation: bodily aromas. As I did the trash this morning I caught a whiff of more than a few tissues dried with my blood. (It’s been a hard week; let’s leave it at that.)

The smell—which took me a minute to decipher—was horrifying. Imagine blood mixed with sweat and maybe even other fluids, several days old, some still tacky. I know. Gerrrrosss. Yet, for all that, I found myself drawn to it, almost compelled to smell it. I was mildly disturbed until I realized it came from my own body.

This seemingly bizarre behavior was only the latest in a long line of episodes where I have found myself not only NOT disgusted by my own odors, but curiously intoxicated by them.

Look, like any large healthy eater who enjoys a wide spectrum of our finer foods, I am capable of producing all sorts of odors. Whether it’s from sweat, funk or a stirring aria from a Bean Symphony, I can play with the big boys when it comes to the noxious fumes.

But somehow I have never been over-powered or rendered incapacitated by one of my own smells. (I mention this particularly because I have managed to incapacitate others, so I know my odors are potentially powerful. VERY powerful.) Why should it be that other smells can disturb me to no end, yet my own I experience with a tolerance that might almost be called fondness?

Perhaps a better question, am I the only one? So far, it appears so. I have asked around on this, and have yet to find a single person who admitted to the same phenomenon. The men deny doing it, while the women simply deny ever producing any odor that isn’t essentially aerosol sunshine.

There can be only three reasons for this. Either people are liars (and I lean toward this, but then again, perhaps I do so in order to legitimize my own freakiness), or once again I’m all alone. I’m alone on much, so this wouldn’t be shocking, but something within me yearns to make connections with others like me.

The third reason might have merit as well. I have an extraordinary sense of smell. In fact, it is one of my more heightened (if fairly useless) super-powers. I can smell odors farther away and older than anyone I know. One time I visited my parents’ home, a house I had never been to. The basement smelled of sewage to me, a fact I pointed out quite vehemently. Achmed and Bear (also first time visitors to the house) smelled nothing, as did the rest of the family, so I was dismissed as crazy.

Yet the smell persisted, and I kept at them until finally it was revealed that months and months before a toilet had leaked quite badly. In fact, my parents had to replace the basement carpet because of the smell. What I was actually smelling were the spots were a small amount of liquid had seeped into the cement beneath the carpet.

So you see: I smell a lot of things. Perhaps I’m sensing my own pheromones in my odors and my brain instinctively draws me to it, if only as bio-feedback on my own body.

Or maybe I’m just a Freak.

What I do know is that there is something profound about being attracted—or at least not repulsed—by one’s own odors. Maybe it’s a skill humankind used to have but has since lost. For example, you know how you get colds, and a seemingly endless supply of snot can come out of your head, hour after hour, day after day, and you wonder where the hell it’s all coming from? That mucus is coming from your sinus cavity in your forehead.

But here’s the thing: there’s no real need for a sinus cavity. It’s leftover from an earlier model of human. (Think Windows 3.1 vs. the Windows 98 we have today.) Scientists theorize the sinus cavities were originally used as “echo chambers” to help hunters catch prey.

I was watching a nature show one time and the announcer said that a lioness will hide her cubs from the male lion of the pride, because if the male will kill any cubs that aren’t his. The obvious implication is that lions can instantly tell their progeny just like looking at them.

Quite obviously, this is not something humans can do. Fathers can rarely be “sure” as to their child’s authorship. (Although conversely, they sometimes can be sure they aren’t the dad, if a “Mandingo” situation develops.) It is shameful to me that we humans, we intellectual giants of earth, we titans of thought and creativity can’t tell if our wife banged our brother, but an animal that sleeps 22 hours a day can.

In that vein, maybe my heightened sense of smell is rather more profound, a throw-back to the old days when sensory skills were more developed. Maybe being drawn to my own scent means I have other latent talents, such as reading minds or walking through walls. Maybe I can fly!

Or maybe I’m just a Freak.

Hyperion
June 7, 2007

HyperionX - 957

2007-06-05T06:37:00.000-06:00

HyperionX957

Glorious Wood of the Morning

Why Life Must be so “Hard On” Us

Rising to the Occasion, as only Hyperion Can

Friends, I come to you today with a heavy heart (as well as a few other heavy things). For those uninitiated (and here I speak of ladies, and particularly sheltered ones at that), “Morning Wood” is generally referred to as the erection a man often has upon waking from slumber.

I confess to you my own philological fastidiousness, but I simply cannot accept wholesale the term “Morning Wood.” (By the way, if you are unable to understand the term “philological fastidiousness,” or at least look the words up, odds are 3 to 1 that you are too Cranially Challenged to understand this column. Run back from whence you came and return to your silent vigil of prayer and fasting for Paris Hilton’s release from incarceration, soon come the day.)

Morning Wood (which is technically called “Nocturnal Penile Tumescence,” and wouldn’t that make a great band name), occurs when a male awakens from slumber with an erection, either from a sexy dream (like that one with Chinese Twins and a delightful Honey-Ginger sauce), or simply the periodic erections healthy males have throughout their sleep cycle.

That’s fine, as far as it goes. My problem (at least, this one), is that there exists a third reason why a man might awaken with a purple-headed monster straining at the leash.

Another “fact” about us, ladies: We often awaken with a Powerful need to urinate. As I have previously written, I will often have to pee so badly that my dreams will involve peeing in some way, and if I don’t get the hint they continue to do so in increasingly urgent fashion. Very often this means that we actually wake up with what amounts to a very hard erection.

In fact, this is the first “hard on” boys have, often years before they are able to sustain sexual function, and for a long time they know of erections only as “that thing that makes it hard to pee.”

You can see my etymological distress.

I simply refuse to call erections due to a pressing bladder “Morning Wood.” But if not that term, what replacement? For years—due I guess to a lack of knowledge and lack of creativity on my part—I have been calling it a “Piss Hard On,” or P.H.O. This term has the advantage of being instantly understood by every male over the age of 10. However, while accurate and to the point I find the term to be…I don’t know...somehow inelegant, if you will. Perhaps we do not often associate matters of the groin with lofty terminology, but dammit, we should!

I’ve been thinking on this subject for years now, talking with whomever I could on the subject, hoping to find the answer. I was made aware that the Brits use the term “Piss Proud,” both for a P.H.O. and as slang for when someone is falsely proud. While the idiomatic usage is quite funny (and I plan to use it from now on), “Piss Proud” is even more vulgar than P.H.O., so the search continues.

(Neither here nor there, but I also discovered that instead of Morning Wood the Brits says “Morning Glory,” which might make you take a whole new look at the band Oasis.)

Finally, after much soul-searching and linguistic gnashing of teeth, I spoke to my brother Achmed on the subject.

After a few semantical volleys back and forth Achmed declared he had the answer. “I propose,” he said dramatically, “that we create a new term, or more correctly, a new meaning for another term. From now on we will derivate terminology when it comes to morning erections. Morning Wood will stay as it is, but your usage will henceforth be known as GOLDENROD.”

Ah, Achmed. He has a good head….on his shoulders.

I have a part 2 to this discussion, but perhaps I’ve made you as uncomfortable as you can get for now. We shall take this up again soon but for now, I leave you with this thought:

“Whether your bit be engorged with blood
From Lustful Desire or an upcoming flood
The information is telling your cock:
Do it now! Or be piss out o’ luck.”

Hyperion
June 5, 2007

HyperionX958

2007-05-23T02:37:00.000-06:00

HyperionX958

All Riled Up

Or

Why Hyperion, a blow-torch and vast tracts of real estate should never come into contact with each other

What’s got me riled up today? What’s got me more hot and bothered than Anderson Cooper verbally jacking off while watching people die in a flood?

Glad you asked.

Rile #1: Cameron Diaz

Let’s talk for a moment about a woman who’s only real claims to fame are that she’s relatively pretty, was decent in one movie (more on that in a minute), has zero understanding of the animal/human ecosystem and is dating Justin Timberlake.

Wait. Scratch that last one. Justin has cashed in his chips, which means a failed relationship with Dustin Diamond and a bald head for Cameron shouldn’t be too far behind. (Hey: at least the cuffs will match the collar.)

Glancing at Diaz’s IMDB page, she burst on the scene in THE MASK. That movie was so much fun that I think we all assumed she was fun too. Looking back, I’d have rather had the redhead. After that was THE LAST SUPPER, an indie flick, and Diaz sucked. This would not prove to be an aberration.

The only movie I can see that Cameron Diaz made marginally better was THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT MARY. I’ll give her that. Whether it was that perfect role for her, that Farrelly magic or just the hair gel, those were some good times.

They have not been repeated.

While Diaz didn’t destroy VANILLA SKY, wouldn’t you have rather seen someone really dig into that part? Scorsese managed to work around her in GANGS OF NEW YORK, but a dynamic performance from the lead girl probably brings home the Best Picture Oscar over CHICAGO.

But it is GANGS that brings me to my real anger. After all, there are dozens of pretty faces in Hollywood who managed to get lucky but really can’t act all that well. We tolerate them. Often they more or less play “hot girl” in the film they are in. Hell, as much as I adore Jessica Alba, even I have to admit that Judi Dench probably ain’t losing much sleep. That doesn’t make me like Jessica less, and in the right role I’d cast her. (At least: I’d let her prove to me why she’s right for the role, if you know what I mean.)

But Diaz earned a reported 17.5 million for GANGS. What the fuck?

Let me repeat for those of you who didn’t hear me in the back:

WHAT THE FUCK??

In no way does Cameron Diaz deserve 17.5 million dollars for GANGS OF NEW YORK. I cannot think of a single market segment that would be drawn in by her presence, thus justifying the salary in bottom-line Hollywood. In fact, Diaz should be down on her knees sucking many a dick for the privilege of getting to appear on screen with real actors like the legendary Daniel Day-Lewis, Leonardo DiCaprio and Liam Neeson, not to mention Marty Fucking Scorsese!

Diaz reportedly earned 20 million for the second CHARLIE’S ANGELS flick, but here my ire is tempered. Anyone stupid enough to see the SECOND film deserves to have their money taken away from them and given to such an unworthy cause. Hey: part 1 looked interesting. It wasn’t. Shame on them. But to willingly see part 2?

And people wonder why I advocate Eugenics.

But the real insult comes with the SHREK films. After the gigantic surprise success of the first film, Diaz (along with Eddie Murphy and Mike Meyers) reportedly earned 10 million for the second film. An hour of fruitless searching just now on the ol’ interwebs yields no hard numbers for Part The Third, but reports are putting her salary at 20 million dollars.

When hearing information like this, one can’t help but wonder if General William Tecumseh Sherman might not have received similar news….

Right before he burned an entire state to the ground.

In other words, I’m upset.

Look: I’m not quite as stupid as I look or sound (or our best testing indicates). I realize that Hollywood salaries do not necessarily reflect the relative artistic merit of the actor and film in question, but rather the films revenues and that actor’s leverage in being in the film in the first place. Take a gander at Wikipedia’s highest Movie Salaries page. The films in question either represent sequels where they can’t really do it without the actor (Keanu Reeves, I’m looking in your direction), or established box-office stars with a long track record of success.

In the case of the SHREK franchise, I understand that dollars speak loudly. The first film made 484 million worldwide (268 domestic and 215 international), while the second installment made a whopping 921 millions dollars worldwide (441 domestic and 480 internationally), making it the seventh biggest worldwide movie of all time! There’s plenty of money being made out there, and the actors deserve a good chunk of it.

But here’s the thing: You CANNOT make the movie without Mike Meyers. He’s Shrek, and his voice-work is unmistakable. You CANNOT make the movie without Eddie Murphy, who’s invaluable as Donkey. I suppose you could even argue that Antonio Banderas warrants a healthy salary increase, as he was certainly the savior of SHREK 2.

And while I agree that a Shrek film without Fiona would make no sense, someone tell me why Cameron Diaz is essential in the role. You could replace her no-talent ass with any of three hundred Hollywood actresses, and no one would care. Hell: very few would even notice unless they were told. Moreover, there are very talented voice-actors out there who actually bring something to the work beyond the big name who would actually make Fiona an essential cog in the machine.

But as it stands Fiona is the least interesting character. She certainly is the least funny, and there’s absolutely nothing that Cameron Diaz brings to the table that makes her worth keeping around for SAG scale, let alone 20 fucking million dollars.

I will now go light something on fire.

HyperionX - 959

2007-04-11T17:06:00.000-06:00

HyperionX959

Ragtime

Or

Scott Joplin, eat your heart out, or at least get your Red Wings with Janis

It’s been awhile (a long while) since HyperionX has shown its nappy head and made an appearance, but it feels good to be back. How we have missed all your miserable sons and daughters of bitches!

Today’s agenda consists of two issues, connected by how I’m choosing to use a particular word.

Okay, so I’m walking in the library, looking for the reference section, only to be eyeballed by this kid. It kind of pissed me off, all the more so because I took a wrong turn and ended up in an alcove. Not wanting to admit I’m a moron I stood there for a moment, and then grabbed a Reference book at random to take back with me. It turned out to be “The Amy Vanderbilt Complete Book of Etiquette” (50th Anniversary Edition).

Can some guys luck out or what?

The first thing that grabbed my attention was the quote on the back, by Ralph Waldo Emerson

“Manners are the happy way of doing things, each a stroke of genius or of love.”

And I always thought it was that bastard Thoreau who would get beat up by a Girl Scout.

I assume (had I bothered to read the four, count ‘em four introductions I would know for sure) that the book has been updated continually since its original 1952 publication date, but what I found inside makes me question that. Turning at random to the “Child” section, I found these few doozies on Kids’ Names:

Before making a firm decision on a name for your child, think about what nickname might be derived from it…Certain names seem to generate rather unfortunate nicknames. For instance, Sophia may become Soapy; Fatima, Fatty; Prudence, Prude…

Okay, since when was “Soapy” a big put down? Did kids really used to fear this? And who names their kid “Prudence”?

Also be on the alert for names that create awkward monograms, as in the case of Dorothy Ogden Graves or Albert Stinch Strong.

“Stinch” has to be the best middle name to come along in ages. I can’t wait to procreate!

And don’t give your child a name that seems amusing to you at the time. For example, a family named Hough (pronounced “hoe”) called their daughter Ida and she was stuck with this unfortunate name for the rest of her life.

On the bright side, Rutgers offered her a full scholarship….

Of course, Amy Vanderbilt did have some good things to say, like on that most cheerful of subjects: birth defects.

If a friend gives birth to a child with a defect, let her take the initiative in bringing up the subject with you. Unless you have gone through the same difficulty your reaction is of no possible interest or use to parents in
sorting out their feelings.

I believe Amy just told you to sit yo five dollar ass down before she makes change. Good for her, although, if the child has a second head, it’s kind of hard to pretend not to notice.

On the other hand, while offering sympathy to the parent is lame, acting like a problem doesn’t exist if fake too. This whole “coddling” of people with physical or mental problems is worse than bigotry, if you ask me. Just treat people normally. I used to have this friend “Charles” who was crippled in a wheel chair. I use the term “crippled” because A) that’s what Charles called it and B) the term is descriptive, not pejorative. When I call someone crippled I am not for an instant putting them down, but merely commenting on a condition that exists for them. (And I know of whence I speak, as I have to use a cane to get around, so I am semi-crippled, or a “criplet.”)

I used to make fun of Charles for not being able to walk, often calling him lazy or accusing him or a poor work ethic. Was I horribly insensitive? Of course not. I was his friend.

Now, if I didn’t know Charles and said those things it would be inappropriate and downright mean, but we were friends, and at least where I come from, friends rag on each other. I often make fun of Carlos for being a dumbass, Koz for his subscriptions to gay porn and Bear for the number of times I have achieved physical intimacy with his twin sisters. That’s what friends do. (And trust me, they give it back to me and then some.) If I hadn’t ragged on Charles for something so obvious as his wheelchair, it would have been the elephant in the room. More importantly, I would have been treating him differently because of his chair, which is what bigotry truly is. Do you understand the difference?

Anyway, one more from Amy Vanderbilt.

A baby who is stillborn or who dies within a few days of birth brings unimaginable grief to the parents. There is simply no way you can sympathize or console the bereaved parents because the event is too terrible and personal. There are no compensatory words. Phrases of comfort such as, “At least he didn’t have to suffer” or “There will be others” are insensitive…

There will be others? There will be others?????????????? What kind of dumb muthafuckas come up to a parent after losing a child—which has to be one of the top five most difficult things to go through ever (now there’s a Rank Everything list if I ever saw one)—and says, “Hey, don’t stress, there will be others,” like it was a blown birdie opportunity on the fourth hole?

(On the flip side, this is such a horrible horrible thing to say to someone that you will now not be able to get it out of your head, and if an acquaintance goes through such a tragedy that thought will pop into your head. Trust me on this one: do not crack a smile.)

SPEAKING OF RAGGING….

Okay, so at least once in his life (read: in the last month) every guy has turned to another guy, in the privacy of just their “guy-ness,” and has questioned the words, actions, attitudes or beliefs of a woman, questioned whether or not these words, actions, attitudes or beliefs must need be filtered through the prism of “that time of the month.”

And before you bitches get bent out of shape like a used condom, I’m betting at least 85% of you have done the same thing to another woman.

Teasing a woman about being on the Rag is as old as time itself. Heck, the Israelites used to make women leave camp while they had their periods. Biblical scholars tells us this was because of the Jewish obsession about being Ceremonially Clean, but you think about it...

Then there are the jokes, like “What is the difference between a terrorist and a woman on PMS?” (you can reason with a terrorist), and of course the joke so horrible I cannot repeat it here, even in the hallowed halls of HyperionX, other than to relay the punch line: “and then he said, ‘that’s because I never trust anything that can bleed for a week without dying.’”

Now, I know this is going to shock some people, but I’m really looking for some common ground here. On the one hand, I firmly believe—as does anyone who’s ever met a woman, at least if he/she/it is being honest—that there are times, times I’m going to give the acronym of PMS, that some women are at least partially affected by their girly plumbing which, at least as far as I understand it, and admittedly I know very little in this area, periodically tries to bleed them to death.

Hell, if that happened to me, I don’t think I’d feel very good about it. If menstrual cramps are anywhere close to as intense as cramps brought on by eating 2 pounds of super hot hot-wings and five bowls of chili when there is no bathroom nearby, and if that happened every month, EVERY SINGLE FUCKING MONTH, for like a week at a time?

Yeah, I’d probably flip my lid too.

On the other fallopian tube….

Ardent feminist that I am, I can’t help but think that “Woman’s Problems” is often used to keep women down. To undermine their positions or ideas, to de-legitimize their source of anger in the face of obnoxious or incompetent co-workers. I think some people use accusations of PMS (or what I am now coining “Ragusations”) so as to not actually need to deal with what the particular woman in question is saying.

And that’s wrong.

Anytime people are dismissed or marginalized for a reason that has to do with something fundamental and unchanging about them and not the content of their personality or character, that’s bigotry. It’s like saying black people only thought OJ should be found Not Guilty because they are black, or that a political point of view is invalid because it is presented by a sixteen year old. (There may be racial aspects to the OJ case, and the sixteen year old may have zero understanding of anything politics, but dismissing their arguments for race or age or anything like that on the surface is the evil we speak of.)

What matters in debates is the logic of the argument, and throwing doubt as to someone’s state of mind by saying she’s just on the rag is not only unfair, it’s dehumanizing.

(I don’t know what it’s like to be a woman, at least apart from wearing silk panties, but I do know about this kind of bigotry. There is a person in my life with whom, whenever that person is losing an argument on logical grounds, will throw up the accusation, “Well, you just think that because you are crazy,” as if that then validates whatever stupid-ass opinion that person was unable to defend.)

Of course, honesty compels me to admit that there probably are times I am crazy, just as there are times when women probably are adversely emotionally affected by hormonal tidal waves crashing within them.

So what’s a person to do?

The answer, I believe, begins with women.

Women must demand en masse that this behavior stop, and hold out on sex until it does (if need be), but before they do that, they must change a behavior they themselves do that gives rise to some of this.

Many women—not all, but many—make a big production about how much pain and misery they are in over their PMS. They roundly complain about how guys have no clue what it is like, go on and on like they are trying out for Queen of the Drama Club and—this one is the key, so pay attention—they use their PMS as excuse for all sorts of reprehensible behavior.

What kind of behavior am I talking about? You know. Mostly it’s being a total bitch. It’s treating people like crap for no reason because you feel awful inside. Don’t get me wrong: guys have been known to do this too, and it’s just as wrong when they do it, but some women use PMS as cover for their bad behavior.

In fact, there are actual court cases out there where women have used PMS as legal defense against a host of crimes, up to and including homicide!

You can see the problem here. If this kind of defense is allowed, if Women as a Gender are going to sanction this excuse for all sorts of anti-social behavior, well, you can see where it leads: dismissing what they have to say as more product of the Monthlies.

I don’t want that. I don’t want a woman’s arguments to be dismissed or questioned for strong emotion the way a man’s most likely would be not. I want all arguments to be decided as dispassionately as possible, with calm reason seeing the day.

But ladies, you can’t have it both ways. Either you shut the fuck up about it—or at the very least stop using PMS as justification for acting like a total bitch—or you subject yourselves as a group to the kind of institutional sexism that we’ve discussed. The power is really in your hands.

[Please feel free to leave comments expressing your opinion on these thoughts I have shared, but try to keep it logical as possible and avoid strong emtion, okay? After all, whether or not you ladies are ragging, I sure as hell am, and I will nail your ass to the wall like the cheap Tiger Beat insert posters that you are.]

2006-09-11T02:31:00.000-06:00

HyperionX 960 - The Pile Grows Evermore

2006-08-21T09:46:00.000-06:00

HyperionX⁹⁶⁰

The Pile Grows Evermore

At some point, it will just be easier to do columns about who isn’t in the Pile?

I realize the last HyperionX was a bit scattered. I considered going back and rewriting it (or at least spellchecking) to make the column flow more, but then decided against it. For better or worse, that’s what I wrote then, and I’ll stand by it.

Today I’m still annoyed at everyone and everything, but I’ll try not to fly off the handle and use swear words every 10.2 seconds. (But no promises.)

Minor Pile – People who say “Going Forward”

What kind of dumbass expression is this? And what kind of teacher’s pet snothead came up with it?

In case you’re blissfully unaware, the expression is used in sentences like, “We expect good things from Rufus going forward…..”

Really?

REALLY?

I’m so glad that was cleared up, ‘cuz for a moment, I thought you expect good things from Rufus IN THE PAST!!!

Aren’t all anticipatory verbs—unless somehow noted—TALKING ABOUT THE FUTURE???

If I say to you “Hyperion Rants has never been that popular a site, but going forward things should improve,” is this sentence somehow superior to “Hyperion Rants has never been that popular a site, but things should improve.” ???

I sentence one, you know I mean IN THE FUTURE. In sentence two, who knows what the I’m talking about? Maybe people will invent time machines, go back six weeks, and visit my site back then!

You see what I’m saying? Complete idiocy.

I think the main reason this bothers me so much is that the phrase—and most of the people I’ve heard say it—smacks of people trying to sound smart when they really aren’t. (I’m not saying everyone does this: some are copying others, which is its own form of morn, but another day.)

You know these types of people. They are the ones who have just enough education to be true idiots. They are the people who say, “Joe sent a card to Linda and I.”

I try not to correct people, but that one just gets under my skin. More importantly, these people get on my nerves. QUIT TRYING TO LOOK SMARTER THAN YOU IS! NO ONE IS BUYING IT!

Medium Pile – Nancy Grace

From reading her Wikipedia Page (and boy, do I need a bath after that!) I learn that Nancy Grace changed her whole life and went to law school to become a prosecutor after her fiancé was murdered. I can’t imagine what that would be like, and I’m not going to make fun of her for that at all.

And as a prosecutor, her natural bias would be against alleged criminals, and pro-victim. I can understand that.

But if your job is to host a Court-TV type of show, shouldn’t you be even-handed? If you can’t be impartial or objective, how about fair or even reasonable?

In some ways, you could say Nancy Grace is no better than some racist. She makes automatic assumptions based on alleged crimes that the criminal is A) Guilty and B) Scum of the Earth, who only committed his violent act out of pure depravity (and possibly to piss Nancy off).

Hey, most alleged criminals are guilty. That’s a good thing, or it would mean the police are consistently arresting the wrong people. But our system—whatever its faults—is predicated on the idea that ALL PEOPLE—EVEN THE FUCKHEADS WHO GET CAUGHT ON TAPE AT CONVENIENCE STORES, OR WHO SUPPOSEDLY “CONFESS”—are still presumed innocent until proven guilty in a court of law under the rules of evidence.

Nancy Grace takes is personally that someone might get bail! She’s strident, annoying, almost makes me want to listen to Hillary Clinton; and NOTHING makes me want to do that. I can’t think of a less interesting way to spend an hour. Give me Geraldo over her!

And while I’m on the subject….

I realize this isn’t a big deal any more, but I might as well get it out of the way now. If I hear one more person refer to the intelligence of the OJ Jury, I’m going to smack them. If they are a woman, I’m going to get my sister Elby to smack them.

This goes to so many things with why people suck.

A) Our Court System, the rule of fucking law, says a man is innocent until proven guilty. He’s proven guilty in a trial where properly admitted evidence, testimony and argument convinces jurors—who have heard the entire case, not just biased snippets on the news—decide the man’s fate.

It’s actually kind of remarkable how often juries get things right.

As for OJ, people say he got off because he was rich and famous.

Bullshit.

OJ was only tried because he was rich and famous.

No way do the prosecutors try that case without the media buzz around it. The evidence sucked.

From the very beginning it was tainted. The supposed blood from OJ’s Bronco was put in the same box as bloody items from the crime scene! I realize this was all pre-CSI, but you all know what that means!

The main detective was someone who clearly had a racist past, and if you don’t think a racist cop’s attitude would have any bearing on the way he operates, you’re obviously white and have been white your whole life. Black people understand, and it’s reasonable to think the cop might have had an agenda anyway.

The bottom line is, whether or not OJ actually did the crime (and for the record, I’d lean toward saying he did), there is no way on earth the evidence was there to convict him. Never should have gone to trial. The verdict was a foregone conclusion to anyone who watched the entire case. (At least, to anyone not on the prosecution team, and I think even they knew).

But people still insist on calling the OJ Jurors stupid, uneducated. Often the insinuation is that they only acquitted him because they were black.

That’s why I feel justified smacking anyone who trashes that jury. It’s a racist thing to say, it’s incredibly ignorant on the part of who says it, and it makes you look like a Pollyanna who believes anything the Press reports each night as gospel fact, not to mention how little you understand of the legal system.

And it puts you on the Pile.

HyperionX 961 - Whitewash

2006-08-17T09:12:00.000-06:00

[Author's Note: I wrote this in a fury, in just over four minutes, with my eyes closed, fingers pouding on the keyboard. I knew if I re-read it I'd never keep the courage to post it, so it is not even edited. I'll sacrifice grammar (and even a structural flow) to keep the anger at the forefront, and just maybe get through to someone.]

HyperionX⁹⁶¹

Whitewash

More People to throw in the Pile

From time to time I’ve been writing about who belongs in the Pile….of Shit

Today’s Entry: (Some) members of the Media

Part 1 – If it bleeds, it leads.

Too often the Media doesn’t care if they get the story right. They just want to make the story good. Take for instance that little league baseball team, where the coach supposedly walked a batter just to face a kid who’s a cancer survivor, needs a shunt in his brain just to live, because he’d be easier to get out (and he was; Cancer Kid struck out and his team lost the game).

You hear that story and you think, “Man, that’s some cold-blooded shit.”

But it wasn’t like that at all. Turns out the coach walked the other team’s best batter to face anyone else. Coach had no idea the kid was up next, and said he would have walked the power hitter in any situation, not out of some cruelty, but trying to win the game.

Now, you can make an argument that Little League isn’t the place to walk kids (although it happened when I played), but this was the championship. Furthermore, if you’re playing Little League, you got to be ready to swing that bat, no matter if you’re a cancer survivor or just suck. If you strike out, is it any less painful if you’re just some horrible batter? I played baseball many years, ended up a good hitter; started out a bad one. I know what it’s like to be the kid who strikes out and loses the game. It sucks. But that has nothing to do with cancer. In some ways, the way it played out for Cancer Boy means he got treated normally, not like some freak.

But that’s not the point. The point is, the Media didn’t care if they got the story right. They just wanted the juicy story. What plays: a power hitter gets walked, leaving a weaker hitter who strikes out, thus validating the strategy? Or a mean old coach throws salt in the wounds of a young boy by cruelly setting him up to lose the game.

Dilbert creator Scott Adams said,

“Reporters are faced with the daily choice of painstakingly researching stories or writing whatever people tell them. Both approaches pay the same.” (The Dilbert Principle)

You tell me. Are journalists the most principled people on the planet, fighting to get the truth out there to the people? Or are they just like everyone else?

Speaking of journalists claiming they’re doing God’s work, this brings us to Point #2: Journalists = Superheroes.

We see all the time—right now, today, even—journalists going to jail to protect their “sources.” They feel all noble, and First Amendment issues get discussed on Talk Radio and NPR. But sometimes it isn’t about that. Take for example the Barry Bonds case.

I don’t want to get into Bonds right now (we’ll cover that another day), but two years ago it was reported that Bonds told the Grand Jury that he once took steroids by accident, and didn’t do it again.

The whole steroid investigation has been to get Bonds, who hasn’t seemed to figure out that if you’re brash, arrogant, hate reporters and don’t give them quotes, they’re not going to like you. (Of course McGwire was notoriously surly with the Media, and he generally got a pass. If only I could figure out what on Earth difference there was between Bonds’s surliness and McGwire’s? I’m going to put together a committee and get back to you.)

Anyway, a judge has ruled that the reporters must reveal who the leaker was in this grand jury case. The reporters are refusing to budge. Are they heroes? Fuck no. Leaking grand jury testimony is a felony. This act is a far far bigger deal than any allegations against Bonds, even if they were true. (At the time, baseball was 100% complicit in looking the other way, and didn’t even have a steroids policy, so it wouldn’t have been against the rules anyway. But I digress.)

You see what I’m saying? Reporters decide the story, they decide what’s important, and they decide what’s right.

Do you think when you read the news you’re getting the full story? You’d be better off just assuming you’re not. Back when the JonBenet Ramsey case first came up, I remember actively not paying attention. This is because I get so pissed off on how the Media turns these things into a circus. (More on that in a minute.) I do remember the parents’ behavior seemed odd, which most people took to mean they were either guilty or at least knew more than they were telling. But it could have been just the Media scrutiny. How can anyone hold up—especially after just losing a child—with all that spotlight shined squarely on them? If the Ramsey’s were completely innocent, might they not have acted just the way they did?

(I know this is off the subject a bit—but I’m on an anger roll—one area where I do blame these parents is entering that girl in the little beauty pageants. What kind of fucked up parents do this? Why not just get your daughter a stripper poll for her bunk bed to practice on, and go ahead and enroll her in the FSOA: Future Sluts of America. The sexual component to those pageants is abhorrent. No four year old should be acting sexy, wearing make up, dressed up like a little woman. If this guy in Thailand turns out to be guilty and he got the idea from watching that poor little girl all tramped up in pageants, I hope the father (and the mother in hell, which is where any mom ought to go who’s dumb fucking stupid enough to put her daughter in something like that) choke on the knowledge that they might have played a part.)

The pressure of Media can be a nightmare. Witness Floyd Landis, and whether he’s guilty or not, the Media camped out at his Mennonite parents’ home is sickening. When I saw that, I wanted to throw up. (Not to mention that apparently his father-in-law killed himself yesterday. Wonder if that has anything to do with it.) If the Media camped out on my parents’ lawn to harass them night and day I would have no problem emptying a shotgun full of rock salt at those fucking vultures several times a day. How can we permit shit like that? Freedom of the Press my ass. I say if reporters are committing that kind of harassment, infringing on your very lives, you’re allowed to give one verbal warning and cock that double barrel and do the world a favor.

(And don’t even get me started on Paparazzi. Fine. Do get me started. I know some celebrities bring it on themselves by whoring their image to the Media to sell their products, but no one ever accused a Celebrity of being intelligent, enough is enough. How can we allow anyone’s privacy to be invaded to the point of going through people’s garbage, trespassing, running down their cars? I say if you break a law to get a picture you ought to get 10 years in jail. If you buy a picture where the law was broken you ought to be fined 20 millions dollars. And if you buy those rags in the check-out lines, or watch Entertainment Tonight and other Carrion-feeder shows, hang your head in fucking shame. You’re part of the problem, jackass.)

Before I forget: I have nothing but sympathy for any child who’s abducted, killed, abused. You all know me, you KNOW that. And I have total empathy for any parents who aren’t responsible for that. I can’t even blame the Media attention on the parents; that’s the wonderful sick fucking world of 24 Hour Cable News. (Gods, if I could just have half an hour in a closed room with the presidents of the News division for CNN, Fox News, and a ball-peen hammer…..)

But riddle me this: Why are all these cases about white people? Why is it years worth of story that JonBenet Ramsey was killed, but a little spic or nigger girl in the projects goes missing, and nobody gives a rat’s fucking ass?

(“Oh, Hyperion! How can you use such language?” I’m not using that language, you are. Every time you obsess right along with the Media about a JonBenet or Elizabeth Smart or Jessica Lunsford (or hell, even a Jennifer Wilbanks), you’re saying you don’t give a fuck about all those little black girls, little brown boys taken off the streets, out of their homes. Where’s the press on that?)

Maybe I’ve wrongly impugned you. Maybe you are a caring compassionate person. So tell me this. How much time have you spent in the last two days thinking about Ramsey? Now how much time have you spent thinking about the nigger girl down the block? You know what? I’m going to keep using that horrible offensive language until people get it. Until people realize that they feed into the obsession when the disappearance of a white girl stops the nation in its tracks, but nobody can spend five minutes thinking about he living hell many kids go through in the projects every day.

I can prove it. (You do realize that when I say “you,” I mean society, right? Although, if the sheet fits….). Think about this. Where was the alleged killer arrested?

Thailand.

What happens in Thailand?

Men go there to fuck little kids. It’s legal, or legal enough. Hell, it’s on the goddam tourist maps.

And yet, how much time did you spend thinking about that this week? Why aren’t we pissed off enough to stop that? Isn’t that something the United “useless as a bag of fucking hammers” Nations could do something about? Couldn’t we pretend that Thailand sat on oil?

Couldn’t we pretend those kids were white?

Hell, for now I’d settle for just pretending those poor kids in the projects were white. Maybe then some of them would get on the news. Maybe then someone would care. Maybe the Media would even get out of the Pile.

But I doubt it.

Hyperion X 962 - The Pile

2006-08-10T06:45:00.000-06:00

HyperionX⁹⁶²

The Pile

People I hate so much that I am declaring them unfit for civilization, and they must live out their years on a midden heap. Ouch.

I knew this girl named Katie in high school. Whenever she was mad at me (or anybody), she would commend us to “The Pile.” The Pile of What? Well, if you have to ask…the odds are you’re too dumb to understand the sophisticated irony of a Gilligan’s Island episode, let alone Hyperion X, so get thee to an Adam Sandler movie, for we’ll have none of ye!

I have decided to start my own Pile. If you like the idea, send in your ideas (put “THE PILE” in the subject line), and future Hyperion Xs will have the people you feel deserve this ignominious end.

And without further ado……

People who belong in the Pile of Shit:

CELEBRITY COMMENTATORS
VH1 and E! have spawned an entire generation of people famous for no other reason than they give catty comments about celebrities on those crappy-ass shows about the fashion, faux pas and fuck ups various celebrities make.

Hey, I have no love for most celebrities, and it pisses me off even more that I’m forced to defend them. But at least they are famous for something. (Except for Paris Hilton, who seems to be famous only for being famous, but I suppose even that takes a sort of talent. I mean, those professional athletes aren’t going to blow themselves!)

But the commentators…what have they ever done? And do you hear the way they talk about these celebrities? It’s a mixture of psycho-analysis, totally trashing the person while taking them way too seriously. Celebrities have many problems, and do many stupid things, but most of us wouldn’t look all that great if we were in the spotlight all the time.

Do they bring it on themselves? Maybe. Part of it is the price of fame, and part of it comes when you get overexposed. Then again, most celebrities aren’t all that bright. Their careers are “handled” by everyone from agents to studios to magazines desperate to sell copies.

Again, it makes my skin crawl to defend celebrities. But the people who go on TV shows to talk about the celebrities, judge their every action and outfit as if the fate of the world hangs on it….these people actually make me feel sorry for celebrities sometimes, and that makes them total pieces of shit, and richly deserving of The Pile.

GIRLS WHO WEAR OUTFITS THAT DISPLAY WARES THEY DON’T MEAN TO SELL BUT DESPERATELY WANT YOU TO “WINDOW SHOP,” WHO THEN GET MAD WHEN YOU DO JUST THAT
You’re a girl. You wear a tight-fitting tank top. Yes, the garment allows you get some sun (or show off a nice tan), and also is cooler than a shirt that (gasp!) covered your shoulders. But those reasons—at best—are secondary and tertiary considerations.

A form fitting tank top is worn primarily with one goal in mind: show off your girls.

I’m not hating on this. In fact, would that more women follow this fine example.

But here’s my problem: A girl wears a tank top (or other outfit) totally designed to call attention to her breasts or some other part of her body, and then she gets pissed when men do just that.

Who are you fooling, “ladies?”

If you’re going to dress like a whore, I’m all for it, but you cannot then get indignant when male eyes run over your body. If anything, you should feel damn lucky men aren’t waving twenty dollar bills at your chest.

I’ve heard from women who say they don’t mind an appreciative glance, but have major problems with leering. That’s a fair point….IF YOU’RE DRESSED LIKE A NORMAL WOMAN. It’s near impossible to stop a man from looking at an attractive woman, and most girls don’t have a problem with this. A nice glance to let them know you appreciate how they look. (And hopefully they don’t catch you looking at anything untoward. There’s actually a fine art to this, and remind me to tell you about it later.)

If a woman is dressed normally and some guy is leering, I say she has every right to get pissed or slap his face or whatever.

But that’s not what I’m talking about. Every guy knows what I’m talking about. And every woman, well, you may not want to admit it, but you know who I’m talking about.

(Maybe it’s even you!)

There are women who want to dress provocatively. The modern fashions they call it. A more honest label would be hooker-chic. Some women wear these clothes because they want men to ogle them, to caress their bodies with his eyes. That’s fine. (If a woman does this all the time and isn’t a hooker, I think we need to have a conversation about self-esteem issues, but every once in a while…who am I to tell a girl she’s not allowed to flaunt it a bit?)

But women who dress slutty and then get an attitude when they’re stared at…I have no time for these bitches. And neither should you. They go on The Pile.

KOFI ANNAN
I’m still too angry to talk about this bastard, so his trashing will have to wait until next week.

Have you thought of any people you want on The Pile? Send ‘em in, and we’ll print your answers.

HyperionX 963 - IRREVERSIBLE

2006-06-06T08:34:00.002-06:00

HyperionX⁹⁶³

Review of IRREVERSIBLE

Le Temps Detruit Tout

[Author’s Note: This HyperionX is a movie review, which was supposed to be Movie-Hype00966. However, due to the graphic nature of the film, I had no choice but to put it here. I know I preach over and over that if you come to HyperionX you have been warned, but I need to say again: this film is difficult to watch and to read about. It includes graphic sexual violence, and I discuss this in detail. No hard feelings if you want to sit this review out.]

IRREVERSIBLE opens with the credits running quickly backward, the titles flashing in strobe. It is a sensory assault, and some leftover fragment of animal instinct tells you to get the hell out while you can.

Listen to that feeling, gentle reader, and heed it well. Turn the movie off, or descend into nightmare.

IRREVERSIBLE is the most controversial film of the last decade, and the infamy continues to grow. Hundreds of people walked out at the Cannes premiere, and Roger Ebert says the critics’ screening produced the same. Ebert stayed, but had to close his eyes through parts to get through it.

You can see why a movie connoisseur would be drawn to IRREVERSIBLE. What could be so shocking that cinephiles hardened to French filmmaking along with cynical critics are walking out?

The supposed cause for the exodus is two key scenes, and we might as well throw them out in the open now, so you can mentally prepare, as discussing IRREVERSIBLE, it’s message and meaning necessitates an examination.

To wit: in the second “scene,” there is a horrific beating of a homosexual man that continues long after he’s already dead. Even worse, the shock lance of the whole controversy surrounding IRREVERSIBLE, is a nine minute rape scene.

To hear celebrated auteur-director Gaspar Noé tell it, IRREVERSIBLE is anti-sexual violence, and in no way promotes that kind of pornographic excess. I had my doubts, and part of my curiosity with the film centered on what I call “The Ecclesiastes Effect.”

Anyone who’s ever read Ecclesiastes can’t help but notice that the first 11 and a half chapters are melancholy philosophy on the futility of life. (11:8 ends with “All is vanity!”) Immediately after that is a complete 180, and suddenly the doom and gloom is replaced with, “All that will happen to you if you don’t follow God’s Commandments.” (My translation.)

Some see that as sincere, but most biblical scholars recognize that the last six verses are penned by another author, a later scribe perhaps troubled at the negative tone.

Or a more practical example: director Oliver Stone claims that the point of his movie NATURAL BORN KILLERS is how the Media sensationalizes violence by making killers into celebrities. It’s 100% true, but one tends to doubt the sincerity of Stone’s satirization. In other words: how can you claim to condemn what you are clearly exulting?

Going into IRREVERSIBLE I had severe skepticism that a movie with a 9 minute rape scene could be anything but exploitative.

Following the credits is a quiet discomforting scene, two naked men discussing God knows what. “Time destroys all things,” we’re told, in what will become the thesis of IRREVERSIBLE. The camera never stops rotating, circling, gyrating, and we instinctively know this is one of those “art” films you’re either going to love or hate.

But there’s no time to think. Immediately we move to the preceding scene (as we do for the entire film, done totally backwards). Police pull two men out of a nightclub called Rectum, one in handcuffs, the other on a stretcher with a broken arm. The camera continues to rotate continually. I’m starting to tilt my head to keep my balance.

Blink. We are in the scene before, and see the same two men enter the nightclub. As the name would suggest, a gay club, but like nothing you’ve ever seen.

This is not the “safe” gay packaging that America has come to grudgingly accept; the Disney tunes of a genial Elton John, the wisecracking innocence of a neutered Will Truman, how oh-so queerly our wardrobe is spiffed up. This isn’t the lipstick lesbian chic of Basic Instinct or The L Word that young men (and old men) like to jerk off to, a dream where if one woman is hot, two are even hotter. This isn’t even the sly soft-core porn of OZ or Queer as Folk, propaganda that makes the more adventurous suburbanites think they’ve seen the rough trade.

No, friends: these are faggots, a term they themselves would use if they bothered thinking about anything beyond the next painful fuck. These are the men who’d just as soon rip your asshole out as look at you, and given half a second they’ll do both. These are not shrink-wrapped color-coded happy homos. These are the fags your mom is terrified of, the ones she doesn’t even imagine exist.

Into this world we plunge, a dark cavern, a red haze, hand-held camera and danger around every corner. The two men are looking for “Le Tenia,” we don’t know why, but it seems clear they don’t want to exchange recipes.

If that were all, the gyration, the lighting, the fear, this scene would rank as high as anything you’ve ever see for moody atmospherics. But Gaspar Noé has one more trick up his sleeve. There is a sound that won’t quit, that gets under your skin, relentless and unyielding. After ten seconds it’s annoying. After two minutes you can’t think.¹

There is nowhere to hide as we follow our two people, no way to make sense of what is happening. The backwards plot ensures that we are in the dark for now, and can only go along for the ride.

Where we are forces us to examine our ugliest stereotypes and preconceptions about homosexuality. I assume most of you consider yourself self-actualized and open-minded on this issue. I certainly do. Yet I say without shame that I found myself with terrible thoughts as I watched, not knowing what I was seeing, not knowing what any of it meant. I think straight men take comfort in the idea, even at the unconscious level, that homosexuals are somehow weak and effeminate, and don’t pose a threat. To see men who would in all likelihood rape me to death (since Hyperion would go down swinging) is a jarring uncomfortable experience, a blow to my smug ivory tower of liberal acceptance.

The capper comes, not in the way you’d expect. Truth told, it has nothing to do with gay-bashing, and there’s a minute or so when we’re not sure who’s going to get killed. The death itself is so over-the-top that we become numb. No, it is what leads up to it that shatters the assumptions we so prize. And if that were the movie, we’d have quite an experience, but we’re barely fifteen minutes in.

As we continue to regress this evening, it becomes eventually clear that we’re following Marcus and Pierre. Marcus is enraged, and Pierre is the calm one, trying to hold Marcus at bay. (As this reality sinks in, it makes what happens in Rectum even worse, as it is Pierre that commits the final act of violence after Marcus has his arm broken and is about to be raped himself.) We still don’t know why they are looking for “La Tenia,” but we see that Marcus is willing to violently threaten anyone he comes across to find the man.

The scenes continue this way until we finally see a jovial Marcus and Pierre coming out of a building. They see EMTs loading a stretcher into an ambulance; a woman so badly beaten we can only tell gender by the long dark hair matted with blood. This is obviously Marcus’s girlfriend, and the fog finally lifts.

This moment in the film marks the first point of real knowledge, and if we could take time to examine our feelings, we’d be conflicted. What we have witnessed thus far is a Monster, but that Monster is Marcus. The chaotic beginning in Rectum has no heroes, but Marcus is the agitator in everything. Whatever sexual deviance might occur in that place (and no one enters who doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into), Marcus is the one who brings the violence crashing down so suddenly.

To see Marcus’s reason is jarring because it hits so close to home. I ask you as a red-blooded man (or woman) worth your salt: if someone you cared about was horrifically raped and beaten, where would your heart lie? Would the bloodlust overcome you? Would immediate violence be your preferred solution? As the movie progresses we learn that Marcus is drunk and high, but is that the excuse? Stone-cold sober, might not you be inclined to take the same steps?

I know I might. It is that feeling that caused me emotional vertigo. I have been watching this monster hurt, threaten and badger everyone to get his prey. Now I’m faced with the idea that he might be me.

The next scene shows us Monica Bellucci exiting the same apartment building. For the longest time we cannot see her face, but to anyone familiar with international films this is her. She’s wearing a satiny pink-silver dress that hugs her like a lover’s caress. (More on her in a few moments.)

We follow this yet-unnamed woman from behind (all the scenes are filmed in extended fifteen-twenty minute shots), like some voyeur, stalking her, and we see the woman ask for directions to the subway. She’s told by hookers to take the underpass, as it’s safer. Even if you didn’t know the apex of this film, instinct alone would tell you that a single girl in an obviously bad part of town who doesn’t know where she’s going perhaps shouldn’t venture into an dark underpass. That sounds like some sort of blame, and it’s not. It’s merely the same emotion we have in a horror film when the heroine creeps up the dark stairs. “Don’t go there!” we want to shout. Except in the horror film we know it’s fake. Here, we’re all too real.

So now we’ve come to the scene. As most of you should know by now, I have extreme feelings when it comes to rape. I am uncomfortable with seeing it depicted on screen. Yet I am no Pollyanna, and understand that sexual violence is part of life, and seeing it can make the story more powerful. Think of THE ACCUSED, Larry Clark’s KIDS or BULLY, or even PULP FICTION. All the films are enhanced by our understanding of sexual violence and how it affects the characters.

(I have more of a problem with a film like THE DEVIL’S REJECTS, which in my opinion makes no attempt to judge the characters who engage in rape and torture for sport. If anything we are supposed to root for them, and while I don’t call for censorship, where the value is in that beyond fetish-porn?)

I realize I’m stalling, because I don’t want to talk about this scene. Even writing the preceding paragraphs has made me ill again. I have to back up a bit and tell you that by the time the gay-club scene is over I felt sick to my stomach. The violence wasn’t any worse than other films, and while the camera was shaky, I have a pretty strong stomach. I felt like there was something else going on, beyond just my inability to handle things.

It turns out there was.

Gaspar Noé underlies that audio I was telling you about with noise set at 28 Hz. It’s ultra low frequency, and barely audible to humans. The other effects to people are disorientation, vertigo, dizziness and nausea.

In other words, It is impossible to watch the first half hour and not feel queasy, even ill. The effect is so strong and imprinting that I have it now just thinking about IRREVERSIBLE. (In retrospect, this effect probably accounted more for the walk-outs than the film’s graphic nature.)

One could argue that Gaspar Noé is assaulting us with this kind of trick, but I think something else is going on here.

But again I realize I’m stalling, so let’s get to this. As the unnamed woman (later to be known as Alex) walks into the underpass, we have the same red light. We see another woman in an altercation with a man; a few seconds makes it clear he’s her pimp.

Alex tries to avoid the situation, but is caught by the man, who sneers at her couture dress in this underbelly of town. He declares his intention to rape her, and if there was any doubt this crime is motivated by power over sexual desire, the rapist tells Alex that he will rape her virgin ass, ruining her for the rest of her life.

The rape really is nine minutes. The camera is static; all of the director’s tricks thus far employed are thrown aside. We see this man on top of Alex, raping her, and see Alex fighting back, never once giving into the violent assault.

As I watched—not wanting to, but determined that if I’d come this far I might as well finish it—two thoughts came into my head. The first was that the rapist was NOT the man killed in the club Rectum, but was the man standing next to him. This thought alone could generate an entire column, but I trust you see the implications from what we discussed earlier, and can form your own conclusions.

The second thought is that by making the scene so long, we are desensitized to it. What is shocking and horrific becomes less so, to the point of mundanity. I actually felt guilty that I wasn’t more freaked out. Maybe it was because of the build up, or that I’d girded myself for it this whole time, but by the end of the rape I was no longer anything but numb.

And then the man beats her within an inch of her life.

At this point we’re still only halfway through the film. I want to finish the narrative quickly so we may return to what conclusions we must draw.

As the movie continues to regress into the evening, we see Marcus, Alex and Pierre at a party. For those of you not aware, Monica Bellucci is categorically the most sexual woman in film today. She’s beautiful, but it’s more than the still image can convey (although I am happy to do so.)

If she were American she would be our biggest star. (Most Americans have only seen her briefly as Persephone in THE MATRIX RELOADED.) There is no way to describe how sexual she is, and I have never seen her more so that at this party. The dress I mentioned is a part of her, moving with her as she dances sensuously to the music.

Yet, what might be the most erotic scene of the year is ruined by the knowledge of what is to come. Obviously a woman should be able to dress as she wishes, and go wherever she wishes. Yet in the real world we also understand that what is permissible is not always wise, and the understanding of what is to come—both the unspeakable violence done to Alex and the aftermath hunt—rob the scene of eroticism.

Instead we see Marcus and Alex as a couple---with problems, but still in love. Pierre, it turns out, is not only Marcus’s best friend, but Alex’s Ex, a situation made more for Dawson’s Creek but underscoring some of the power of what we see in the gay club.

As we continue backward, the gyrations vanish. The low-frequency sounds disappear, and even the lighting softens. We have a much more warm conventional film. Eventually we get back to Alex and Marcus in bed together, naked, trusting, in love. The two actors are together in real life, and are clearly comfortable with each other in a way that isn’t possible to convey in normal movies. They move around the apartment at ease with themselves and their bodies, preparing for the evening, enjoying their union on so many levels. Marcus playfully tells Alex he wants to fuck her up the ass, which might be erotic if the movie played forward, but like so much of the last half of the film, is now haunting and sad.

We find out Alex is pregnant, and happy to be so, and we finally end the film with Alex in the park watching children at play. The gyrating returns, and the sound, though briefly. The screen turns white almost as if the film reel is unspooling, and I suspect there are images in the white-hot strobe just before the words from the opening return: “Time Destroys All Things.”

So what to make of this film? Some have argued that it is pornographic. You recall I had the same fears, and even during the pivotal scene worried that the extreme length made it exploitative. After some thought, I conclude differently now, for three reasons:

First, pornography has the sex or violence as its payoff; the money shot. By frontloading the two scenes of violence, and then forcing us to watch the rest of the movie and see what led to it all, we don’t stumble out from the theatre, alone with our dark thoughts. Instead we see how fragile life really is, how easily innocence can be shattered, and how perhaps time really can destroy all things.

Secondly, a woman who lives through a violent attack has to endure. Who am I to complain about the time length because I’m uncomfortable? Think of what she’s going through. Should we not be as uncomfortable as possible as well?

Perhaps most importantly is that 28mz. When I first researched it I was pissed, and felt violated. Again, though, how brilliant is that move? Here we are watching a movie where lives are violently ruined, and we complain about some queasiness?

More importantly, the effects of the lighting, the camera gyrations and the ULF. sounds make us sick. In other words, it is physically impossible to view the rape and be sexually gratified. I don’t care how deviant you are: I don’t think it can be done. In a way it reminds me of A CLOCKWORK ORANGE, how we are programmed to be repulsed, if we weren’t already.

In that vein, everything comes crashing together. This film is anti sexual violence, perhaps more than any movie ever made.²

We are left with no other way to look at the evening than how quickly the line between safety and danger can be crossed. We are bruised and battered, forced to confront that which is ugly within us, within all of us.

I can’t possibly recommend this film. How could I, when even someone untouched by sexual violence in their own life will be sickened by what they see. But I do think there is a method to the madness, and I do think IRREVERSIBLE is worthwhile. There is a power here that goes far beyond entertainment, beyond even “art.” This is true cinema, where our sensory perceptions are manipulated and we are transformed. Monica Bellucci is the bravest mainstream actress alive, and whatever his motivations, Gaspar Noé has crafted an absolute masterpiece.

Notes

¹ There is no way to adequately explain the effect of the sound, but if you would like to experience a few seconds of it now, go to http://www.nord-ouest.com/site/irreversible/. Click on the image, and when a new window opens up, click on “PARCOURS” over on the right. You can move your cursor around to see more if you wish, but keep clicking; four more times should do it. A sound will start, lasting about 5 seconds. You’ll know what I mean when you hear it. Try to imagine that sound for 30 straight minutes.

² This didn’t stop several European countries from marketing the movie as an erotic thriller. Italy—the home of Monica Bellucci—used a different cover from what you see up above. I link the cover in case you’re interested, but strongly caution you: it’s almost unbelievable that even a European country could get away with this. There is no nudity or anything, but it is from the rape scene.

Best Tee Shirt Ever

2006-05-12T04:59:00.000-06:00

Hyperion - X 964: WAITING...

2006-04-20T04:29:00.000-06:00

[This movie review was initially in Movie-Hype, until I realized I couldn't use the quotes I wanted until I put it here.]

Movie-Hype00654 - WAITING…

“Shit, it’s going to be that kind of party! I’m going to stick my dick in the mash potatoes!”

This is the opening line of WAITING…, and pretty much tells you everything you need to know. Make no mistake, WAITING… is a bad movie. It’s not that well written, seems obsessed with male genitalia and homophobic jokes, doesn’t really have much of a point and has long tracks that go nowhere.

And yet, I’m currently writing this review as I watch it for the third time in one day. I think the reason is that I relate so much to this movie. If you’ve ever worked in the food service industry, you will feel right at home.

The movie takes place at ShenaniganZ, indistinguishable from 50 places you’ve been in your life, such as Chili’s, Applebee’s, Bennigan's, T.G.I. Fridays, and more. For some reason I really like these restaurants. I know they’re all the same and the wall stuff is tacky, but I like them anyway. I’ve never worked in one, but I have worked in a restaurant, and I understand. Believe me, I do.

WAITING… is one night in the life of this restaurant, the first day for a new employee, quite overwhelmed. We see certain “types” of shitty customers. The hick who tips two bucks on a Sixty-three dollar check. The foreigners who pretend not to speak English and pretend not to know how to tip. (I used to work right next to an International University, and trust me; I know all about this.)

And then there’s the Beeeeeyotch. This can be men or women, but if you ask people who wait tables, they’ll tell you that usually it’s women. Their order is like a fucking appropriations bill, and then nothing can possibly ever be right. In the movie this bitch complains, and she finds out why, as one character puts it, “You NEVER fuck with people who handle your food.”

[I realize at this point I’m swearing a lot—hence the Hyperion-X review instead of normally on Movie-Hype—but that’s what WAITING… brought out of me. Swearing is often very situational. For example, most of us wouldn’t swear nearly as much at church or in front of our grandmother as we do with our friends. Along that line of thinking, nowhere to people swear as much as certain types of work, and restaurants have to come close to topping that list.]

The gang of employees includes a couple notable faces—such as Anna Faris of SCARY MOVIE fame, and the ever dreamy Ryan Reynolds as Monty. I have a heterosexual crush on him (which my brother Achmed avers is not so hetero). Whatever. I like that “Ryan Reynolds” character, and he’s in full bloom here, as a waiter with nothing better to do than come to work, the coolest guy in the room, and hit on girls (some of whom happen to be on the other side of the Mendoza line, age-wise).

A typical exchange. The group is trying to help this insecure guy who calls the girl all the time, always asks here what’s wrong, and basically asks like a pussy. After Anna Faris (Serena) gives the guy advice, Monty quips, “Take whatever she says with a big grain of salt.”

Serena shoots right back: “Take whatever he says with a big dose of penicillin.”

Not to be outdone, Monty asks, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but haven’t I been inside you?”

It’s that kind of movie. The two continue to argue, with Serena telling everyone about how bad Monty was in bed: “Once we got past the foreplay, you turned into the little engine that couldn’t hold his load!”

Monty responds: “Oh, what the fuck ever. If I was that bad, why were you at my house every night? I would just call and say, ‘I’m horny,’ and as if by some form of slut magic you’d appear. Now why is that?

If you’re not chuckling now, quit reading, because I have the bit in my teeth, and I’m going to reveal some more of this as I go.

Of course, we learn a little more about Monty in a hilarious flashback dinner with his mother (ably played by legend Wendie Malick). Keep in mind the following exchange is quite civil, at a nice sit down dinner, with Monty’s friend Dean sitting at the table too:

Monty's Mom: So I called your house today, at two. You were still asleep, weren't you?

Monty: That's an understatement.

Monty's Mom: So what did you do last night? I trust my little angel didn't do anything immoral.

Monty: Well, ummm... Let's see. I started by getting completely hammered drunk. It was bad. Then drove, while intoxicated, to pick up this disease-infested hooker.

Monty's Mom: Uh huh...

Monty: From there... uh, let's see. Me and the hooker went back to my place...

Monty's Mom: The hooker and I. [Hyperion’s note: this would so be my mom, at least this part]

Monty: Excuse me. The hooker and I went back to my place and from there... God, it was just a blur of intravenous drug abuse and unprotected sex, while taking the Lord's name in vain.

Monty's Mom: Dean, did you know that when Monty was a child everyone thought he was retarded?

Monty: Dean, doesn't my mom look old? I mean, much older than she rightfully should?

Monty's Mom: So why aren't you and Serena still together? I liked her.

Monty: I don't know. I guess it got old. We had a relationship based on orgasms.

Monty's Mom: Oh, how charming. You are being safe aren't you? I don't think I could handle the idea of you reproducing.

Monty: Come on, mom! Of course I'm being safe. I pull out.

Monty's Mom: Yes, well your father pulled out too but we've all seen the tragic end of that story.

Monty: You think I wanna have kids? Absolutely not! That's why I stick to anal sex.

Monty's Mom: If only I had been so lucky.

Tell me you’re not laughing!

Much is made of the three most potentially offensive items: the full frontal male nudity, the homophobic jokes, and the underage sex thing. In the restaurant, the guys have a game where you try to get other guys to look at your penis and or testicles, imaginatively titled “the penis-showing game.” (For those really squeamish out there, we only get one “money” shot, and it’s obviously fake. At least, I sure hope so.) Depending on the move you use to pull this off, you get to kick the other guy so many times in the ass. Just as importantly—and this is where reviewers were getting upset—you call the guy a fag for looking at your package.

I don’t consider myself homophobic, and this didn’t offend me, partly because having worked in a restaurant, I understand what’s going on. The behavior—which is more homoerotic—is I suppose in an abstract way gay-bashing, but that’s not really how it plays out. It’s mostly just guys messing with guys. What can I say? If you haven’t worked in a restaurant, you don’t understand that so much worse shit happens to you ever night that a few veiny balls aren’t that big a deal.

Rating Guide

Suspension of Disbelief: 2. I’ve seen every one of those customers, and I’ve seen every one of those employees. The measures they take to deal with a bitchy woman is extreme, but not beyond the pale.

Genre Grade: Think offensive gross out comedy. Basically, if you liked AMERICAN PIE, you should like WAITING… Still, it’s not as much a cohesive movie as it is an experience, so C+.

Family Fare? Absolutely not. Tons and tons of language. Also, be warned. The frontal nudity is faked, but there is a scene where a woman sends her steak back to the kitchen…I had to close my eyes as the steak was “doctored.” Shudder.

Kickassability: 70. Just about as bad-ass as you can get without actual ninja fights.

Pantheon Percentile:
WAITING… can’t possibly be considered a good movie, or better than many others, and yet I can see myself owning it. 23.

(And for the record, I did work in a restaurant where this happened, and there were also gay guys who worked there. They certainly weren’t offended by the occasional cock-flash, and not because they were turned on or anything, but because they are just as cool as anyone else. It’s the same way that most black people don’t get uptight about the occasional stereotype done in good fun—in my experience black guys make more jokes than white guys ever could—or how most women will call other women bitches more than guys will, or how most red-heads don’t actually have a temper….okay, scratch that last one. Them girls are just scary.)

The other supposedly taboo issue is the underage thing. Again, if you’ve worked in a place that combines 16 and 17 year olds with 20 year olds, you’ve seen this. All joking aside, I’m not in favor of the exploitation of young girls. Just scroll through the Hyperion Chronicles Table of Contents to confirm this. But I don’t consider this situation to be out of the ordinary. Many 17 year old girls like 22 year old guys. It’s a fact. You all know that. And they may be idiots, but these girls know what they’re doing as much as an 18 year old girl does. I mean, does any teenager know what they’re doing? No. But relatively speaking, they’re on their own by then.

(One of my favorite parts is when one girl—over 18—complains to her boyfriend that he just likes her for sex. She says this while dressed like a hooker (she’s a bartender). Her defense: “Just because I dress slutty doesn’t mean I am slutty.” I Forrest Gump’s mom would have something to say about this.)

The Underage thing does give us some great lines. At one point Monty is talking to Raddimus (played by Luis Guzmán, one of my all-time favorite actors) about hooking up with his girl if they break up. Raddimus says, “Even if we did break up, you’d stand no chance man. She’s got this thing about dating grown men who’ve had sex with 16 year old girls.”

Monty has a comeback: “See, that’s the problem with women, okay? They’re always trying to project their own values on you.”

Later, he gives an inspiring speech to the newbie:

“You see I don't, I don't work with any exact boundaries of the law because I wasn't consulted when the god damn laws were made. No, instead nameless, faceless politicians, the so called protectors of the moral majority decide what is right and what is wrong. I mean come on. I govern my life around my own personal code of ethics, and I suggest that you do the same. That way if, within the constructs of my own morality, I were to do something that is considered illegal, so be it. I feel no guilt whatsoever and furthermore, if I were to buckle under the social weight of the system by adhering to laws that I do not truly believe in then I would be extinguishing the very fire of patriotism and individuality. So in sense, by having sex with Natasha, I'd be preserving the rights our four fathers fought and died for, right.”

Makes you almost want to cheer.

I can’t believe I’ve written this much about a bad movie, but what can I say? I laughed all the way through. Chi McBride plays the dishwasher, an old black guy with all that Old Black Guy knowledge. He’s great. The two very white dishwashers think they’re black rappers. (And make sure you stick through ALL the credits, as they have a gangster rap that you will not believe.)

The movie gets everything right, from the horribly lame training videos you’re forced to watch in orientation, to the fake pep talk the manager gives before the evening rush.

(At one point, the manager tells the cooks to seize the day, and one of them replies, “Yeah, carpe deez nuts!”)

Watching WAITING… I felt like I was in a time machine. When I worked at Pizza Hut, I hated it and couldn’t wait to get out. I look back on it now with nostalgia. I miss having a group of people that shared my misery. I miss hating customers, swapping war stories about the fucked up things they do. I miss going out after work and hanging out at a different restaurant, or wondering when the next party was. Maybe I just don’t have many friends up here in Canada, or maybe I miss being able to make a pizza whenever I wanted, or maybe I just miss always having money in my pocket, and at least thinking I was rich. (Too dumb to understand that tip money should be saved for bills. I swear: you have all that cash on you, and you think you’re loaded.)

I don’t know. I just know that WAITING… set off something in me. We’re talking an absolute must-see for people who’ve worked in a restaurant, or understand that culture. As for the rest, I’m not going to hate on anybody who hates this movie, but in a small sad way, I’d pity them. They just don’t understand.

Hyperion-X 965 Animated Jungle Fever

2006-03-24T03:49:00.000-07:00

HyperionX⁹⁶⁵

Animated Jungle Fever

What would make Walt Disney turn over in his Grave (if he wasn’t cryogenically frozen, that is)

Several months ago one of my Questions of the Night was “Which female Disney character would you most want to sleep with?”

Let me tell you, friends; it almost shut down The Colorado’s where we were eating. Every server, line cook and busboy were arguing Ariel vs. Belle vs. Miss Bianca (the freaks). People, want to halt your office in its tracks for the better part of an hour? Bring this debate up.

The results were mixed. Most of the girls picked Belle (why? WHY????), while

The guys gave Ariel a slight advantage. To help you out, I imagined what each Disney girl might be like in bed based on her character traits. At the bottom, leave a message which one of them you’d pick. (Feel free to add one if I forgot your fave.)

Ariel (Little Mermaid) – She’d be too eager to please. She’d definitely do whatever you asked her too, but no creative fire. On the plus side, if you could get her to give up her voice, at least she wouldn’t talk, and the coconut bra is a plus. (Watch out for dad with pitchfork.)

Belle (Beauty and the Beast) – If you can get all those damn petticoats off she’s yours. Be careful; she’s attracted to the Beast, so she probably likes it rough. Either that or she’s a furry.

Esmeralda (Hunchback of Notre Dame) – She likes a man with a hump; so you know she’s a bit of a freak. Probably has an outfit or two for you to try on.

Mulan – She’d definitely want to be “the man” in the relationship. Try to keep her in front of you at all times.

Maid Marian (Robin Hood) – Another girl who lies costumes; wants to be rescued by an “outlaw thief” from her tower.

Pocahontas – Probably wants to light candles and listen to Enya sing about trees. (Since it’s probably never going to come up again, I want to tell my Pocahontas story. I was working at a movie theatre when Pocahontas came out. You had to label the reels when you built them, and instead of the real movie name we used alternative ones; really stupid names. For example, we called Braveheart “Brave Fart.” Anyway, they named Pocahontas “Square Faced Indian Chick.” When the Regional Manager came he told us we had to change it because it was insensitive. We changed it to “Poke-Her-Hot-Ass,” which the guy said was fine.)

Snow White – She lived with seven guys; will you be enough for her? On the plus side, she ate the poisoned apple, and swallowed!

Cinderella – The good news: she’s cool with your foot fetish. The bad news: she’ll expect fine clothes and fancy parties all the time. More bad news: her sisters are hideous, so they’ll be none of that.

Bambi’s Mom – Not sure what she could offer; I just think it would be cool to have a t-shirt that reads “I did Bambi’s Mom. " (If she's all burned up because of the fire, at least you could eat her)

Alice (Alice in Wonderland) – She doesn’t have a problem going down strange holes. (Sorry; that was bad; even for me)

Sleeping Beauty – As long as you won’t make too much noise, she won’t want to cuddle afterward (I really am horrible. Thank Evon my mom boycotts HyperionX)

Minnie Mouse – Do you know why Mickey broke up with Minnie? She was fucking goofy. My friend Pebbles told me that joke originally, and I didn’t get it, so when I told it I changed goofy to Pluto (thus obliterating the punch line, but making it funny in a different way).

Nuala (The Lion King) – She’s one fine pussy…cat

Lilo – Yeah, right. Like I’m going to prison just to write a column. Stitch on the other hand…..

Jane (Tarzan) – She’s a swinger, baby

Tinkerbell (Peter Pan) – She’s a jealous psycho, so be careful. However, she can fly to those hard to reach areas. You might be too “big” for her.

Jasmine (Aladdin) – Your ass is getting a handprint. This girl will show you a whole new world.

Dory (Finding Nemo) – Odds are you won’t make much of an impression on her. “How were you? I forget….”

Elastic Girl (The Incredibles) – I like a girl who can stretch, if you know what I mean….

Lady (Lady and the Tramp) – She’s one hot bitch. And though it goes without saying, you know how she wants it: doggy-style.

Hyperion
March 24, 2006

HyperionX 966 - Maxim's 100 Things You Need To Know About Women

2006-03-09T02:52:00.000-07:00

HyperionX966

100 Things you need to know about Women

We haven’t seen this much truth since Moses skipped down a Mountain

Recently Maxim Magazine published their list of 100 Things You Need To Know About Women.

I found it to be a pretty good list, and thought I’d comment on some of the highlights….

79. Never trust the woman who gives you the best blow job you’ve ever had. [Being unmarried, and therefore a virgin, I wouldn’t know, but I suspect this is true. A guy might like the IDEA of a girl who’s a wildcat in the sack, but the more he thinks about it…better to play dumb and let his “prowess” bring it out of you]

94. Never trust a girl who has no girlfriends. She doesn’t get along with other women because she’s either bat-shit crazy or just plain mean. [This is so true. Those girls who say all their friends are guys? There’s always something going on with them.]

21. More than half of surveyed females between 18 and 25 would prefer to be run over by a truck than be fat. [If it was one of those steam-roller trucks, you could solve both problems….]

37. Women’s public bathrooms are about three times more disgusting than men’s. [Light, is this true. When I worked at a movie theatre I was always shocked to see how much worse the women’s bathroom was. What are you ladies doing in there?]

9. The minute she decides she’s even mildly interested in you, she starts making mental pictures of what your kids would look like and imagining her first name with your last. [This can’t possibly be true….can it? Gulp!]

16. Chicks aren’t afraid to get kinky; you just have to have the nerve to ask. [I’m pretty sure the Bible talked about this: “You have not because you ask not…]

70. Unless they’re lesbians, she won’t approve of your hanging out with other girls. Even if they’re ugly. And, really, even if they’re lesbians. [I can’t really blame girls for this. Guys are the same way.]

11. She likes one of your friends. [Which one? Grrrrrrr. Bear, if you’re reading this, I’m on to you!]

61. When a woman tells you her problems, she does not want you to offer solutions. [Absolutely. Just agree with how much her problems suck and how they’re not her fault. Follow Chris Rock’s advice and throw in a few “I told you that bitch crazy,” as every woman works with at least one other woman she can’t stand.]

51. Don’t call her “cute.” In her mind it’s the same as “not vomit-inducing.” “Sexy,” OK. “Hot,” yes. “Fucking awesome,” only if she’s at least slightly buzzed. [You can try “not completely hideous,” but odds are you’re not as charming as I, and can’t pull that off]

33. The average woman owns eight bras and wears each one five times before washing. [I thought I was gross for occasionally wearing my boxers a second day, but ewwwwwww]

24. A good but flawed man is a fixer-upper gem, and women love nothing more than home improvements. [I read once that women marry guys thinking they will change—and they never do—while guys marrying women thinking they won’t change—and they do]

22. If you want more sex, tell your girl an attractive woman hit on you that day. Sixty percent of the time, it works every time. [Again, I wouldn’t know about the sex part, but as a general proposition I can attest to the truthfulness here. Telling your girl about another girl always makes her more amorous]

69. If you have something to hide, she’ll find it. [Uh, you think?]

20. All women think they’re smarter than their partners in some significant way. [Some significant way? Try every significant way]

19. The more piercings she has, the more places she’ll let you put it. [This reminds of the lyrics to a Chris Rock song, “If a girl has a tongue ring, she’ll probably suck your dick. If a guy has a tongue ring, he’ll probably suck your dick”]

29. On a first date, women never order what they really want to eat. [Quick story: I used to work with this guy Curly, who was literally a 40 year old virgin. Curly had it in his mind that the girls were adding up what they ate, both not to look like a pig, and the total cost. Curly claimed that if a girl got to the end of a meal and ordered dessert, she was going to sleep with the guy. There might be some correlation—if a girl is comfortable enough to order dessert she might like the guy—but you see why Curly was involuntarily abstinent. Still, this theory of his led to a battle cry at work whenever we’d see a girl, “We’re going to Baskin Robbins!”]

15. Girls don’t want to date doormats. So make her proud and refuse to give up bowling night with the guys. [If a guy is available whenever she wants him, that tells the girl he’s not a “together” fellow. And if she can browbeat him that means he’s not a Man]

66. They can't live without tension. Every once in a while she's gonna pick a fight with you for no reason. Accept this as a running, inevitable theme and your relationship will make a lot more sense. [More than anything else on this list, this item explains girls to a T]

17. Any good woman will tell ya, honesty is not always the best policy. [This is so true. I’m going to write an entire column about this. No matter what a woman tells you, they really don’t want the truth. They want hear what they want to hear, and they want that to BE the truth, but they don’t want the actual truth. And before you leave angry comments, ladies, you think about that]

Not bad. However, I think the Hyperion Nation can do better. I’m committed to writing our own list. If you have a “truth” about women, send it in and I’ll use it if you’re right.

Hyperion
March 9, 2006

HyperionX - 967 "Just Like That"

2006-02-14T00:49:00.000-07:00

[Editor's Note: There should be NO ONE here who isn't overwhelmingly aware of what HyperionX is. The columns written here are not for kids. I don't think any of it is degrading or evil, but it's probably not something you want your mother to read. (I just had a vision of my mother reading; please, God: no!) My regular column today includes two stories of a romantic nature. Read them to your girl and she'll be well-pleased. However, for those of you who have harder-to-please women, I offer this story. Let me be clear: this is erotic literature, meant to be read between husband wife, boyfriend and girlfriend, or just that lonely person on V-Day who wants and extra kick. DO NOT READ IT if you're easily embarrassed or feel it's inappropriate to read erotic literature. And be kind to me, eh? I've never shared anything like this before. Okay, enough of that. On with the show....]

HyperionX⁹⁶⁷

“Just Like That”

Hyperion tries to make your Valentine’s Day an extra special one, or at least make you blush nine shades of Red

He sat in his director’s chair, unhappy with the filming taking place before him. It was supposed to be an erotic scene, between a student in a Catholic all-girls’ school, and one of the teaches, one soon to have a guilty conscience.

There is a myth about filming sex scenes, that they are in fact sexy. Nothing could be further from the truth. The lights, angles, continually touching up make up. Even with clearing out non-essential personnel, it can feel like a party. Hardly sexy. The director knew all that. He didn’t care, as long as the final product, what went upon screen, dazzled the audience, titillated; grabbed them by the throat, or grabbed them somewhere.

But the magic wasn’t happening. There was no passion in this scene. Merely having the plaid jumper and white blouse, complete with black push-up bra and white-cotton panties—alongside the robe and the collar; that wasn’t enough. No, the two actors had to generate heat. It couldn’t be faked. The audience would be able to tell. And the director wasn’t seeing any.

They took a break. The actor went to call his “partner;” that should have been clue #1 why it wasn’t going well. The girl went to her trailer. On impulse the director told the AD to clear the set. Take them over to craft-services; give them an early supper. Anything to break the routine that wasn’t working. Movie people are a superstitious lot.

After everyone left, the director sat brooding in his chair, staring at the set, hoping for some inspiration. He’d wanted to film the scene in a Confessional, but the studio had overridden him. It was controversial enough, they said, without starting a holy war. The darkened hallway of the school should work fine. “She” was supposed to come back to her locker after soccer practice, to find a book. “He” had finished some work and was heading to the front office to log it. He comes up behind her, seeing her bent over looking for the missing tome. He’s wanted her since she showed up, but being a man of the cloth, has denied his impulses. But seeing her this way, he can no longer. There against the lockers, with homecoming banners hung overhead, he takes her roughly.

It was great edgy stuff. A theme of sexual obsession—who didn’t understand that, and with the illicit backdrop that was a part of the collective fantasy fabric in American life. The whole thing was going to be a smash.

But not if the director couldn’t get this scene to work, which at the moment was not happening.

She came out of her trailer, and he realized he had neglected to tell her of his impromptu break. He was about to call out to her, but for some reason held his peace and simply watched her. She looked uncertain, the dark set and nobody there. She called out tentatively a few names; no one answered. Where the director was sitting, she couldn’t see him. A chill involuntarily ran up his spine, as he felt what he wanted his teacher to feel when he comes upon the girl. Telling himself he could use this emotion to help direct the scene, the director watches her without saying anything.

She walks up to the set, peering around, like she’s afraid of who is going to jump out at her. He says nothing, but silently leans forward, watching her. If he had a mirror he’d have seen a hungry look come in his eye, and perhaps been surprised.

She stands there, looking small and forlorn, and for a moment he feels bad for doing this. However, at that moment, the small amount of light there is hits her leg, and he sees that spot of thigh between the jumper and the white knee socks. In a rush; he’s moving.

She hears him before she sees him, and lets out a little squeak. Her eyes get big and wide. She finally makes out his form, and opens her mouth to say something, but he doesn’t give her the chance. Without pausing, he moves up against her and sweeps her into the lockers with a thud. She’s going to cry out but she’s so surprised she can’t make a sound.

He holds his body against her, letting his weight hold her in place. His breathing is ragged, from the look on her face; she doesn’t know what to do. Before she can figure it out he lowers his head and kisses her roughly. He lifts her head back up and she looks like she’s going to cry. But her breath is also ragged, and her cheeks are flushed.

He pushes his right knee into her, and her legs split enough to allow the protrusion. He holds his leg there, anchoring her, and puts his large hands on her shoulders. She tenses, as if he’s going to strangle her, but instead he holds her in place, and bends his head again, this time to kiss her neck. He alternates between light touches and hungry sucking. She physically responds to both, and he hears her sigh. He yearns to be gentle, but his need won’t allow it. He ends his exploration on her neck with a bite. Hard. Not enough to cause blood, but enough to make a small grunt escape her lips.

He moves his head back up to staring at her, and her eyes are as big as owls’; she’s afraid he’s coming back, and she’s afraid he’s not. He puts his hands on her shoulders, and slips off the jumper straps. She doesn’t take her eyes off of him. He pulls the shirt untucked, and starting at the bottom, unbuttons her blouse.

When his hands reach the level of her breasts her breath catches, and her back arches slightly. He hovers there, and then continues until all the buttons are undone. Then he moves his hand back down to her belly button. He puts his hand on her quivering stomach, and a small moan escapes her lips. He holds his hand there, slightly fluttering, as if he’s not sure whether he will climb her chest to those wonderful breasts, or journey further down. Her whole body is shaking, and he against his knee he feels wetness.

He raises his hand to the bra, one that clasps in the front. Deftly he unhooks it, and she springs out. He holds both of his hands on the verge of touching them, making massaging motions, but he never makes contact. Instead he moves his right hand back down to her stomach, and begins to lightly rub. She’s moaning a little more now, and swaying. She starts to slump over, just a bit, and he takes his left hand and pushes against her sternum, her head against the lockers. With his leg and his hand she’s effectively pinned; she couldn’t go anywhere if she wanted to.

He rubs her around her belly button for some time, and then his hand inches downward. It reaches the hem of her panties, and snakes a finger underneath the elastic band, running it back and forth. Tears fall from her eyes, and a burning look of desire. He inches his finger further down, but then brings it back up. Back and forth several times, until her breath is ragged.

He takes his hand from her neck, and she holds herself there. With a warning look, he lowers himself, both hands tracing her body on the side. He reaches a crouch, right above the hem of the jumper. He runs his hands up and down the side of her skirt, from her knees up to her hips. She moves slightly in rhythm.

This last time he doesn’t run up the outside of the skirt, but rather puts his hands beneath it, all the way up to the elastic band of the panties. In one smooth motion he pulls them down her supine legs, and she gasps. When the panties fall below the jumper, their whiteness glows as if under a black-light. He holds them there for a moment, staring, then moves them down to her side-saddle shoes. Without prodding she steps one foot out, and then the other.

He runs his hands back up her leg, this time taking the skirt with him, and tucking it into itself. With this motion he has a view of her; the small thatch of trimmed red hair glistening with sweat already. Below the mound, a small protrusion, then disappearing into her, with just the hint of her labia. Her thighs are soaked as moisture now runs down her leg, and he can smell her. It’s intoxicating. He leans in closer, and breathing in deep, holding her in place with his hands on her legs. She cries out slightly.

He opens up her legs even more, and she moves willingly. The labia looks back at him. He blows lightly on those lips and she almost faints. He runs his right hand up her thigh, gather wetness, and then around the lower lips. She makes more noise, but at a glance from him, does her best to stay quiet. His fingers trace all around her opening, even underneath, just tickling the back opening as he runs his fingers up the crack of her ass. He makes this circuit twice, and on the third time without warning he sinks two fingers into her. She cries out, and puts a hand over her own mouth. It’s a good thing, because she can’t stop the moans from escaping her lips as he rhythmically works his fingers in and out, slowly, making sure to spend time on the upper wall.

She’s so concerned with keeping her moans muffled that she doesn’t see him lower his head to her body until he gets his lips to her. With soft teeth and tongue he moves the hood, and puts her clit in his mouth. Holding it gently in his teeth, he starts sucking. Combined with the increased velocity of his probing fingers, she quickly reaches her first orgasm. He doesn’t pause, though, and continues on, lightly sucking and biting while she has three more.

He pauses for a moment, and she catches her breath. He takes the time to rise back up, until he’s at eye level. He puts his knee back between her legs, pinning her in place. He puts his right index finger up to her lips, and she takes it in her mouth, and starts sucking eagerly. He moves his finger in and out of her mouth slightly, and this seems to turn her on all the more.

While this is happening, his left hand strays to her breast, and barely touches it as he moves over it’s surface. The nipple is rock-hard, and he takes it in his fingers, pinching it just lightly. She moans as he continues to rub her breast a little more. He lowers his mouth to her right breast, and takes her nipple in his mouth, much like her clit. She pushes against him, willing her to take more in his mouth, and he obliges. She continues to suck his fingers—two of them now—for every last bit of moisture.

He comes back up to face her, and removes both hands. He just looks at her, and she stares back at him, still slightly scared, a little bit ashamed, but desperately hungry.

He reaches down to his belt, and her eyes follow, her lips curving back. The unbuckles the belt, and lets it sit there. She can’t take it, and leans forward to finish the job. He pushes against her, momentarily not letting her get to him, but relenting after a moment. She tugs his pants and boxers down, and grasps at him in her hand. He’s already in position, but he responds even more to her touch.

He lets her hold him for a moment, and then grabs her arms roughly and pins her to the locker completely. She looks at him, eyes wide, as he moves up into her. He crouches slightly to get the angle, and the tip of him brushes up against her clit. He’s pressed against her, and she wants to cry out. To keep quiet, she sinks her teeth into his shoulder instead.

He takes his hands down to her ass, and pulls her up. She helps out, and slowly he enters her. She wraps her legs around his, and starts arching her back and bucking to his rhythm. They move slowly, but only to get the pace, and then he thrusts into her ferociously, as the stored up heat pours into her.

His mouth finds her and he viciously kisses her, bruising her lips, but no more than she kisses back. Their tongues lock and they increase the pace. He’s now slamming her against the locker involuntarily, but when he tries to slow down she bites his lip savagely. This spurs him on, and he increases the already frenetic pace.

With this amount of heat it can’t last long, and they both feel climaxes quickly building. Scraping for every last bit of passion, they both enter fever pitch, and climax simultaneously; shuddering violently against each other. She sobs once, half in pleasure, and half in sorrow that it is ended.

He withdraws from her and stumbles back into his director’s chair, just barely managing to get his clothes back in order. She half-walks half-crawls to her trailer, and disappears inside. He sits there in the quiet until the crew come filing back in, happy and fed.

What are we going to do, the AD asks. The director thinks about it a moment and says the problem is our teacher. He doesn’t seem to get it. What do we do asks the AD. The director smiles grimly and says get me a robe. I’ll do it.

Robe now on, he walks to her trailer to tell her they are reshooting the scene. He knocks once peremptorily and then steps inside. She is reclothed, but still looking dazed, and spent. She sees his costume and her eyes go wide; he’s now familiar with that look. Just like that he says. I want you to look just like that.

Let Your Freak Flag Fly

2006-02-03T05:04:00.000-07:00

A friend sent this to me. I make no claims as to the veracity of the test, or how in the hell they figured out the scoring, but it might make a good time at your Super Bowl Party. And if anyone cares, I got a 58.

HOW BIG A FREAK ARE YOU?

GET A PIECE OF PAPER AND NUMBER IT FROM (1-13)

1.WHAT COLOR ARE YOUR EYES?
(A)A LIGHT COLOR
(B)THEY CHANGE COLORS
(C)A DARK COLOR

2.IF YOU WERE TO MEET UP WITH THE CRUSH OF YOUR LIFE YOU WOULD...
(A)SEDUCE THEM
(B)JUST CHILL
(C)CHILL AND THEN SEDUCE THEM

3.WHATS YOUR FAVORITE TYPE OF WEATHER?
(A)RAINY
(B)THUNDERSTORM
(C)SUNNY
(D)CLOUDY

4.WHATS THE BEST TYPE OF FRUIT?
(A)STRAWBERRYS
(B)CHERRYS
(C)GRAPES
(D)PEACHES
(E)KIWI

5.THE BEST PART OF THE 24 HOURS IS....
(A)NIGHT
(B)DAY

6 .WHATS THE BEST SEASON OF THE YEAR?
(A)FALL
(B)SUMMER
(C)SPRING
(D)WINTER

7.HEADBOARD OR NO HEADBOARD?

8.WHATS YOUR ZODIAC SIGN?

9.PICK A PLACE YOU WOULD HAVE SEX AT OUT OF THESE...
(A)ASTRO VAN
(B)ON THE ROOF OF A BUILDING
(C)PARK
(D)ON A AIR PLANE
(E)ON THE STAIRS
(F)BACK ROW OF MOVIE THEATRE
(G)PARENTS ROOM
(H)ALL OF THE ABOVE

10.YOUR PHONE SERVICE?
(A)LOCAL BELL - TYPE SYSTEM
(B)SPRINT/CINGULAR
(C)VERIZON
(D)T-MOBILE/NEXTEL
(E)PAY PHONE
(F)CRICKET
(G)SUNCOM
(H) OTHER

11.PICK AN ANIMAL
(A)LION
(B)LIZARD
(C)SNAKE
(D)MONKEY

12.PICK A TOPPING
(A)CHOCLATE SYRUP
(B)HONEY
(C)WHIP CREAM
(D)NUTS

13.WHICH WAY?
1. UP
2.DOWN
3.SIDEWAYS
4.ALL THE ABOVE

NOW THINK OF THE PERSON YOU HAVE A CRUSH ON OR A PERSON WHOSE ASS YOU
JUST WANNA SMACK=========
***ANSWERS AND POINTS****
1
.A.LIGHT COLOR (4)
B.CHANGE COLORS (5)
C.DARK (4)

2.
A.SEDUCE THEM (5)
B.JUST CHILL (2)
C.CHILL AND THEN SEDUCE (3)

3.
A.RAIN (3)
B.THUNDERSTORM (5)
C.SUNNY (3)
D.CLOUDY (2)

4.
A.STRAWBERRYS (5)
B.CHERRYS(4)
C.GRAPES (3)
D.PEACHES (4)
E.KIWI (5)

5.NIGHT OR DAY?
DAY (3)
NIGHT (5)

6.
A.FALL (3)
B.SUMMMER (4)
C.SPRING (3)
D.WINTER (4)

7.HEADBOARD OR NO HEADBORED?
HEADBORD (5)
NO HEADBORED (2)

8.WHATS YOUR ZODIAC SIGN?
LEO-5
VIRGO-5
SCORPIO-5
LIBRA-3
GEMINI-4
ARIES-4
CAPRICORN-3
CANCER-4
PISCES-5
AQUARIUS-4
TAURUS-5
SAGITARIUS-4

9.
(A)ASTRO VAN - 3
(B)ON THE ROOF OF A BUILDING-3
(C)PARK-3
(D)ON A AIR PLANE -4
(E)ON THE STAIRS -4
(F)BACK ROW OF MOVIE THEATRE -4
(G)PARENTS ROOM -4
(H)ALL OF THE ABOVE -5

10. YOUR PHONE SERVICE?
(A)LOCAL BELL - TYPE SYSTEM - 5
(B)SPRINT/CINGULAR -5
(C)VERIZON -4
(D)T-MOBILE/NEXTEL -4
(E)PAY PHONE -3 lmao
(F)CRICKET - 2
(G)SUNCOM-3
(H) OTHER-3

11.
A.LION (5)
B.LIZARD (3)
C.SNAKE (4)
D.MONKEY (3)

12.
A. CHOCLATE SYRUP(3)
B. HONEY (2)
C. WHIP CREAM (5)
D. NUTS (3)

13.
1.UP(2)
2.DOWN(3)
3.SIDEWAYS(5)
4. ALL OF THE ABOVE (5)

NOW ADD THE POINTS UP (FOR THE SLOW ONES)
SCORES!!!!!

LESS THAN 35 = MIGHT AS WELL SAVE IT TILL MARRAGE.

35-49= PRETTY FREAKY BUT THERES STILL A COUPLE OF TRICKS U CAN LEARN...
FROM ME.

50-65= TOTAL OUTRAGEOUS FREAK! OMG! CALL ME NOW!!!!

HyperionX - 968

2006-01-30T14:00:00.000-07:00

HyperionX⁹⁶⁸

The Hate List grows

An ever increasing group of things I intensely loathe (and don’t look at me like that, you bastard, or I’ll put you on too)

Two of the earlier Xs (HyperionX⁹⁹⁶ and HyperionX⁹⁷⁰) dealt with things I hate. As I bring the column back for its first run since 2004, I thought it’d be appropriate to start off with more things I hate. Actually, this is more a product of the irritation I was feeling this week toward all things. But whatever. Don’t hate.

I HATE THE SOUTH BEACH DIET
Actually, I’ll go further: I hate South Beach itself, all of Miami, all of Florida, and anyone who’s ever been to Florida. And I hate South Beach Nazis. South Beach may be right for you. I’m not hating on that. What I hate are the people who can talk of nothing else, and demand you listen to them speak of its wonders forever and ever.

Why does this come up? I tried South Beach this week. I didn’t do it for a diet; I’m against diets, especially ones that make you completely restrict what is an essential food. I’m not sure I buy a diet that says white rice is evil, when well over 1/3 of the world eats it for every meal every single day, and somehow seem to survive. But whatever.

If the chemistry hocus pocus in South Beach works at all, it works because you follow it to the letter. And enter me. A friend of mine wasn’t getting support from her family while on South Beach, and was cheating almost every day. She didn’t see it as cheating, but it was.

So, I did South Beach with her, to support her, and show her what it was not to cheat. At all. (Just because I don’t support something doesn’t mean I can’t do it all the way.)

Well, not only did my fine example make zero impression, but just four days of South Beach turned me into an irritable bastard. I snarled at everyone. Actually, the reason I made this stupid list is because of South Beach. I think at the very least one has to concede that no diet, however wonderful it may be, works for everyone. I ate approximately 3954 salads in the four days. In fact, though I didn’t cheat—not once—I hate more than I’ve ever eaten before in my life. And I still was hungry. No, not hungry: ravenous. I learned my lesson.

I HATE HAMAS AND THE IDIOT PALESTINIAN VOTERS
[Note: this section ran too long, so I took out all the bad words and am making it a regular column.]

I HATE MY OLD COLUMN READERS
When I switched to web-based writing, I knew I’d lose some people. They’d just be too lazy to take two minutes and sign up for to get email notification. But I didn’t know how many I’d lose. Does this mean they never read all along? I don’t know. I realize it’s life and it’s necessary for the evolution of my writing, but it still stings, shakes my confidence, and right now I hate them. How hard would it have been to sign up? If you see one of those people, give them a noogie for me, eh?

I HATE ANYONE WHOSE NAME STARTS WITH THE LETTER B
I was adding up all the people I’m mad at, and they all had B names, so rather than list them all individually, I figured this way would save time. Death to the Bs!!

I HATE CHILD MOLESTERS
I don’t have more to say about it at this time then I said in #352, but I didn’t want to write a “Hate” column without them being mentioned.

Actually I DO have more to say about this, but I need to wait a couple of weeks and see how things play out first.

I HATE PEOPLE WHO DON’T LIKE DINOSAUR COMICS, WHO WON’T EVEN CLICK ON THE LINKS I SO THOUGHTFULLY PROVIDE
I mean, I take the time to read them and chose funny ones, and Monkey Barn readers won’t even take a gander? It makes me want to throw koz at them. (Koz is my new slang term for pile of shit.)

I HATE PEOPLE WHO TAKE MY WATER BOTTLE
How hard is it to keep your own filled? Geez.

I HATE PEOPLE WHO CHEAT ON DIETS
Wait: I already covered this one. I was emotional when I made this list. Let’s move on.

I HATE THE STATE OF GEORGIA MOTOR VEHICLES BUREAU
Most of you know I’m up in Witness Protection here in Canada (formerly the Frozen North, although this winter the not-so-cold North). But my license is still in Georgia. Well, it expired on my birthday last December, and the haters at the DMV won’t let me renew it. This means I can’t drive up here! Denny’s, movies, and everything else is now a complete ordeal. Grrrrrrrrrrr.

I HATE PEOPLE WHO GET SHOWS CANCELLED
How can people complain there is nothing good on TV? These are the same people who don’t watch the really good stuff, and then it gets cancelled. Don’t get me wrong: there’s a lot of good stuff on the air, maybe even a golden age for TV. But the list of shows cancelled that were great or good (or could have been) goes on and on. Just off the top of my head I can think of Arrested Development, Wonderfalls, Firefly, John Doe, Angel, Eyes, Karen Sisco, Boomtown, and of course who can forget the ‘90s, where cancelled shows littered the field. (For more, see my top ten cancelled shows of all time.)

I HATE TV EXECUTIVES WHO DON’T RERUN PRIMETIME
How hard would it be to rerun their primetime lineup (8-11, give or take an hour, depending on where you live), after their late night shows are done? I know they would get more viewers late at night. I realize the reason the networks don’t rerun the shows during the week (usually) is to force people to watch the shows at a specific time, for the advertisers, but couldn’t they rerun the same commercials? I’m sure the advertisers wouldn’t mind, if they got a reduced rate. This way people who work or don’t have TIVOs or VCRs or whatever could watch their favorite programs. Who’s with me?

I HATE THE ROAD RUNNER
I hate that bird-bastard. I hate his condescending “meep meep” and how he always foils Wile E. Coyote. I love the coyote, and would love to see him take out the stupid Road Runner, and then grill and eat him. Now that would bring me back to Loony Toons.

I HATE THE MORONS IN CANADA WHO CAN’T SPEAK
I get that people in different regions will have different accents and pronunciation. That’s fine with me. But there are some words…For example, the words “pasta,” “drama” and “Mazda” are pronounced up here like the “a” in “pastor.” That nasal a. It’s horrible. Why do these words piss me off so much? Because pasta is Italian. The good people in Italy say pasta a certain way. Mazda is a god in Japan. They say it a certain way. And drama is…I don’t know, some language, but it’s pronounced more like “father” than “pastor.” So, when Canadians (and it’s virtually everybody) say those three words so wrong, it’s hard to take them seriously. It’s hard enough to take Canada seriously as it is, but when they say words like this I just want to laugh until my sides ache.

I HATE HATERS (THAT PRE-HATE)
Let me tell you how stupid these insufferable idiots are. A show like THE BOOK OF DANIEL comes out, about a pastor whose family has a lot of problems, including—try not to faint, here—a gay son! And before anyone’s seen the show these self-righteous groups like the Parents Research Council and the American Family Association are setting up boycotts. They haven’t even seen the show! For the moment, I’m not even trying to argue what is and what isn’t a sin. But to completely prejudge a program before you even see it. Like no show could possibly have a gay son without being evil and a threat to Christianity.

It’s especially galling how (some) of the same people will gleefully ignore other such behavior on TV they consider a sin all because that stuff doesn’t bother then. (Like Ross and Rachel hooking up, or Jack Bauer cold-bloodedly murdering someone.) But the gay thing sickens them, so they get all righteous about how it’s a religious issue, and it’s hurting family values.

I’m too upset about this, so I realize I need to write an entire column (especially once the Oscar nominations come in, BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN gets a bunch, and people start to fly off the handle, people who haven’t even seen the film.)

So, what’s bugging you? Write in and tell me, and we’ll do this again, soon.

Hyperion
January 27, 2006

2006-01-09T00:56:00.000-07:00

WELCOME TO

Turn back now. If you don't, I don't want to hear any bitching from you pug-fugly mofos.

Hyperion X was originally started to feature adult conversation; not pornographic, just discussions that people actually care about, but the general Hyperion Chronicles audience wouldn't be interested in.

Matters devolved until Hyperion X was mostly about movie reviews, but there were a few that retained the original spirit.

And then some busybody went and ruined it for everyone. Longtime readers might remember that the column suddenly shut down. I haven't spoken of it, but I was plenty pissed.

Well, I have the last laugh. Nobody who's gotten this far can claim they have no idea what they're getting into. Over on the right I have listed the relevant old columns. Most of it is still applicable to your life. I'll give folks a few days to look them over and then we'll get started on the new material.

Enjoy. Your mind is about to be blown. (And as ugly as you are, that's probably the only thing.)

complaint department

2006-01-05T07:31:00.000-07:00

969: T&A Q&A

2004-10-04T21:01:00.000-06:00

HyperionX⁹⁶⁹

T&A Q&A

Everything You’ve ever wanted to know (and I don’t care what you say: deep down in places you don’t like to talk about, you DO want to know) about those wonderful provocative sexy bits that make up a Woman

First, a confession: It was not originally my idea to write this column. This waitress Jadrian hooked me up with free pie, and in a glucose-filled rush I agreed to write about whatever she desired. (I know, I know: I’m such a sugar-whore. But, in my defense, it was chocolate peanut-butter.)

So anyway, Jadrian says nothing about my rash promise for awhile, until one night, when she approaches my table out of the blue and says, “I want you to write about tits and asses.”

I look at Aslan silently, communicating in that Y Chromosome way, “Is she coming on to me?” I gathered there was something prompting this. “Do you have any topic in mind?” I asked.

“I want to know if anal sex is okay and what does it mean if a boy doesn’t want regular sex any more?” She said this all in a rush, as if she’d been thinking about it for a long time.

I was honor-bound to agree to her request, but couldn’t write an entire column about whether her BF (which stands for Boy Friend, or possibly Butt-Fucker) was half-a-fag. (And, by the way, the term “half-a-fag” is not considered derogatory when used in this sense, so save your letters.) Anyway, I compiled a few other T&A topics to round things out, if you’ll pardon the pun.

TABLE OF CONTENTS
The Evolution from Ass to Breast
13-year old Whores (Who’s to blame?)
The Hypocrisy of SOME women and how they dress
How big is too big? The debate rages
What do women ogle?
Is your Boy Friend gay?
YOU SAY YOU WANT A (R)EVOLUTION…

One might wonder why the female breasts are as plump as they are. (Others don’t wonder, but are simply thankful.) After all, our closest relatives, the primates, feature limp and saggy breasts except when feeding their young. Other than a Milk Factory, what purpose do breasts serve?

There is no definitive answer, but the best theory is that sexual evolution evokes genetic memory. Here’s how it works: early man was mostly hunched over. Sexual arousal in a male primarily centered on the hind-quarters of the female.

When Humans made the move to upright (decided at the Council of Ogg in 27842 B.C.), they gained many advantages. However, the female ass was no longer in prime sexual position, and the worry was that males would lose sexual interest. (If you ask me, this was needless concern. When have men ever lost sexual desire? A woman could be wearing six parkas and a muumuu; a man would still want to bang what’s inside. But I digress.)

Anyway, the decision was made to evolutionarily develop the breasts to resemble the butt, so men wouldn’t forget about sex. Indeed, if you look at the shape of breasts including cleavage, it does seem to resemble the curve of the ass. Go figure.

While I’m on the subject, you may wonder if there are any other signs and signals the female has to unconsciously remind men of sex. Glad you asked. Playing with hair is a big one. According to anthropologists, when a woman plays with her hair, she is harkening back to an earlier time in human development, when grooming for bugs was a huge social function. Primates still do it today, and it not only helps keep the animals clean and disease-free, but can be the beginning of a mating ritual. So, the next time a woman plays with her hair, what she’s really saying is, “Pull the bugs off my scalp and do me, big boy.”

One more? Okay, since you asked nicely. Have you ever wondered the purpose of lipstick? Well, during sexual arousal, the lips of the vagina become engorged with blood, and turn reddish. When clothes were invented, there was a fear that men would forget what the vagina looked like. So, at Ogg II, it was decided women would start coloring their lips. This coloration triggers an unconscious thought and reminds men of a sexually aroused vagina, presumably making them want to have sex. Something to think about, ladies; the next time you glide on that sassy new candy-apple red.

CRUCIFYING BRITNEY
There is a disturbing trend in young girls, to see if they can pass for prostitutes. Seriously, it’s gotten out of hand. I don’t mind admiring a good-looking adult woman. If she’s 17 or maybe 16, well, maybe there might be a look-but-don’t-touch factor.

However, some of these girls are 12 or 13, and dressed as though they are hooking their way across the country. If I see a girl and she’s dressed hot, that’s fine. But then I realize she’s not 21, but 13, and suddenly I feel like a dirty old man. WHAT I AM SAYING IS THAT I DO NOT WANT TO LOOK SEXUALLY AT A 13 YEAR OLD GIRL. You laugh and say it’s my problem, but with the way many girls dress, you can’t tell how old they are, and when you see them in provocative attire, it’s already too late to control those initial thoughts. It’s extremely disturbing that girls this young are dressing as sex objects. The question is: who’s to blame?

One answer is the clothing available. I’ve heard from reliable sources that it is very hard to find girls’ clothes that are not sexually suggestive. The tide may be turning slightly, but for years it has been this way. However, this doesn’t address the question of why it has been this way.

The Media has dubbed Britney Spears and her kind the scapegoat. And, as much as I love Britney, there is a lot of truth to this. Britney had a phenomenonally smart marketing strategy of sexualizing herself while innocently denying the whole thing. I can’t stress how brilliant this was. It allowed her to have a new look that would win converts. Young girls rarely need an excuse to look more “grown up.” Secondly, it tapped in to that teeming male sexual pathos that bubbles below the surface of polite society. Men have ALWAYS been attracted to younger women. Most of this is evolutionary. The younger female was more likely to be fertile and produce offspring.

(Conversely, this is also why you nave the stereotype of women liking older men. Evolutionarily, females are attracted to older, more dominant males who can provide for their children. Even though we’ve moved beyond that in society (some of us), evolution hasn’t caught up.)

The fact it, a girl is the most fertile in her early teens. For most of history, girls were having children by then. This was normal, as humans were likely to live to 30, and the child-bearing years couldn’t be wasted.

As society moved along, general health increased, and we live longer. There is no longer a need to rush into procreation. But, old habits die hard. For awhile, western society when the through Victorian Era, and the average age for girls to have their initial sexual experience shot up to 16 ½. But times have changed. We’ve gone back the other way, and sex is happening younger and younger. So, that’s a factor too.

However, while Britney takes some blame and so does evolution, I think the biggest reason that young girls behave this way is: emulating older girls. Which lead us to our next topic.

ARE WOMEN HYPOCRITES?
Young girls want to be like older girls, and women are dressing sluttier and sluttier. This too, is a disturbing trend—which I could write a whole column about—but for now I want to focus on the narrower issue of why SOME women dress so provocatively, and then get mad when guys stare and leer.

For many, perhaps even most girls, this isn’t an issue. Most girls that dress very sexily relish the attention their attire affords them. However, some women do not, and even many of the ones who do have those moments where they do a complete 180 and get all mad. You’ve been out there. You know what I’m talking about.

I’ve talked to girls who unabashedly put on push-up bras, the tightest skirts imaginable, and wear their “fuck-me” shoes. (Guys, if you’re unaware of what “fuck-me” shoes are, talk to a girl. In general, they are sling-back pumps. The idea is to shorten and accentuate the calf muscle. If a girl has ever shown cleavage or worn a tight shirt, she knows what these kinds of shoes are, and if she says she doesn’t, she’s lying.)

These girls will get all slutted up and then bitch about some guy staring at them at the club. Ladies: you can’t have it both ways. Yes, guys are lecherous monsters, and will press any advantage they can get. (Except I, who am a gentleman.) But what was that old expression Lini used to say? “Don’t display wares you don’t mean to sell.” Or at the very least, have men fogging up the window display peering inside hungrily.

HOW BIG IS TOO BIG?
I posed this question at Denny’s, to all the servers and customers I could find. I asked about both men (penises) and women (breasts). The men generally said—to both—the bigger the better; within reason. They wouldn’t mind being super-endowed, and they loved their women with tig ol’ bitties, I mean big ol’ titties. (With the exception of Jerry Springer-type girls. No man wanted that.)

Women, on the other hand, had a different reaction. To both male and female they said, “Too big and a girl can get hurt.” What do you think?

AND SOME WANT ALL THE CHICKEN IN THE BUCKET
You ask a guy if he’s a leg man, an ass man, or a breast man, usually he’ll answer. Personally, I’ve never understood this. What happened to Renaissance men, connoisseurs of all the meats of our cultural stew? Even more interesting, do women have these same debates about labels? Hold on while I ask them…..

[Pause]

Okay, I’m back. My very scientific survey of the female servers at Denny’s has yielded the opinion that women like certain types (rugged, athletic, slim, etc.), but this is more generalized to types rather than body parts. I did find several girls who were keen on asses and chests, but they didn’t consider that the absolute top priority.

READER RESPONSE TIME
Just now, sitting here writing, Braj—the god of Denny’s—gave me an idea. I want to write about what women know that men don’t know that they know, and vice versa. Please, write in and give me ideas. This will be HyperionX, so go nuts.

HOW TO TELL YOU’RE SLEEPING WITH A FRUIT
Finally, we return to the question that prompted this whole column. First, is there anything “wrong” with anal sex? It seems to me, if you condone oral sex, you’d have to concede anal sex is moral too. The only question then would be when you’re personally comfortable with it.

Being unmarried—and therefore a virgin—I have no personal thoughts on this issue. Que Sera Sera. From a hygiene standpoint, as long as certain precautions are taken, there isn’t any real risk.

But, what does it mean then that’s all the boy wants to do? Is he secretly gay? It’s a tough call. One the one hand, He could just like it nice and tight and just isn’t getting it, ahem, from current methods. This could be from the “stretch” factor or the “Irish Curse” factor. Again, issues I don’t know anything personally about, but one hears stories.

But could your Boy Friend be secretly gay? One would think there would be an objective way to measure this. I just looked online for some sort of test, but they seem unreliable. Besides which, if you’re boyfriend is secretly gay, he probably hides it by acting hyper-masculine, and doesn’t exude any of the “stereotypical” signs of gaydom. He probably doesn’t dress better than you. He likely has never camped out for 6 days to see a Streisand concert. And for sure, he doesn’t even have his Gay Decoder Ring that all openly gay men are issued by that secret gay society, the CSA.

So, how do you tell? See how often he uses derogatory language. While not foolproof, often when men use hostile language toward gay people, they are masking true feelings.

Next, see if he gets Men’s Health magazine. This is definitely hidden gay porn. They throw in the odd pictorial of a female hottie, but next time you’re at the store, take a look, and you’ll notice that there is always some muscular jock on the cover, and plenty more inside.

Finally, you could ask him if he wants you to cut off all your hair, tape down your breasts, and go by “Frank.” That’s a pretty good sign too.

Since Jadrian is really hot, I’m going to go ahead and say, “Yeah, he’s as queer as a 3 dollar bill. Run away. Run fast. Run far. Run to me.”

And that’s life in the monkey-screwing barn,

Hyperion
Written October 3^rd
Sent October 4, 2004

Credits
Thanks to Jadrian for the idea, and the pie
Thanks to all my Denny’s peeps who answered the call
Thanks to Koz for his editing help, and for talking me out of cleaning this up a bit
Praise be to Braj, from whom all blessings flow

970: Things that Piss Me Off

2004-09-30T20:57:00.000-06:00

HyperionX⁹⁷⁰

Things that Piss Me Off (but apparently only me)

Hyperion bitches like he’s on 7 rags at once.

What I don’t understand is: why do people reply to emails and not include the original text in the reply? The only reasons I can possibly think of are A) they like the clean aesthetics of just their words in the email or B) they are too lazy or unaware of how to make it otherwise.

The reason to include the text is obvious: to give the other person a point of reference. Sometimes it takes them several days to respond. Or, sometimes it takes me a while to get to it. Either way, by the time I answer, I have no idea what:

“I didn’t care for it. What did you think?”

is referring to. If they would keep all the conversation in the text of the reply, I could follow along and figure out what the hell they are talking about. Am I the only one who thinks this way? If you answered the phone and I said, “Why did you do that?” you would probably respond with “What the hell are you talking about?”

Who’s with me?

One great thing about Canada is that many of the regular channels show lots of nudity. Some do it during the day, but almost twenty different channels will do it at night. Oddly, up here they have warnings after every commercial break:

“The following program may contain scenes of nudity, sexuality, violence and coarse language. Viewer discretion is advised.”

When you get all 4 I call it the Holy Quatrany (not a word: I know, but it’s a take off of trinity, so don’t hate).

Anyway, the only problem is that the warning says the show “may” contain these things. That’s not good enough. At 4:00 in the morning, if I’m skipping an infomercial of the Magic Bullet and Ferris Bueller’s Day Off in French, I need to know these things will be there. In fact, I will go further. I want to know that the offending items will be in the next segment of show. I don’t think this is too much to ask.

I know I’ve written about this before, but I am already sick of the announcers acting like every show is a must-watch, and god forbid you miss an episode; you should probably commit ritualistic suicide with a snow blower. Seriously: get the fuck over yourselves. (NBC: I’m looking in your direction.) Just announce what’s coming up in a normal tone of voice, and I’m much more willing to watch.

And tell me you’re not sick of Bush and Kerry yet? I don’t care if you’re the richest of Republicans or the gayest of Democrats, these people are overexposed and boring. They don’t have enough to say, so the media searches for ANY story that they can file. (Witness: the mind-numbing four weeks on Kerry’s medals and Bush’s air service. Even if all the allegations on both sides are true, who cares? It’s what they are saying now, baby.)

Worst of all, with all the time the Media spends on these two morons; they could be spending it on me and my campaign! I would be so much more interesting to cover. I wouldn’t be afraid of the press (being smarter than most of them), and wouldn’t hesitate to mock them. And, I’d say what I truly felt, each and every time, and screw the handlers and test-marketing answers. I think the world is so starved for someone who would do this that they’d vote for him no matter what he said. (Well, more or less. Don’t get your hopes up, Perot.)

Okay, this isn’t really something that pisses me off, but I promised to include it in the next HyperionX, and here we are. The other night at dinner Marcellus—an architect--and I (and later Aslan) came up with how women are like architecture. (On the plus side, maybe it will piss you off.)

· If you’re a connoisseur, you admire the beautiful and tight lines in the design

· Measurements (and proportions) matter

· You rarely get out of it as much time/money/effort as you put in, and it always costs more than you expect

· The designs change every time you turn around

· You don’t know how well the building will age (helps to look at the previous work of the architect)

· The structure often looks far different in the light of day and it looks better in pictures than in real life and close up

· The better looking the building, the higher the maintenance

· Location Location Location! (You have to find that right spot or it’s all for naught), and if you’re off by an inch or two you’ve missed the whole project

I hate when stores won’t make things right. A few weeks ago I was at this mega-mart called Canadian Super Store. I bought $220 worth of groceries. I get done right before they closed, and I used to hate customers who weren’t considerate and would stay late, so I hustled out. I got home and reconciled the groceries to the receipt and found they overcharged me on three items. Not a huge amount—less than two dollars total. I didn’t get a chance to go back until the next week’s shopping. I went up to the front counter and explained the situation to the clerk.

She didn’t believe me. She said I couldn’t prove they’d charged me for three puddings when I only got two. As for the two items they just priced wrong, she said the prices were all different now and they had no record.

I tried to stay calm. Normally, this is an effective tool. But as she continued to stonewall me I got more and more irate. It wasn’t just the asinine policy of requiring same day returns (which wouldn’t have been possible) it was how she kept lecturing me on how I should have come back that same night, and how people scam them. I realize people scam stores, but I have been buying $200+ per week in groceries there for months. On a $220 bill I was asking for three small items to be changed. Like it would be worth my time to scam them for that much. Just for customer loyalty they should have made it right.

I had this huge cart—which you have to put a dollar in just to use. (That’s another thing that pisses me off, but I’ll save it for the Canada vs. U.S. column in a few weeks.) The carts at Superstore are ginormously heavy—think Costco or something. I got so angry that I picked up my cart by the handle and spun around twice, building speed as I went. I flung the cart and it went flying like 150 feet in the air. (Seriously: other than when I tipped over a Volkswagen by myself and when I did not sleep with Rosalita Peréz right after her boyfriend dumped her, this might have been the strongest thing I have ever done.)

The carted landed on its side, but forward momentum carried it all the way down the aisle to the pharmacy. I was escorted out and asked not to come back (like I would), and as I drove away I realized my dollar was still in the cart!

Now that pisses me off.

Hyperion
September 30, 2004

Credits
Thanks to Marcellus and Aslan
Thanks to all the stupid people out there who yearn to make my life miserable.

971: The Great Debates

2004-06-09T20:51:00.000-06:00

Hyperion X⁹⁷¹

The Great Debates

Boldly going where no one has gone before (admittedly; no one has ever wanted to go there before, but dammit: I want my Star Trek music playing heroically)

Fair Warning: This is Hyperion X. It is not the regular, thought provoking Hyperion Chronicles, or MovieHype. For those new readers or ones with bad memories (read: lots of drugs), Hyperion X is an uncensored forum for literally anything. If you’re easily offended, this is not for you. If you wear bloomers (a.k.a. granny-panties), this is not for you. If you’re not comfortable throwing small children off of cliffs and blaming the world-wide conspiracy that is the Olson Twins, this is not for you. For those that come with: Abandon all Hope, Caveat Emptor, Semper Ubi Sub Ubi, and so forth. You’ve been warned.

TODAY’S AGENDA
When did pantiliner become a word?
Should there be a fifth base?
Is oral sex sex?
New word for fingering
Orgasm vs. bowel movement

We here at the Hyperion Institute for Advanced Callimastian/Callipygian/Kickassian Studies have decided to start a periodic series where we answer some of life’s most philosophical, thought-provoking, life-changing questions. And though our critics may say it’s just a bunch of sex-talk, I steadfastly defend it. After all, this is the stuff people actually care about; they’re usually just too embarrassed to mention. Much like PBS or Joan Rivers at award shows, we’re a public service.

As I’m writing this, I’m on IM with Koz, my sometimes editor and Hyperion X contributor. He just asked why “pantiliner” is now one word instead of the more traditional “panty liner.” I confess that I don’t know what these things are. I finally figured out tampons and pads (and the difference therein), but panty liners? As insatiably curious as I am, I’m not sure I want to know. (Seriously: I don’t know how women put up with their plumbing. I have a spastic colon and sometimes I want to shoot myself. But I digress.)

What is even more interesting to me is why Koz cares about this. I think I’ll ask him.

While I’m waiting, let’s talk for a minute about the bases. This has long been a passionate subject for me. When people talk about how “far” someone gets, they sometimes use the baseball analogy. First Base is French-kissing; Second Base is above the waist (also know as groping or “feeling up”); Third Base is below the waist (also known as fingering; more on that in a minute); and Fourth Base (home plate) is sex itself.

I maintain there should be five bases, which makes the analogy itself flawed (we need a new one). What am I talking about? The Bill Clinton dilemma.

Back in January of ’98, Bill Clinton swore up and down he’d never had sex with “that woman.” I said at the time (and was subsequently proved right), that he was going to defend that statement by claiming he had oral sex, which isn’t sex.

Now, I am of the opinion that oral sex is sex, but admittedly it isn’t quite the same as regular (vaginal) sex. However, it is a bit more than manual stimulation (if you follow me). Therefore, I think there needs to be a base between Third and Home. Who’s with me?

Speaking of manual stimulation, when I was growing up so many years ago, this practice was known as finger-banging, or more commonly, fingering. So then last Saturday night I was the designated chauffeur for my sister, her friend, and their two dates after the prom. (That night’s a column in and of itself.) On one of my many trips taking them from one place to the next, one of the guys in the back started talking about how while they were waiting for me this drunk guy started fingering him, so of course he fingered the drunken guy back.

I tells ya the truth: I almost ran off the road. I mean, I realize kids are a lot more casual about sex than in my day, but still. I told them in a strangled voice that there was to be no “fingering” in the back seat. They laughed and told me that the kids now say “fingering” for “flipping off.”

I suppose that makes a bit of sense (if it does sound odd to an old-schooler like myself), but it raises the question: if fingering now means flipping someone the bird, what is the new term for what used to be fingering? Being unmarried (and therefore a virgin) I don’t know of these things, so I beseech the Hyperion X audience for help.

Back to Koz and his panty liners. I asked him on IM why he cared. I am copying, verbatim, the exchange:

Koz: when did pantiliner become one word?

Koz: i thought it was panty liner

Koz: i only noticed this because i have a wife

Hyperion: sure that's why

Hyperion: although maybe I can put it in the column

Koz: well do you have an answer?

Koz: i mean we don't spell it cruisliner or eyliner

Hyperion: m-w.com doesn't call it a word, so neither do I

Koz: type pantiliner into google

Koz: all the major companies call it a word

Hyperion: why do you care that it's a word?

Koz: i don't know

Koz: its just one of those things

Koz: it just seems like an abomination

Koz: i mean who do they think they are? McDonalds?

Koz: they can't just make up words like that

Koz: BASTARDS

Koz: I bet they killed Kenny

Once again I beseech the audience: You see what I have to work with? I need better contributors. Also, if anyone has the answer for poor Koz, I will forward it.

Last in the agenda is one of the greatest philosophical conundrums that have ever come before me. I realize some of you will be uncomfortable, but quit your snickering and get over it. The question is: which sensation is better: the orgasm or the bowel movement?

I first posed this to my male friends (who begged not to be identified, even by their alii (which is, by the way, the plural of alias)). Immediately they came down in favor of the orgasm, because it feels so wonderful and so forth. But then one of them said, “It depends on what’s important to you. One the one hand, you’re talking about going from feeling normal to feeling great. On the other, you’re talking about going from uncomfortable, to normal.”

This was good analysis, but I countered: “You’re looking at this in a vacuum. But consider: if you don’t get to have an orgasm for a few days, your life will go on. But imagine waiting that long to let it out. Even a car ride can be murder.” They all agreed that when viewed in totality, the bowel movement was a better deal.

I thought the conversation was over, until a few days later when I brought this up with a woman (and oh, would I LOVE to tell you who this was). At first she was uncomfortable, but after a while she warmed to the subject, and got into it. She pointed out that the reason people so immediately assume that the orgasm is better is because of the surrounding factors.

When you’re talking about sex, she went on, you associate it with being naked with someone you love (or someone you’ve paid for, or if you’re hard up, at least thinking about being with someone you love, or thinking about being with someone you’ve paid for). However, when you talk about your colon, the association is lots of straining, unpleasant odors, and possibly chunks of corn. If you remove the other factors, the sensations might be more similar than we realize, or as she put it, “Taking a shit doesn’t get enough credit.”

I couldn’t have put it better myself.

So, there you have it. Are there burning questions that you wonder about, but have been too shy to bring up? Questions like: How young is too young? Are my parents still having sex? (And is it possible they’ve always been virgins?) What is a “normal” size? And, Seriously: what the hell are pantiliners anyway? Send in your questions and answers and we’ll do our best, because like I wrote earlier: we are a public service.

Hyperion
June 09, 2004

Credits
Thanks, obviously, to the resilient (if misguided) Koz
Thanks to those unnamed for the conversations above

972 - Oscar Nomination Wrap Up

2004-05-16T19:24:00.000-06:00

Hyperion X - 972 was a wrap up of Oscar nominated movies from the year 2003. They can now be found over at Movie-Hype

WHALE RIDER

21 GRAMS

DIRTY PRETTY THINGS

THE COOLER

973 - HELLBOY

2004-05-11T19:37:00.000-06:00

973 was a review of HELLBOY, which you can find over on Movie-Hype now. My original title was so clever, though, that I wanted to include it here:

Review of New York Minute

It was Hell; boy I tell ya’

974 - VAN HELSING

2004-05-07T19:45:00.000-06:00

974 was a review of VAN HELSING, and can now be found over at Movie-Hype

975 - KILL BILL VOLUME 2

2004-04-19T19:49:00.000-06:00

975 was a review of KILL BILL VOLUME 2, which can now be found over at Movie-Hype

976: In Defense of Blasphemy

2004-04-16T20:41:00.000-06:00

Hyperion - X⁹⁷⁶

In Defense of Blasphemy

Hyperion gets back up on his (reinforced steel) soapbox, because let’s face it: he’s one sanctimonious bastard

This was originally going to go before Easter, to get the full Blasphemic effect, but my Judas column wore my ass out. Before I get into it, though, I’d like to take a moment to defend blasphemy. Words are what we use to communicate. The more you understand zoology and the animal kingdom, the more profound that gets. In many ways, it is the dividing line between humans and the rest of the planet. So, I would never argue that words can’t have an impact. They are most often what lead to the wonderful and terrible events in our world.

But the idea of blasphemy is just stupid. Not only are we giving words a power they shouldn’t have (see my many rants on swearing), but we are saying we not only know the nature of God but that he/she/it/Evon is going to be pissed at our disrespect. Unlike some, I don’t claim to know that nature of God. But pretty much by freaking definition, any “God” is not going to get caught up in our petty little shit. At least, I hope not, because what a pussy God that would be (and not pussy God in a good way, as I can already see those in Orlando, Florida getting excited). The bottom line is, what we do as people, how we treat others, how we make them feel, what to do to make things better; these are the things that reflect on us as people. Blasphemy is just humor, or at least its attempt.

Of course, blasphemy might offend some of the less open-minded people out there, but what the hell are they doing reading Hyperion X? The bastards. Anyway, I found some riff I wrote a few years ago (the first item), and quicker than Bill Clinton drops a C-Note in a Cat-House, this column was born. Everything in here is blasphemous in some way, to God, women, men, Walt Disney; etc. Actually, none of them are, but thinking makes it so.

And somewhere Alex Trebek spins in his grave (if he had one)…
Occasionally it’s said of me that I’m a very strange person, and while I consider that accusation to be malicious gossip-mongering, I suppose I do have my moments. One such peccadillo I will admit to is talking back to road signs as if they were literal. For example, if I see a sign that reads “Keep Right” or “Keep Left,” I will immediately start in with “Burn the environment!” or “Welfare for everyone!”

Today I drove by a shop with a sign in the marquee that read, “CHRIST IS THE ANSWER, NO MATTER WHAT THE QUESTION.” Into my mind sprang all sorts of blasphemous questions: Who broke the lamp? Who put the empty juice carton back in the fridge? Who knocked up my sister? The thought of a sheepish Jesus taking the blame for everything ala those ghosts in Family Circus had me laughing so hard I almost ran off the road. If any of this offends you (and it’s not meant to), remember this: be careful what you say and how it can be interpreted.

Wait: I can do better than that. I come from a long line of preachers who can turn anything into a sermon illustration. Hmmm…how about this? Since Jesus died for our sins, it’s like he really did break the lamp, replace the empty juice carton, and, ahem, knock up your sister. And he did it all for you. I better stop before I explain how pedophilic priests are just misinterpreting the verse “Suffer the little children unto me.”

You know you’ve thought about it…
Do you think Stephen Hawking gets laid a lot? Don’t you think it’d be erotic to hear him say “Who’s your daddy?” with that computerized voice on his machine?

Sound Advice
The best way to keep a secret is to not tell the person you’re kidnapping.

Wisdom that only a half-Mexican/half-Cuban can provide…
I had this friend Carlos, who would do some pretty dumb things. His defense was always, “Chicks like that shit,” no matter what it was, and in spite of myself I’d laugh. Carlos claims this comes from the Bible, when Jesus was asked why he did miracles, and he replied, “Chicks like that shit.”

Pissed off Zen
What is the sound of one hand kicking your ass?

That sociopath Walt is at it again…
Last year I wrote about how subversive Disney was in their movies, and how they seemed to always be sticking it to women. The partial list:

Beauty and the Beast: no mother around

Cinderella: evil stepmother, whom Freud would tell us represents the mother

Dumbo: mom has big ears (okay, that one's a stretch, but she has to be a bad mother. She let her child hang out with racist stereotypes and fly without a helmet!)

Jungle Book: mother is a wolf

Pinocchio: creation of life with no mother involved

Pocahontas: no mother

Tarzan: mother killed early (father too), raised by gorilla (who also dies, I think)

Snow White: no real mother. Step-Mother (Freud again) super evil

Sleeping Beauty: evil mother-in-law (represents mother)

Bambi: who doesn't remember this?

Now we get word from a reader that they’re at it again. Apparently Minnie Mouse is (and I’m quoting her), “a total slut, and is totally fucking Pluto.” I’m not sure where she gets her information, but even I have noticed that Minnie is a terrible female role model. She’s always ditching Mickey for that putz Mortimer, and Mickey has to win her back. A total mousecock tease, if you ask me. And Daisy Duck isn’t much better. Everything is always about her. You see the problem here: once again Disney is giving us two female role models; a skanky ho and a selfish bitch. About the only one who’s nice is Goofy’s squeeze Clarabell, and she’s as ugly as a cow (which, she is, but that’s beside the point). I say it’s time Disney got off the Misogyny trip and started giving us some realistic female role models! Who’s with me?

Two out of Three ain’t bad…
I was talking to this girl about children we might have, and what we’d name them (you’d be surprised how much girls like to talk about this, or as Carlos would say, “Chicks like that shit”). I voiced the opinion that our son would be named Agamemnon, after the famous fighter from the Trojan War. She (who knew much more about the story than I), immediately responded by telling me that Aggie (as I call him) had raped Helen of Troy and killed his own daughter. “That’s pretty cool,” I said. “A fierce warrior and a man of action. Of course, it would kind of suck for our granddaughter, but you can’t have everything.”

It’s pile on cripples day
Consider: If Christopher Reeve was a better horse-rider, you’d probably think he was one of the worst actors who ever lived. As I am a more honest (and therefore more evolved) person, I do anyway.

Let’s get off cripples…
I found the perfect line you can use when you want to change the subject. A few months ago I let it be known my feelings that Julie Andrews was completely unsexual. Not that she’s not attractive, but there’s no sensuality there. Anyway, we were talking about some girls we know, and I argued that one of them was completely without sexuality, much like Julie Andrews. Immediately one of my friends said, “Here we are again, back on Julie Andrews.” I retorted, “Yes, let’s get off Julie Andrews, because I’m tired and need some sleep.” So, the next time someone says something about anyone (your mom, George Bush, Mrs. Butterworth), you can respond, “Let’s get off ______________, because I’m tired and need some sleep.”

More Pissed off Zen
If a tree falls in the forest, and lands on and kills Julia Roberts, would she still look like a horse?

Heavy Putting
Finally, I was talking to the same girl who objected to Agamemnon—because he raped and murdered—about golf. She was going on and on about how it was sexist and unfair. Finally she said to me, “Have you ever tried to hit a golf ball with breasts?” to which I replied, “No, I prefer a four-iron.”

Selah, T’ai Qin, and Gatty Five,

Hyperion
April 16, 2004

Credits
Thanks to the inimitable Carlos
Thanks to Aslan and Zach
Thanks to Pebbles
Thanks to Abigail
Thank to Ella

977 - Wha-the-Fuh?

2004-03-23T03:32:00.000-07:00

Hyperion X⁹⁷⁷

Wha-the-fuh?

All the things I would put in a regular potpourri column, if I only had the balls

Hyperion X was first conceived as a forum for my uncensored thoughts. I was so concerned about the content; I required several hurdles just to get on the mailing list. I also was alarmed when several people joined whom I’d rather not have getting my unfiltered mind, but they persisted. When the very first Hyperion X came out, I went so far as to run a disclaimer:

This is the 999^th issue of Hyperion X. You should only be getting this if you specifically wrote and asked my staff or me for it. This is your last chance to turn back.

Over time, I found I wasn’t as angry as I thought I’d be. Also, I found myself needing space to do movie reviews, which don’t appeal to the Chronicle reading audience as much. So, while I wasn’t too concerned about my language, Hyperion X sort of evolved into something it was never intended to be.

Well, we’re going Old School, baby.

This past weekend, has, in the words of Billy Graham, been, “one shitty fuck-up after another.” I have gotten to the point where I don’t care if I offend anyone. The following are items collected over the last few days, many of them hilarious, most of them involving very little sleep. That makes everything funnier, you know? Part of me (the small part that keeps whispering “you need these people to like you if you’re ever going to rule the world”) is nervous, arguing with the other part of myself that maybe I should tone it down, take some of this out, or perhaps even have someone read it over. But one of the promises I initially made when I started Hyperion X was that I would never second-guess: just write and send. I figure the worst that can happen is you get mad and quit reading. Don’t let the screen door slap your ass on the way out.

Some of you may be wondering if Billy Graham really said what I wrote above. The truth is Billy’s public persona is all a lie. That man is one foul-mouthed bastard.

Don’t be too hard on Billy, though. He mostly does it to impress John Paul² when we go clubbing. We’ll see some girl on the dance floor and JP will say something like, “Yeah, I’d tap that ass,” and then Billy will chime in with, “Yeah, me too!” It’s kinda pathetic, but whaddya going do?

Okay, this may not appeal to everyone, but I think we need a new word for Dictator. It’s been ruined for the rest of us by the likes of Hitler, Stalin, Mao, Mussolini, Genghis, Napoleon, Xerxes, Darius, Alexander…okay, hell, all of them. That’s why we need a new name.

Along those lines, I was in the car the other day driving by Home Depot. I momentarily thought it read “Home Despot.” I started imagining the commercials…

“After a hard day of dictatoring, do you long to lounge in the comfort of your own palace? Come to Home Despot, where we can supply all your tyrannical and botanical needs.”

One more time, just because it’s fun to read and write (and even better to say): dictatoring. C’mon, say it. It’s fun!

If MC Hammer met MC Escher, would you say, “You can’t touch this” because the stairs never meet?

I lost many things when the Magic Pygmy Rabbits struck my computer last fall. Some of them were quite important, like my address book and all my work. Some were only important to certain people. When I told my friend Koz about the purge, his response was an anguished, “Not the company porn!!!”

Let me explain: while I appreciate a finely turned ankle as well as the next man, I have never been a visual person. Thus, while I am not hating, pictures of generically beautiful naked women I don’t know have never appealed to me like they would some. However, I did keep a small but well regarded collection, not for my own edification, but for the enjoyment of others. That’s company porn. It’s much like if you were to keep whiskey or scotch you don’t personally drink on hand in case guests would like to partake. Friends would come over and immediately see what’s available. You don’t want to be rude, right? That’s all gone, now. While I do have a few scans of Britney, Vida, or Kathy-Lee, I sadly no longer have my company porn.

My friend Aslan returned from Mexico bearing strange exotic gifts. One of them was this long blue vial (he says it’s a bottle, but as I am the one writing this, it’s a vial), like a cross between a genie lamp and one of those shampoo containers you get at a fruity store like Bed, Bath, and Bitches. Inside the vial were wrapped chocolates with a tequila-liqueur center. Just to be friendly I though I’d try one. Absolutely the worst thing I’ve ever tasted. I spit it out and glared at him. “No wonder the Mexicans have never accomplished anything.” I said.

Descriptive term over the week (overheard): “Yeah, she’s hot, but is she ‘dig up her corpse’ hot?”

I wrote several months ago about strip clubs, and my (academic) curiosity as to how strip clubs functioned in a society without dollar bills (they use coins up here). Do people give fives? If coins are used, how does the girl keep them in her garter?

I discussed this with a few learned readers and discovered that coins are indeed used. What happens is the customers throw the coins up on stage, and then someone sweeps them up afterwards. (If you ask me, this cheapens what otherwise is a classy affair.)

However, a new thought occurs to me. I don’t mean to disgust anyone, but here at Hyperion X we shrink from no questions except empirical incest studies. I’ve heard that at some low-class strip clubs, the stripper can be persuaded to accept the dollar bill with a dexterity display not normally seen. (In other words, muscles you might not expect are used to pluck dollar bills from guys’ fingers.) I wonder, does this happen in Canada? If so, couldn’t there be, uh, to put it delicately, a misplacement of funds? Those coins are small, they could just disappear. And what if those funds were to show up at inopportune times?

I can see the scene now. The boyfriend is orally pleasing his stripper girl-friend. He pulls his head up and says, “Honey, you must really love it tonight, because you’re tipping me!”

Vidal Sassoon recently announced they were going with a new “truth in advertising” campaign. Thus, from now on, instead of “If you don’t look good, we don’t look good;” their new slogan is, “If you don’t look good, it’s because you’re pug-fugly.”

In case the last paragraph didn’t make any sense, there are several levels of ugly. There is ugly, pug-ugly (as ugly as a pug dog), fugly (a contraction of “fucking ugly”) and finally, pug-fugly. How ugly is pug-fugly, you ask? Imagine the love-child of Yasser Arafat and Bob Dylan.

Advice O’ the day: when dining out, never return food that is served with any sort of white sauce.

The other day I was walking out of a restaurant, and I passed these two guys talking. The one guy said to the other, “The thing about Asian whores is…” Now, I confess that up until that moment, I had spent my entire life not giving much thought to Asian whores. And yet, at that moment, I felt suddenly compelled. What was the thing about Asian whores? You know how I love knowledge. This was eating me up inside. Of course, I couldn’t stand there and listen in, so I never did learn.

This event made me want to compile a list of things you could hear one sentence about and want to know more. If you have ever heard any thing like that, send it to me.

On a related matter, I think there are certain phrases that could improve every conversation. Obviously “Asian Whores” is one of them. I think “a plague of locusts o’er the land” is another. I can’t think of any conversation that wouldn’t be improved by someone saying that. In many ways this is like my BLKF theory, adapted for speech.

For those of you fairly new to the column, I have this theory that anything, be it food, literature, movies, parliament, family reunions, or a bunch of nuns; anything can be improved by one (or more) of the following three things: bacon, lesbians, or kung fu. That’s the BLKF Theory. I’m hoping to devise a similarly stalwart Conversation Theory. So far all I have is the Asian Whores and the locusts. Please let me know if you have others.

Finally, more Advice O’ the day: Never try to break up with a schizophrenic by telling him you think you should see other people.

I have more, but this is long as it is. If I still have any readers left I’ll send out the rest soon.

That’s life in the Monkey-screwing Barn,

Hyperion

March 23, 2004

Credits

Thanks to everyone who inadvertently gave me great ideas

Thanks to all the assholes and bitches who pissed me off enough to go ahead and send this

978-985, 987-988, 990-991

2004-02-04T02:40:00.000-07:00

Since all of these Hyperion X columns are now over on Movie-Hype, it seemed kind of dumb to keep linking them by themselves. Here is what each one was in case you want to read the reviews:

991 MATCHSTICK MEN

990 UNDERWORLD

988 ONCE UPON A TIME IN MEXICO

987 KILL BILL VOLUME 1

985 MATRIX NAMES

984 MATRIX REVOLUTIONS

983 PAYCHECK; BAD SANTA; LOVE ACTUALLY; RETURN OF THE KING; LAST SAMURAI; COLD MOUNTAIN; THIRTEEN; MYSTIC RIVER

982 MASTER AND COMMANDER: THE FAR SIDE OF THE WORLD

981 INSOMNIA; LOST IN TRANSLATION

980 SEABISCUIT; AMERICAN SPLENDOR

979 MONSTER

978 CITY OF GOD