The Greatest Photo Ever Taken

By Adam Greene

My friends. My readers. People who've accidentally stumbled upon the site looking for Clay Aiken fan fiction. I present to you the greatest single photograph ever taken by mortal man.



No. You're not dreaming. It is real.

Absolutely stunning, isn't it?

When discussing great works of art, it's important to find the artist's thoughts represented in the photograph... to discover why he made the choices he made and what those choices brought to the work.

First, why photography? A composition of this brilliance is certainly worthy of being forever captured in oil and canvass. Or perhaps even brought forth with chiseled precision out of a large piece of marble.

Is it, perhaps, a statement on the casual way we dismiss the wonders around us every day that compelled the artist to use photography? A disposable medium for a disposable world? A disposable existence?

Do not think that the use of black and white film here was an accident. No, it too was symbolic of what separates us. Black--white. Short--tall. Wool sweater--Unkempt gnarled chest pubes. All a gut wrenching dichotomy.

Here is a tall, white man who can drive the talking car.

Here is a short, black man who could be used as its hood ornament.

One wears an afro. The other is Gary Coleman.

But, among the despair there is hope. They look directly at us. You. Me. Humanity itself, seeing past our differences of skin color, culture, religion or amount of body hair and tell us we're okay. They look to the future, thumbs extended up toward the Creator, showing that even in the bleakest and Webster-iest of times, we're going to make it.

Young Arnold, tiny and portable as he is, doesn't have to ride on the hood, in the trunk, or even in KITT's custom leather center-mounted Britax Roundabout car seat. No, he will sit up front like a big boy. And together, he and David can speed off, fighting crime, having adventures, and turbo boosting their way into our hearts. Into our souls.

I think, in the end, that was what Willis was talking about all along.

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Tale as Old as Time

By Adam Greene

When I first saw the advertisements for WB's Beauty and the Geek I thought, "Alright, another show where they toss an all-world hot chick into a pit full of rotting whale taint. I’d better record this."

Turns out B&tG wasn’t a dating show at all. Upon hearing that this show was "from the mind of Ashton Kutcher" I must admit that my expectations were pretty low. Kutcher’s other original show, Punk’d, only seems to exist to eventually get Kelso shot in the face. Just the fact that he named it "Punk’d", making that an established word in the language that I most enjoy speaking, is grounds enough for at least one vicious cobra kick to the pie hole.



The whole premise of a fucking prank show is just lame. "HAHAHA. You think you’re really being arrested and sodomized by a police officer’s nightstick because we dressed this dude up as a cop and paid him to shove his billyclub up your ass?? *Teehee* PUNK’D!"

Now, Scare Tactics gets a pass here, well, because it’s cool. But Punk’d? Fuck Punk’d. If I was that interested in watching Wilmer Valderrama cry I’d let him in on Ashlee Simpson’s vestigial penis.



So, where were we? Oh yeah. Beauty and the Geek.

First off, let’s talk about the "Beauties" here. Now, I realize the producers had to hit the Lane Bryant buffet table to find a "model" for Average Joe 4 because they wanted someone who might actually pity one of the slobs enough to pick him. But with a show entitled, "Beauty and the Geek", whose very premise requires pairing unworldly gorgeous women with human skid marks, I’d expect to find the "beauties"... you know... attractive.

I would have been wrong.

For instance, this is Lauren:



Lauren looks like the love child of everything that scared the shit out of me when I was ten; ventriloquist dummies, witches, bees, and the movie, Troll.



Being from the south can screw up your perspective on this, sure. 90% of the hot women in the world live down here, and, I’m confident that if I’d grown up in New Jersey hoping to find that special one in a million girl who didn’t have to shave a goatee twice a day, women like Lauren might look like Greek goddesses. I’m not, though. I’m from Tennessee and Lauren just makes me afraid that if I said her name three times in front of a mirror, she’d appear behind me to gut me with her hook-nose.



The premise of the show, casting flaws aside, was to take a pretty girl, pair her with a foaming load of geek spurt and toss both of them into various challenges that would prey to each of their greatest weaknesses. For the girls it was things like basic math, spelling and car mechanics. For the guys their challenges were touching an actual girl without ejaculating into their giant pants, learning to dress themselves, and risking consistent exposure to direct sunlight. It was as awesome as it sounds.

First, let’s take a look at the teams. Remember, the producer’s standard of hotness may not be your own… or anyone who has a working optic nerve.

This is Cheryl and Eric:



Cheryl is a "cocktail waitress" and business student who enjoys waking up in strange places and taking pregnancy/STD tests. Eric has just finished school and is taking a break as a computer programmer so he can scour the earth to complete his episode archive of TV’s Too Close for Comfort.

Their vulnerabilities in full view in the premier episode’s challenges, Cheryl and Eric were the first team eliminated. The spelling bee targeted Cheryl’s fear and unfamiliarity with basic English words and letters and the men’s dance-off rightly aimed directly at Eric’s fear and unfamiliarity with his own gangly, unmanageable body.

Next we come to Joe and Erika.



In a hole in the ground there lived a Joe. This hole was the only hole Joe had ever had. It wasn’t that he didn’t want another hole. He desperately did. But all he had access to was his own hole. He would have, if offered, taken any other hole. Any nasty, dirty, wet hole filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, or even a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it. Alas, all other holes were out of reach. All he had was his own pathetic, anemic hole.

Oh…and for fun he likes to write rap songs. When we first met Joe, he informed us that he was a 21 year-old virgin and said, “No, I’m not saving myself for anyone”. Which, I think, the Kitty Pryde poster above his waterbed would dispute.

When watching Joe on your TV, you’d think to yourself, “Those are some red, flushed cheeks he’s got going on. There’s no way they could get redder than that. It looks like he’s been buffeted about the face and shoulders with ping pong paddles.” But, sure enough, as soon as that thought entered your mind, Joe would reappear even redder… even brighter…looking like someone had just challenged him to a duel using a catcher’s mitt full of angry hornets.

Erika, the “beauty” remember, is a sales girl at Gadzooks and spends her spare time inhaling whole bags of Funyuns and flicking her jaw fat.



Erika managed, in her short time in the B&tG house, to fall madly in love with fake nerd ringer Brad. Here he is with his partner, Krystal, who was actually attractive...



...in a very Myrtle Beach Strip Club kind of way. Brad’s only nerd credential seems to be that he is a member of Mensa. His job isn't especially nerdy (he works at a bank), and in his bio it mentions that he enjoys working out. Not exactly the kind of “nerd” that would send Ted McGinley, Ogre and the rest of the Alpha Beta guys on a mad wedgie spree.



Brad is just a normal guy. So of course Erika would have to splatter her Hardees-loving ass upon him the first time the lights went out.

Krystal, again one of the three attractive women out of the seven cast for the show, is a dancer for the Philadelphia 76ers and an “actress”, so don’t be surprised to see her dry humping some dude with an unfortunate European-looking mustache on Cinemax within the month.

Here we have Bill and ...shit... Lauren.



My thoughts on Lauren should be well known by this point, but in case I wasn’t clear before, I find her frightening and bothersome on a deep and fundamental level. Like one of those internet sites where you click on a subject line that looks like “this is some scary shit!” and you’re supposed to stare at some sort for Irish countryside waiting for a ghost to show up. Then as you sit there waiting for something subtle and scary to happen, the entire screen flashes to that girl from Fright Night with the giant mouth full of fangs and your speakers shriek “RAAAAAAAAAA” at you.



Yeah... That’s how I feel about Lauren.

Bill is another story. Bill is the VICE PRESIDENT of the Dukes of Hazzard Fan Club. That’s right. The V.P. Not the P. Not the president. Oh no. The VICE PRESIDENT. Yeah. Fucking awesome. If you were here right now we would share a high five. A high and hard one that makes a loud smack that gets the attention of those around us. Maybe we would scream, “Fuck yeah!” as we did it too. That’s how awesome it is that Bill is the V.P. of the Dukes of Hazzard Fan Club.

Next up we’ve got Shawn and Scarlet.



Scarlet was the one true beauty on the show by anyone’s standards which can only lead me to believe that her casting was completely by accident and somewhere out there there’s a chubby girl in glitter make-up and a spaghetti strap tank top who just couldn’t stop shitting long enough to answer the phone on the final day of casting.

Shawn is a landscaper and assistant Boy Scout master. Now I realize that that’s pretty awesome. Not as awesome as being V.P. of Team Duke Boy, but it still rocks pretty hard that Shawn is an ASSISTANT scout master. Why can’t Shawn get over the hump? Why can’t he master his own troop of scouts? Does he continually blow it in some sort of master test? Is there some Lou Gossett Jr. out there trying to scare him out of scouting by busting his nuts and making him drive tent stakes in the rain shouting things like, “Why don’t you quit, Shawn?! I want you D.O.R.! You can forget it! You’re out!”

And Shawn looks back, all determined and blinking. The rain’s hitting his eyes, drenching his little kerchief and merit badges. His tiny blue shorts are filled with a mixture of mud and his own excrement and he shouts back, “Don’t you do it! Don’t you do it! I got no where else to go! I got nowhere else to go!”

If you’ve even seen a commercial for the show, you’re already familiar with our next team, Richard and Mindi.



Mindi is the last of the cute girl triumvirate. The thing about Mindi was that she was cool. As the nerds started piling in, she got the gist of what was going on and was like, “Hey, okay. They’re pairing us with a pod of jackmeat. Rock on. Okay. Let’s do this. Come on, spazwad. Let’s spoon in the bed a while. Getting a little boner? I don’t care. See? I’m not even dry heaving. Even when you’re not looking I’m not gagging. Let’s get this shit done, you and me.”



Because of her tremendous attitude about the whole thing, she is, of course, cursed with the most despicable piece of tool in the Western Hemisphere, Richard.



God, Richard. Richard was such a vile human stain that even the rest of the geeks in the house hated his fucking guts. When we first see Richard, we learn to no one’s surprise that he not only has never kissed a girl, but has stolen Christian Bale’s batcape and fashioned it into a series of flopping, winged, unreasonably large pants. Every pair he wore looked like he could use them to hang glide in. He could have survived a considerable fall just by flattening out his pants and floating to the ground. His pants were so big that MC Hammer would look at them and say, “Those are some roomy and sizeable slacks, my friend.” That’s how big Richard’s pants were.



Lastly, we have the eventual winners of the "social experiment", Chuck and Caitilin.



Chuck is a med student and soon to be brain surgeon who likes to shoot blood from his nose when facing a stressful situation like sitting in the same room with girls. Some of which might even be pretty. Chuck spent most of his time trying to be “friends” with Scarlet, which he can hardly be blamed for, and trying not to kill Richard. Something Chuck could have done since he evidently knows some sort of generic “martial art”.

Caitilin (pronounced Kyte-A-linn because otherwise it’d sound pretentious) is listed as an “aspiring fashion expert”, but I’m pretty sure she screwed up my Chicken Parmesan order the last time I went to The Olive Garden.

So, as they say in the Reality TV genre from time to time, “It was ON.” I enjoyed week after week of watching the “beauties” try to change a tire, build a rocket or spell words with more than one syllable. I delighted in watching the men try to get phone numbers from strangers, give the girls a massage without causing permanent back damage and hike up a hill without their inhalers and/or antihistamines. All while Richard flitted around in his humongous balloon-like trousers and Chuck covered everyone within nostril range with a fountain of booger-laced blood.



The final episode came down to a question and answer session between the team of Richard and Mindi (who I will refer to here on out as “Michard”, because this is the internet and that’s how it’s done) and Chuck and Caitilin (who I will refer to as Doctor Applebees, because I swear Caitilin brought me some cheese fries and a Mr. Pibb a couple of days ago).



Out of the gate, Doctor Applebees scored big, getting 8 out the 10 questions right and putting the heat on Michard. Michard missed their first two questions, all but handing Applebees MD the $250,000 prize and Chuck an excuse to cover host Brian McFayden in a ruby glaze of celebratory nasal plasma. Alas, that was not to be. Michard comes back strong, going 8 for 8 on the final answers, forcing a quiz-off and delaying McFayden’s hemoglobin bath for a few moments longer.



The girls went first, acing their questions while Chuck’s vibrissae quivered redly. It was up to Richard and Chuck to win this thing. They were each asked what their partner’s middle name was. Richard was stunned. He did not know. He looked down to his pants for help, but they just hung there, silent and gargantuan. Finally, it was Chuck’s turn. “Assimo,” he splashed. Then victory. Sweet, bloody victory. Doctor Applebees had won the day and the nation’s hearts and noses.

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