The Day Job Basketball League

The NBA is the third-most successful professional sports league in America, but even so, a sizable chunk of SportsCenter addicts despise the Association. I'm not a naysayer of the NBA. It puzzles me that so many fans prefer college basketball to its pro counterpart, as if the sport becomes infinitely worse when played by the most gifted athletes the game has to offer. These same detractors of pro-basketball rarely have such biases against Major League Baseball or the NFL, and so I began to wonder why the NBA is so often viewed with contempt.

A common critique of the NBA is that its players seem so selfish and conceited, but oddly enough, these same off-putting qualities apply to the me-first, “diva” wide-receivers of the NFL, which still flourishes in spite of—or maybe because of—the self-indulgent antics of some of its superstars.

I don't get what's so repellent about the NBA. I have friends who obsess over March Madness. Every year they fill out tournament brackets with great attention to detail. The Final Four pretty much makes their genitals tingle. And, in spite of that apparent fondness for the game of basketball, these friends wouldn't watch the NBA Finals unless they were paid to do so. Any alternative that is vaguely athletic appeals to them more than the NBA does. They'd rather watch a hulking Swede launch a keg over steep wall in his effort to earn the honor of 1991's World's Strongest Man than catch a glimpse of Kobe Bryant draining a clutch jumper to send game seven into overtime.

What gives? I am thoroughly stumped. Maybe Michael Jordan's retirement ruined the NBA for so many. In all likelihood, the league will never be as entertaining as it was from the rookie seasons of Magic and Bird (1980) until Jordan's last game as a Bull in 1998. Or maybe it was all the fault of Allen Iverson for griping about practice and heaving dozens of ill-fated jump-shots when he could have easily passed the ball to a teammate from 1996 until 2010. Or perhaps the blame is owed to the league's conviction that college degrees are totally overrated.

Regardless of the reasons, the game of basketball itself is not the source of the NBA's defamation. The most glaring complaint about a given sport is that it is dull, which is typically attributed to a lack of points. Basketball, to its credit, provides plenty of points as well as a steady and sometimes frenzied flow of action.

NBA-detractors don't purely hate basketball; they just believe the game is played shoddily by overpaid glory-hogs. A possible solution to the apparent NBA problem is to form a league composed of refreshingly ordinary men with day jobs.

In the Day Job Basketball League, no millionaires would be allowed, and furthermore, doctors, lawyers, celebrities, CEOs, politicians, drug-lords, and everyone who earns enough money to qualify as a rich guy would be excluded, too. My proposed alternative to the NBA, the DJBL, would pay its working-class grunts $15,000 per season—a welcome chunk of supplementary income to peasants like you and me—under the condition that they maintain their day jobs while playing games on the weekend. 23 games would be played during the regular season, the top four teams would qualify for the playoffs, and members of the championship team stand to earn $100,000 (which is roughly a fifth of the league minimum in that other b-ball league).

The DJBL consists of ten teams: Barbers, Cops, Exotic Dancers, Janitors, Mailmen, Mechanics, Migrant Workers, Painters, Reporters, and Teachers. Open tryouts throughout the nation will determine the premier ballers of each vocation.

Allow me to elaborate on the strengths and weaknesses of each team in the DJBL.

1.) Barbers

Overview: It's foolish to deny that race is a factor in basketball, and awfully hard to overlook the strong contingency of barbers who excel at talking trash and gushing about hoops in the mostly black neighborhoods of major cities. Led by a handful of swaggering street-ball standouts accustomed to honing cross-over dribbles and reverse layups on playgrounds from Harlem to Chicago to Englewood, the Barbers boast the flashiest team in the DJBL.

Strengths: Moxie; mastery of insults and psychological warfare; highlight-reel-worthy fast-breaks since half the players can actually dunk.

Weaknesses: Shaky transition defense; chaotic half-court offense; three gangling white barbers somehow made the team.

2.) Cops

Overview: With a stern and disciplined approach, the Cops benefit from one of the most physically fit starting-fives in the league. They are probably the DJBL's most polarizing team since—as we learned from the trial debacles of Rodney King and O.J. Simpson—everyone seems to have strong feelings about cops. Whether those convictions manifest as cheers or jeers is up to the fan. I'm torn on the matter because I have a couple cops in my family who are both decent and conscientious men, but on the other hand, I think weed should be legal.

Strengths: A methodical and patient half-court offense; permissible police brutality on defense and in the low-post; deft execution of an alley-oop play cleverly named “21 Jump Street.”

Weaknesses: Outright police brutality on defense and in the low-post gets them in foul trouble; tear-gas disallowed as a means of handling hostile crowds on the road; too many oafish mall cops take up space on a bench that is constantly in danger of snapping in half since the mall cops are so astoundingly fat.

3.) Exotic Dancers

Overview: Aesthetically pleasing to festive finances and horny co-eds, this roster of hunks relies on style over substance and brawn in lieu of strategy. During halftime, they also rely on a staff of makeup ladies, manicurists, and beauticians. Owing to their gaudy swagger and occasional prissiness, the Exotic Dancers are probably the team most akin to an NBA squad. They can score in bunches, but they defend laxly against penetration to the hoop and, well, every other kind of penetration, too.

Strengths: Showmanship; ability to bed women said to be “on the rebound” translates to highly skilled rebounding of the basketball to both members of the team who understand how metaphors work; defenders sometimes get distracted by their shimmering, dreamy eyes, allowing them to net uncontested layups that hurt almost as much as the wounded heterosexuality of a Barber or Cop.

Weaknesses: Showmanship can be a detriment, too, as when the point guard has the ball stolen out of his hands during his trademark pose as the Greek titan Atlas; hands slicked with moisturizer lead to poor ball-handling and subsequent turnovers; leaping ability dragged down a bit by weight of mammoth packages.

You heard me! Mammoth packages. OK, More Stories, and Additional Stories--to reiterate--is the name of that eBook the kids have been talking about so damn much. 

Science Forum with non-Dr. Nick Olig, Volume 1: The Appendix Is Really Lame

On behalf of the non-scientific community, I'd like to gripe about a potentially dangerous freeloader that lurks inside of you and me: The appendix.

Really, it would be too kind to dismiss the appendix as a mere freeloader in our digestive systems. As if lingering lazily while the stomach and intestines do all the grunt-work wasn't lousy enough, the appendix is potentially dangerous, too. The appendix can inflame and burst, send us to the emergency room reeling with agony, and possibly even kill us.

Now, I don't know anyone who has died from a ruptured appendix, but I did once talk to a guy who claimed that he lost two family members to appendicitis while playing the computer game of Oregon Trail, and that alone made a dark impression on me.

Webster's dictionary defines the appendix as, “1. Supplementary material, usually at the end of a book. 2. The vermiform appendix.”

Well, that definition doesn't help us much, and so I had to leaf through hundreds of pages to the “V” section.

Got it. The vermiform appendix: “A slender, closed tube attached to the large intestine.”

There are two types of appendixes, and while the first one in question is little more than a boring works-cited page tacked on by authors who don't want to get sued for plagiarism, it is nowhere near as lame or evil as the threatening mooches wasting space inside of us: The vermiform appendix. The appendix of a book may bore you to tears, but the vermiform appendix does nothing but try to kill us at random.

“Vermiform” means worm-like in shape. The appendix's resemblance to a worm is another strike against our worst internal organ. Worms have been known to freeload in people's lawns and gardens. They're slimy, gross, and they don't pay rent. Worms are weak, too. A downpour of April Showers and toddlers frolicking in the back yard are two common causes of death for worms. Those pitiful squiggles probably have nightmares about almost drowning in supersaturated soil and escaping to sidewalk only to be squashed by a little girl playing hop-scotch in the rain.

That worm-shaped sliver of supplementary guts has psychotic impulses, too. Appendixes can become inflamed and burst and cause us bodily harm when we least expect it. Our digestive system's vile idler has been known to wreak havoc in the form of an appendicitis, a medical emergency that can compell our bodies to the hospital if we're luck or compel our corpses to the morgue if we're unlucky like those poor souls from the Oregon Trail game .

Think of the appendix as a mooching drifter who lives in a guest-bedroom without paying rent or doing anything productive. Picture the appendix, that three-inch pest, munching on Funions that the spleen probably paid for, lounging on a tattered sofa, jerking off to Telemundo soap operas. The appendix just wants to blare hippie-music as he rolls joints on top of the cheap set of bongos that he stole from a pawn shop while the other organs tirelessly break down and digest food and drink and convert it all into life-sustaining energy (and then poop, or “number-two,” if you prefer). The appendix belongs in a toilet along with all the other human waste, but because that three-inch pest is firmly connected to the large intestine, its successful and responsible older brother, we are unable to expel it from our systems like a spoiled corn-dog.

Laziness is the defining trait of the vermiform appendix, but beneath its freeloading harmlessness lurks the psychotic impulses I mentioned earlier. The appendix is volatile and sometimes malicious, too. After years and years of peacefully jamming out to the Grateful Dead and Phish and Marley, the appendix has a tendency to suddenly mutate into a raging and deranged fan of heavy-metal. When it bursts and inflicts trouble, the appendix blares the chaos offered by bands such as Digestive System of a Down, Abdomen Slayer, and Megadeth (no pun required for that last one). Just before the appendix attacks, imagine it lounging in a stupor as usual, only to unexpectedly crank up Kill 'Em All on the stereo and then shank us with the Mexican half of a split Cheech and Chong DVD.

More Stories, and Additional Stories is the name of that eBook. Which I wrote. Me. Nick Olig. So, let's try to strike up a balance between me being too haughty and you completely not giving a shit and make a damn sale already, for fuck's sake.

Activism

This is an e-mail I sent last night at about 2 a.m.

Subject: A request in regard to "Harden My Heart"
From: KL5.olig@gmail.com
To: WVBO@Cumulus.com

Hi 103.9 FM,

For the most part, I enjoy the selection of music played by your station while I'm driving or at work. I'm 29 and perhaps outside of your key demographic, but I strongly prefer oldies and classic rock to maintstream country, pop, and so forth. I like most of the music played by your station and absolutely love to bask in the sound waves of the Beatles, CCR, and Van Morrison--and thanks for providing that.

This e-mail won't be entirely grateful, however. Even though I realize that, all things considered, it's not really a big deal, please-please-please stop playing "Harden My Heart" by Quarterflash so much. From a subjective standpoint, "Harden My Heart" is a terrible song, a mess of melodramatic pouting, and a trite butchering of rock and roll. "Harden My Heart" is painful to listen to; it sounds joyless, sappy, and stale--and those are poor qualities for a tune to have.

Now, from an objective, less biased and contemptuous perspective, Quarterflash has proven to be a largely forgettable band and a borderline one-hit wonder. To say the least, their relevance in rock-music is dwarfed by the likes of other female-fronted groups or artists such as Blondie, the Pretenders, Janis Joplin, Aretha Franklin, and Fleetwood Mac, to name but a few--all of whom certainly merit more airplay than Quarterflash.

To reiterate, I would enjoy tuning in to 103.9 so much more if you didn't overplay the hell out of an awful and mawkish hit by a band very, very few people care about anymore. Please-please-please tone down your fine station's fondness for "Harden My Heart." Thanks for your time.

Sincerely,

Nick Olig

Dog Island

I'll get to the topic of this town's recent dispute over the ownership of dangerous dogs, but before that, I have to confess a bad habit of mine as well as a crime I commit on rare occasions. Sometimes I walk home from work, and I typically smoke a cigarette as I do so. The cherry is gone by the time I reach the middle of the same block, but I hold on to the stub until I reach the house on the corner. At that point, a deranged terrier in the fenced-in backyard spots me and yaps its ineffectual fury. The yapping continues as I walk beyond its vantage point. I toss my stub on the front porch and smile. I pass a dingy fence with a sign promoting that greedy creep Scott Walker and my smile broadens. I turn the corner. The pint-sized beast won't shut up. My smile vanishes as I scowl through the meshing of the metallic fence that divides us. The dog scowls back.

“You belong on Dog Island, bitch,” I tell the terrier. The pooch takes offense to this. Two blocks away, when I open the front-door to my house, I can still hear that dog's psychotic and shrill bark.

I'm not a dog-lover, obviously. (Plus I'm allergic to cats, so I don't bother with them, either.) My disinterest in dogs was probably inherited from my dad. He never saw the sense in welcoming a non-human mouth to feed, another life-form to rack up medical bills, and one more eventual death in the family. For my dad and me, having to fret over the well-being of certain people is quite enough trouble. Pets aren't worth the hassle to us. After work, we prefer to drink our beer in peace without distractions from a needy pet who woofs at the Big Dipper every time he needs to go outside and pee. We absolutely hate it when our faces are licked by a creature who also uses his tongue to clean the space between his own neuter scar and—ahem--tail. And finally, the act of stroking the fur of an animal—however cute or affectionate—seems grossly overrated to my dad and me.

That stated, I don't hate dogs, either; I just can't at all relate to them, and more importantly, I don't expect them to understand much about human constructs like morality and society. Dogs are wired to instincts that are more stubbornly primal than ours. Dogs are not innately programmed to enjoy parades and birthday parties; in their natural state, they'd much rather maul a pheasant's throat or dig a hole in the ground for hours just for the hell of it.

In much the same way that dogs are out in front of humans on walks around the neighborhood, people have to lead dogs into domestication—even when the dogs, like their owners, feel tired, confused, and cranky. More so than any specific breed with a bad reputation, negligent or abusive owners are the source of most dog- attacks. Owners must routinely drill obedience and decency into their dogs; otherwise, the consequences can be almost as disastrous as giving a hand-grenade to a baby and telling him not to pull out the pin.

Pitbulls and rottweilers should not be banned due to irresponsible people, and furthermore, there is a more ideal and compassionate alternative to putting dogs to death because they are harmful or simply unwanted. The feral beast who gave Billy a pretty serious "owie" doesn't deserve to be killed, and neither does the poor orphaned pooch whose time under the roof of the Humane Society has run out, nor that yapping terrier who causes a public disturbance every time a skinny Feingold-voter walks past. There is a better way to deal with those problematic mutts, and here it is: Dog Island.

Let me break it down. People should select an uninhabited island that nobody wants in the first place and then round up and ship all the shady dogs to that place. To humans, Dog Island functions as a prison, similar to Alcatraz, but the dogs will embrace it as a return to pure wilderness and instinct.

The famed Dog Boat would sail to Dog Island with all the dogs leaning their heads out of the port-holes excitedly. Located somewhere off the coast of the Atlantic (or the Pacific, I'm good either way), Dog Island would boast plenty of prey, dense foliage, drinkable water, and whichever climate caters best to canines. (Mediterranean, maybe? Humid subtropical? That's not for me to determine. Hey--I'm not a scientist.)

Once freed on Dog Island, anything goes for the likes of Rusty, Fifi, and Crippler. Now, the laws of nature can be unfair and cruel, and survival of the fittest favors the sort of bloodthirsty dobermans that Michael Vick traumatized, I'm sad to admit, but it's vital to keep in mind that Dog Island would at least grant those mangy misfits a chance at survival. I can't say the same, however, about shooting a lethal injection into Rusty's bloodstream.

To recap, it's senseless to ban a breed of dog just because their owners are too dumb, lazy, and/ or hateful to even take care of themselves. Secondly, unclaimed dogs from the pound shouldn't have to be put down just because no one volunteered to take them in. Finally, I'd like to add that a syringe full of pentobarbital* ultimately has the same effect as lobbing bacon in the air and setting the unwitting dog up for an alley-oop kill-shot.

So please, write letters to our state's governor and demand that he lend his support of Dog Island to Congress. The way I see it, we're going to be saving an awful lot of money by lowering our standards of public education, folks, and some of that left-over cash could go far in the funding of the Dog Island project.




* I had to Google-search “animal euthanasia” in order to find out what the hell this is.

NASCAR Is the Poor Rube's Mariokart

The latest running of the Daytona 500 was pushed back from Sunday afternoon to Monday night due to inclement weather, and in a roundabout way, this delay could have benefited NASCAR. Prime-time showings typically draw more casual viewers, especially for major events such as Daytona. What's more, during the calender's post-Super Bowl, pre-March Madness lull, sports fans get desperate for a fix of action—and even though NASCAR is not their first or second choice, some were willing to take it for a test spin.

SportsCenter addicts with mixed feelings about NASCAR were waylaid by a comical letdown when they gave Daytona a chance on the night of February 27th. Unabashed haters of NASCAR fared much better by not bothering to give that lame excuse for a sport any credence.*

The actual running of the 2012 Daytona 500 was delayed for more than two hours because driver Juan Pablo Montoya careened off the track and struck a truck containing 200 gallons of jet fuel.

To reiterate, the contest to determine who can drive around in a circle 500 times the fastest was put to a prolonged halt by a raging blaze of jet fuel.

Now, rain delays in baseball are common, and sometimes, in early April, games have been postponed due to snowfall. Power outages have, on occasion, slowed the pace of late-night football games. And once in a great while, backboards shattered by violent dunks cease play in basketball. These things happen.

But I'm really struggling to wrap my brain around the newfound phrase, “Jet-Fuel Fire Delay.”

On a night that could have yielded an appreciable boost of interest in NASCAR, those dopey cousin-fuckers exposed their sport for what it truly is: A redneck shit-show.

Leading up to the Daytona 500, I didn't tune in for the following reasons.

1.It's not a sport if it entails able-bodied participants to sit on their asses the entire time.

2. It's not a sport if the athletic ability of the driver is dwarfed by the prowess of the machine he (or Danica Patrick) controls.

3. Those yokels just drive around in a circle for hours. Take a cue from Mariokart and pave a figure-8 or two, will ya?

4. Those yokels have squandered enough gasoline to re-fill the remains of roughly half-a-billion T-Rexes.

5. Far too many NASCAR lovers proudly wave Confederate flags. Over 150 years ago, the south lost the Civil War, and their defeat was one of the greatest happenings in American history. The Confederate flag pays tribute to losers who fought for an inhumane cause.

Upon completion of the redneck shit-show in question, I was blessed with another reason to dismiss NASCAR.

6.Jet Fuel Fire Delay?! Sweet Jesus, those four words don't belong in the same phrase—aside from a snafu at an airport, perhaps, but definitely not at a sporting event. By botching a key opportunity and laying an inferno of noxious turds on the track, NASCAR made “Jet Fuel Fire Delay” a part of the sports lexicon. NASCAR is a farce, and farce isn't even funny, which means NASCAR is worse than both pro-wrestling and Funny Car Racing.

Here is a rough transcript of the words of a high-ranking NASCAR official leading up to the Daytona 500.

“Aw, hell, Mother Nature done pissed on our high-octane shindig. But you know what? It's a blessing in disguise—just like a knob-gobbler with dentures--heh, heh, heh! Fellers, this rain delay happened on Sunday so that the great sport of NASCAR could prove itself on the big stage. We're takin' over prime-time! Hoooo-weee!”

The NASCAR officials pause to shoot pistols in the air to celebrate. Moonshine is chugged. Nearby cousins are groped and tongue-kissed.

“It's gonna be like our version of Monday Night Football—minus all them athletes and black hooligans. Now, before we bare witness to NASCAR's shining moment, let's all bow our heads in prayer to the ghost of Jefferson Davis, and if there's any time left over, maybe baby Jesus, too.”

Later, after Montoya's blunder behind the wheel, the following was heard from the luxury boxes at Daytona.

“Noooooooo! This can't be happening. Damn you, jet-fuel!”

Here the NASCAR official shakes a raging fist at the incendiary jet-fuel below.

And later still...

“A two-hour delay? During prime-time?! You gotta be shaftin' me in the corn-hole. Ain't them cars s'posed to be powered by car-fuel and not jet-fuel? Why in tarnation we got so much jet-fuel beside the track in the first place? Oh...the HUMANITY!”

During the protracted clean-up efforts, loads of Tide detergent were doused on the track, but the stain on NASCAR won't come clean. It's an awfully shitty stain.

One of the primary reasons why NASCAR isn't even fit to fill the void between the Super Bowl and March Madness is the organization's propensity to shoot itself in the shit-kickers. Real sports flourish, in part, because they leave the possibility of a jet fuel fire delay out of the equation.


*Until now, of course.

Jersey Shore Ruined Fist Pumps

Even though it's not especially useful, I maintain a blog. The name of it is a bit loony; it's called Fist Pumps and Beyond. I had no major qualms with the title until the emergence of Jersey Shore, when the act of fist-pumping became synonymous with vain dimwits who, for whatever reason, get paid to fry in tanning beds and drunkenly hump strangers in front of cameramen.

When I gripe about this little misfortune, I'm sometimes asked why I don't simply change the name of my blog. My response reflects that of Michael Bolton, the character from Office Space, when his co-worker urges him to alter his name so that he will be less readily linked to that Grammy-winner and “no-talent ass-clown,” the singer Michael Bolton.

“Why should I change?” I snap. “They're the ones who suck.”

Watching Jersey Shore is like a masturbatory salute to a massacre of brain-cells. That show is soft-core porn for women who prefer to watch a trollish and homely lead-actress. For men, Jersey Shore is the douche-bag's guide to success. It's a program designed for people who liked The Real World/ Road Rules Challenge, but demanded that it be dumbed down a couple notches.

My bitchiness on the issue notwithstanding, I have to concede that, at present time, those self-absorbed meat-heads serve a slightly greater purpose than I do. For the time being, their lives are probably more fulfilling than mine. Reality show playthings are held in higher regard than writers who accept bar credit as payment.

I get that. It's understandable. However, in the grand scheme of things, neither wealthy entertainers nor the malcontents struggling to entertain deserve to be valued too much. It shouldn't be overlooked that art, as well as reality TV—art's inbred and mutated distant-cousin—are luxuries rather than necessities. Humanity could easily survive without Jersey Shore or my blog. We could no doubt survive as a species in a world devoid of Pauly D. concerts, the plays of Shakespeare, the Super Bowl, The Godfather, reruns of Saved by the Bell, and cranky rants on the Internet...but we would prefer not to.

The pitiful burden of writers, actors, painters, musicians, and sure, even reality TV bottom-feeders, is the shared anticipation of money for performing non-essentials tasks. At its core, civilization does not require any form of entertainment to develop. Vocations such as inventor, doctor, nurse, teacher, scientist, cop, firefighter, architect, construction worker, electrician, mechanic, plumber, and garbageman have all benefited the human race vastly more than some greasy bum flexing his abs or some naysayer cracking jokes on his blog. Even professionals that are commonly loathed (dentists, lawyers, and politicians) offer a service more meaningful than entertainment. Artists and entertainers can rightfully look down on those whose ultimate goal is to follow their favorite jam band on-tour...but that about covers it; basically, people like me strive to become a wee bit more vital than filthy sponges of drugs and 6-minute guitar solos.

If that seems like an overstatement, consider the doomsday hypothetical. Humanity is relatively fortunate and spoiled at this stage of the time-line, but should the almighty reset-button be pressed on the game we have in progress, should our advancements be negated by some sort of Armageddon, what would be our top priorities when forced to rebuild a waylaid planet?

Putting together a performance of Our Town in a ruinous high school auditorium? Gathering around a campfire to indulge in an acoustic rendition of “The Times They Are A-changin'”? Trekking across a devastated landscape to New Jersey to ogle what's left of the freak-show by the shoreline?

If you care to survive in a post-apocalyptic world, it helps to answer those three questions with a series of “nopes.” A writer like me would almost certainly be screwed if society had to start over again.

If I had to choose one type of doomsday, it would have to be a zombie uprising. Even though it's the most unlikely scenario—much less plausible than scenarios caused by nuclear warfare, airborne viruses, and economic collapse—the zombie uprising is the funnest to consider, and the one that I have researched the most thoroughly by sitting on my ass while watching movies and TV shows and playing video games.

If we're overrun by the undead, the legit professionals that I mentioned before would all fare much better than the cast of Jersey Shore, but let's at least ponder the fates of the program's most recognizable morons—assuming they could endure the first few weeks of panic and destruction.

Pauly D. would soon feel the urge to throw a party for the survivors, but before that, he'd have to seek the services of an electrician in order to supply power for his turntables. And even if that electrician could provide a functioning current with extremely depleted resources for such a frivolous cause, the gaudy light-show and the thumping beats of Pauly D's concert would no doubt attract zombies to the gathering. Now, I hate to cheer for the undead, but if you're that dumb and negligent, you deserve to be the first of many victims in a zombie onslaught.

What happens to the rest of the useless human beings? Pay less than three bucks to find out. More Stories, and Additional Stories be the name of that eBook... Wait. Is, not be. Pirate jokes aren't as funny as more, especially when they're so egregiously out of context. Fuck! Well, buy the eBook, anyway.

Torture Porn Gets Two Severed Thumbs Down

Torture Porn is a thing now. It has been for awhile, actually, and our culture has accepted that. I had hoped it was but a morbid fad, but on the Torture Porn front, I had no such luck. Someday soon, "Torture Porn" could become a puzzle on Wheel of Fortune. It wouldn't be all that shocking. Two words, eleven letters, and the category is Thing.

Torture Porn is a genre of film known for its prolonged homicides and bleak outlook on life. The first installments of films such as Saw and Hostel combined to generate almost 200 million dollars at the box office, and both have spawned a number of lucrative sequels.

For entertainment purposes, I suppose, mankind has evolved to pair the notions of torture and porn—and with very successful results.

At some point, it seems, it was determined that both horror and skin-flicks had become tacky and old-fashioned.

The murders committed by the likes of Michael Myers and Jason must have been too sudden to thrive into the new millennium. An ice-pick thrust to the heart? A beheading with a machete? Sure, some horny coeds suffered grizzly deaths due to such heinous attacks, but those kinds of killings are done in ten seconds. What's going to fill the lengthy void between sprees of blood-lust? Characters? Plot? Suspense? Lame. Yawn. Booorrring!

Movie-goers demanded—or at least consented to—drawn-out, epic, and wholly excruciating murder scenes. No more of that quick savagery would suffice. The public longed for ten-minute murder scenes in which the victim was not only deprived of the fleeting hope of survival but also demeaned at great length and shown no mercy by a sadist intent on maximizing suffering.

In music terms, this is a bit like bidding good riddance to punk-rock homicides, which are swift and straightforward, and embracing jam-band homicides, which are protracted and prone to noodling. Like gushing hippies (minus the desire for peace), Saw and Hostel aficionodos no doubt exchanged glowing reviews in the wake of their theater experiences.

“Did you get a load of that three-minute sickle solo? That unrelenting shredding of limbs that avoided all major arteries? Massive blood loss, bro, but not enough to kill that helpless naked chick.”

“Agreed. Sickness personified, dude. And that snapping of the collar bone with a monkey-wrench? Crunchy. Bitch was crying all hysterical-like for so long before she finally croaked. So epic!”

I guess porn has become obsolete, too. Good-looking, well-endowed men and women having wild sex on camera? The formula became stale. Porn had to be enhanced...but how? Skimpier thongs? Faker boobs? More Kardashians? No, no, no! Such dull suggestions fail to satisfy the appetites of real 21st century wretches.

Thankfully, somewhere in Beverly Hills, a degenerate pondering the problem at length snapped his fingers with triumphant vigor. His once-weary eyes widened and brightened, for he had been struck by an epiphany.

“I've got it...Torture!” he exclaimed. “We must give porn that much-needed shot in the arm by adding torture! Torture Porn. Boo-ya!”

His idea flourished when put into practice, too. The Saw and Hostel series have jointly grossed nearly a billion dollars worldwide—and keep in mind, a billion dollars is more than a mere “shit-load of money.” A billion dollars marks the threshold of “a super shit-load of money.” Hell, these Torture Porns are on the verge of earning “a mega shit-load of money.” The Torture Porn pioneers could pool their fortunes to buy Greece if they felt like it.

People are making what may soon qualify as a mega shit-load of money by showing people being tortured by people to many, many people across the globe--and that is both depressing and disgusting.

Torture and porn don't belong together. They're ill-matched, like lard and chocolate. Some couples actually get off on Torture Porn. It's repulsive. Imagine the conversations they have.

“Honey, did you get a chance to watch that Saw 13 DVD I ordered from NetFlix?”

“Sure did. Oh, that Torture Porn took my breath away.”

“You said it, Maude. That half-hour lawn-dart massacre? Mmm. Since the children have gone to bed, let me be candid with you: That got me rock hard.”

“Yup! Why, I felt so hot and tingly not long after the opening credits, and that skull-drilling to the brain just about made me want to burst.”

"Indeed. I decided to rub one out at that point in the film.”

“George, you devil! Oh, make love to me, cuddle-bunny.”

End twisted scene.

Now, I'll get to the torture half of this vile pairing later, and be concise about it. As for porn, I will concede that it sometimes degrades women, glorifies sleeping around with just about anyone, and tends to present a certain body-type that other women cannot and should not feel that they have to compete with in order to attract her ideal man. That's true.

On the other hand, to most men, beautiful naked women are pretty much the greatest sight to behold on this planet, immensely pleasing to the body and mind, unsurpassed in beauty by a sunset at the Grand Canyon or a lunar eclipse or whatever inferior fluff you care to compare beautiful naked women to. Admittedly, plan-A is to find one to date and perhaps even marry. Plan-B is porn, though, and strangely enough, guys with thriving plan-A's still resort regularly to plan-B. Porn exists in part because nothing carries as much artistic power as a beautiful naked woman does--and even guys who dismiss that assessment as pretentious bullshit aren't likely to deny that chicks are just so damn hot.

And that's my ambivalent defense of porn.

As for torture, well...torture sucks. If you want to kill someone, be quick about it. Only sadists drag it out. To hell with sadists. They're horrible, subhuman creatures.

I'm a fair-weather fan of Team Jesus, too, and I hate the notion of watching that swell guy get tortured so much that I have never bothered to watch The Passion of the Christ.

I'm OK with my preference of regular porn over Torture Porn. It's natural to have a libido, but the same is not true about craving depictions of the worst kind of human suffering conceivable.

Torture Porn is a heaping, mega-load of morally toxic bullshit.

Hostel Schmostel.

You want a catchier conclusion?!

Don't see Saw; Saw sucks.

Meh. Good enough. And I'll try to come up with some pejorative words that rhyme with Human Centipede in time for part five.