Pantalones Cortos

I went to a party in Brooklyn last week. The conversation inevitably turned to hipster things, for Brooklyn is a hipsterable place. Somebody brought up Jorts, the modern name for Jean Shorts. If I understand correctly, jorts really only refer to shorts that have genuinely been cut off from longer pairs of denim. It's really not an important issue in my life, but I'll play devil's advocate for the Jort Purist. (Jurist?)

The term has been in the lexicon for a while, so there was really nothing new to say about them. Someone then mentioned Corts, a term with which I was unfamiliar. Corts are Corduroy Shorts. Corts seem to be less ubiquitous than jorts, and even though they have earned their own portmanteau, I imagine they are way less hip.

Now I don't wear jeans, so jorts are really out of the question. I also think they look pretty stupid unless you're a lumberjack dressing down for a professional wrestling match (see also: sleeveless flannel). Corts, I'm not so sure about either. I haven't worn corduroy in quite a long time, even though two pairs of cords keep following me every time I've moved in the last 7 years. Still, I can't imagine wearing corduroy in the summer, even if it is in short form.

If you've done the math, you've probably deduced that I only wear regular or cargo pants, and predictably, all my shorts are store-bought short pants or cargo shorts. Martha, the party's hostess and longtime-reader-never-commenter, asked me why I don't rock cargo cutoffs in the summer. Well, it's mainly because there is no snazzy name assigned with cut-off cargo shorts.

UNTIL NOW!

Corts is obviously already taken, so I had to brainstorm a bit. I think a good name might be Escargots.  "Es," short for "S," short for "Short" + "cargot," long for "cargo." I realize that escargot is already pluralized, so let's just pretend you're adding the extra "s" for "Shut up, Smartypants." S-Cargo would be more fun and less French, but as I've discovered, Nissan beat me to it 20 years ago. I guess great minds think alike. I just made that quote up too. 

So I grabbed an old pair of my cargo pants with holes in the knees and chopped them up while being careful to preserve their most important feature with utmost absurdity. I glued on a beard and found a six-pack of PBR to highlight the deep, efficient pockets. Sorry, all my V-necks were in the laundry.

NO-stalgia: The Return of the Ultimate Warrior

The Ultimate Warrior made his return to the squared circle last night. Or yesterday. I have no idea when it actually happened. All I know is that the group assigned to deliver the match last night as (sort of) promised, did not. After several "we swear it's working now... oh no wait the website crashed again" emails, I gave up for the night. My guess is the Warrior probably needed to approve of the video edit before releasing the match worldwide. While I'm pissed off by the delay, as a control freak myself, I sort of don't blame him.

Anyway, as of this morning the stream is working. And I'm about to watch it and tell you everything that happens. I'm also going to post some screencaps I took from the Daily Motion stream, which could get us into some trouble. Let's cross that bridge when we come to it.

SPOILERS AHOY! (as if you don't know who wins the match)

First impressions. Orlando Jordan, the opponent and reigning NWE (no idea what that stands for) champion was announced first. Just as it's unusual for the first bidder on The Price is Right showcase showdown to not pass on the first set of prizes, it's strange to see the champion announced first. I guess this is a special situation as the Warrior is technically a bigger name, but to be honest, not many fans in the arena outside of high-five range seemed to give two shits.


While the Warrior legally owns the rights to his name, he clearly does not have the rights to his music, which used to be fucking awesome. It was a bastardization of Black Sabbath's "Paranoid" in the first place, but his new music is like the Japanese half-cousin, twice-removed of the original. Maybe they're making an Ultimate Warrior video game, I don't know.

He barely ran down to the ring, and he wore that big fucking coat. Maybe that slows him down? Maybe it's an excuse. I'm pretty sure he was limping a bit too. I'm not surprised; he was apparently training 8 hours a day for the past month and probably broke his knee or something.

I know I'm spending so much time just critiquing his ring entrance. That's because with the Warrior, 95% of the appeal was the entrance (which also exhausted 95% of his stamina). He always ran and shook the ropes and got every kid in the audience to jump up and freak out too. It was electrifying. But maybe no one in the Barcelona crowd remembers him? I don't know, it has been a long time. I felt bad. He shook the ropes and scaled the turnbuckles, but hardly anyone stood with him except for the two little girls that came into the ring to help him take his coat off. Are they his daughters?


Ok, the coat's off and the dude is still in shape. Sure, a little deflated from the 80's steroid heydey, but I applaud him. He's 50! He looks out of breath already, but the crowd has acknowledged his facepaint, armbands, and muscles. Orlando Jordan is doing a good job selling the moves, but already after about a minute, they're locked up in an extra long collar-and-elbow-tie-up (or is it a collar-into-elbow-tie-up?) and look they're having a fucking business conference. This is when people are supposed to yell "BORRRRING!" We all know the match will be ten minutes top. Did they not rehearse?

Two minutes in, and we've already seen 8,000 shots of what I'm presuming is the Warrior's wife and kids sitting in the front row. Who fucking cares?

A bear hug from behind (aka another "BORRRRING" moment) and I can see fans in the crowd taking the opportunity to go get some papas fritas. The close-up camera work is kinda shitty anyway. Sometimes I can't tell if the Warrior is kicking out of pins, or if Orlando Jordan is just deciding to stand up. Also, his face paint is almost all gone already, but a few seconds of rolling around on the floor outside and he's attached enough gold confetti to his skin to make up for it.

The crowd has finally come alive (vocally, at least) but they're chanting something that I can't understand at all. It doesn't sound like they're saying "ABURRIDO!" but I can't make it out. Whatever they're saying, it has envoked a suplex from the top rope, though it looks incredibly obvious that Orlando Jordan cinches himself into the move.

Oddly, Orlando Jordan covers the Warrior for the pin after the suplex, which technically should have hurt him more. Regardless, the Warrior is now hulking up and I assume this match will soon be...

Jesucristo! It was over before I finished typing the last sentence! A half-assed shoulder block ends the match before a nonchalant cover and 3-count. He ended a lot of matches that way (minus the crickets chirping), but usually, it was the apex of a flurry of ropework. This was more like an accidental collision:

Despite the lack of the Warrior's iconic gorilla press slam, he begins celebrating his victory in the ring, and already, I see lots of empty seats. Maybe they're running up to get autographs, I don't know. Maybe they're just unimpressed. As the Warrior proudly holds his daughters hands in the ring, a father and son in the crowd give the Warrior a rude gesture on their way out (and it's not a "Hail, President Skroob" as it may look in the picture). It makes me want to cry. Ok, maybe the match was disappointing, but the Warrior's matches were never highly technical in the first place. What did people expect?

Running, and music, and a gorilla press, that's what. Fuck, I am going to cry.

So I guess he's the NWE champion now? I'll be honest, I don't think he's going to keep wrestling. I'm pretty sure he's already injured. I think a lot of people felt cheated by this 8-minute production too. Do I count myself as one of them? I'm not sure. The comeback was inspirational for old men like me, but the results, meh. Or, bah. Possibly, fah.

To sum up my review in a language that only wrestling fans will understand: this match was no Gorilla Press. It was just a fucking shoulder block.

[Go here for some additional comments on the full length version of the match]

priceLIE

would be the title of this post if Priceline didn't work for me, but the stars aligned for once and the Internet actually worked in my favor! My unbeastly mate (with the non-nipple cannoned Ro-Breasts) and I eased on down the road to Philadelphia this past weekend to learn about jail breaks and cheesesteaks (as documented in my Picasa photo library if you're interested), but the most memorable moment is still when Priceline accepted my bid on the hotel room. Hey, nothing against Philly, but when an advertisement tells the truth, you're damn right I'm going to be impressed.

Because I went that whole week without Internet (gasp!), I found myself watching a lot of television. And when I say 'a lot of television,' I just mean I put A&E or USA on for hours and watch the same shows and commercials over and over. One of those commercials was for Priceline. This one:


I knew we were traveling soon, but still had not booked a hotel room. I never used Priceline before and have always been wary of deals that seem too good to be true. Especially on TV. Double especially on the I-Net. Triple especially when they involve William Shatner (who has tried to convince us that warping around the sun enables time travel). I would try to sleep at night, but kept hearing Shatner whisper in my ear. "Cupcake... mamby-pamby..." This was torture.

So the time finally came to book and I announced to my space companion, "I'm going to do exactly what they do in the commercial." I was jadedly confident that it would not work, but there was no harm in trying, I reasoned. I entered my name, then entered my bid. 4-star. $99. Downtown Philadelphia. (Ok almost exactly the same as the commercial - we weren't staying on the Vegas strip). 45 seconds later we had a room reserved for the Hyatt Regency at Penn's Landing. I couldn't fucking believe it. A $99 room in a 4-star hotel with only two days' notice. Rad.

Now the catch... The room is non-refundable. Priceline adds $30 or so for tax and fees automatically on top of your bid. They do not guarantee what kind of room you get, other than the promise that it will be set for 2 adults, and in a hotel in at least as many stars in the area you've requested. Considering that rooms at the Hyatt start in the high $200's, I was all right with the risk.

We ended up with a non-smoking room on the 5th floor with two beds and a shower with a curved rod. I don't know why that's important to anyone, but I like saying "curved rod." It was waterfront, but did not have a particularly spectacular view. So what -- Selena was on the flatscreen TV. And look how happy Jennifer Lopez is reading this paragraph. Not as happy as I was getting hotel sex for only $99 while wearing my new Rocky Balboa trunks!

We unfortunately did not get to go to the Star Wars exhibit at the Franklin Institute because I don't know what "We highly recommend that you purchase tickets ahead of time" means. Shatner would not have approved anyway.

The other thing I learned was that Pearl Jam is required to be on every radio station every 15 minutes in Philly. It's in the Constitution or something.

My hatred of pants knows no bounds.

I have been broody and depressive for days. Finally, fucking finally, this enervating phase is passing. Luckily for both you and I, there is always a silver lining in every hideously mutated cloud who's anus is bleeding. I have re-discovered yet another box of comic books from my youth in NM, and since all I've been doing is lying in bed with the heater on reading comic books...well let's just say, that I've stumbled back across some real "treasures" here. I admit that a pre-teen's taste is questionable hence the secret shame of owning every Power Pack ever or being the owner of the complete Amethyst, Princess of Gemworld series plus knowing her connection to Mordru. If you are not a comic book nerd, then I have just typed a bunch of words that mean nothing to you, and if you are a comic book nerd, you are laughing at me. Because that shit is AWFUL and pretty fucking girly to boot but 'twatever' on you; I am a girl and a princess.

Hearken unto me my subjects, because I seem to have found something worse than even my previous terrible pre-teen fantasy lusting --posters of the Lost Boys, INXS, and Sebastian Bach on my wall back then--, a story that, possibly, could be DC's worst mini-series ever: Conqueror of the Barren Earth. I think I had purposely blocked out this whole storyline; I found it that disturbing as a young girl. It all starts off so promisingly as one of those back-of-the-book mini-stories in Warlord, and then gets its own mini-series and descends directly to what is perhaps my personal 4th ring of HELL, the misogynistic ring of scifi/fantasy doom. The realm of Slavegirls of Gor and wenches and women being treated like chattel, and that *always* ALWAYS gets my goat. I liked Red Sonja, and Conan's chick, Belit, the Pirate Queen because they were bad-asses. They were not the norm in their societies; they were strong women who kicked ass and fought with swords. You had to beat Red Sonja in fair combat before her goddess would let her have any kind of sexytime hanky panky, and NO ONE could beat Red Sonja in fair combat, not those vampires, the plant dude, or even Conan managed it. True, Sonja did wear a chain-mail bikini, but she could drink any man under the table, manhandled the occasional wench a bit, and admitted her armor chafed. My kind of woman. I'm not wild about her genesis story being a casualty of war/gang bang victim's revenge tale, but she is both a survivor and a warrior. I guess it could be worse. Red Sonja has a mad on for the world, and it's understandable. This is old skool Red Sonja, and possibly the best Red Sonja cover ever combining unicorns, demons, insects, dragons, wizardry, swords, and BOOBS in one giant sucker punch of fantasy.


This is Red Sonja: She-Devil With a Sword not the new namby-pamby porn face of doom Red Sonja. Check out the boots here; for some reason I have always loved her odd leather garter/boot ventilated footwear system and am always on the lookout for a pair. Unfortunately, I have come here not to praise Sonja, but to bash Jinal Ne' Comarr (tho' I LOVE superfluous apostrophe's in names) would-be Conqueror of the Barren Earth.

The Barren Earth is our planet Earth, just the used-up, dried-up version of the future. It's a dessicated world that's a cross between Dune and Tattooine, complete with lizard people, mutants, floating cities, spore people who worship mushrooms aka the Mulge and barbaric humans in cloaks and headbands (natch). Sweet. Our heroine, a middle-management translator type from the civilized human-conquered universe that long ago fled the 'ole homeworld hellhole, has come to Earth in a spaceship looking for an ancient army or weapon or some bullshit to fight the alien Qlov who are attempting to wipe out humanity. PS. She also has a sun-sword ala Thundarr the Barbarian. Everyone else on her ship either dies when the ship crashed or gets summarily eaten or murdered in the first few pages. All but Jinal Ne' Comarr a woman who needs no pants in space, or any pants ever for that matter. Go cloaks! Fuck pants. No seriously, fuck you and your pants.




Jinal is also a chronic mouthbreather which does her no favors with me. Apparently, this mission she went on (to the Barren Earth) was pretty much immediately recognized as a bad idea; this red-haired senator lady up above us is basically organizing a rescue mission like 2 days after they left or something which begs the question of why go at all then in the first place? WHY? Who cares? It's all about survival on the Barren Earth and the freedom to go without pants. See what I mean about the mouthbreathing? She always looks like she's ready to suck a dick and luckily she seems to always be knee level. Ugh.

I'd show you some more artwork and lead you through the story, but seriously the art is all terrible and visually boring and the storyline is pretty standard. Girl is trapped in a post-apocalyptic dystopia; she is searching for a weapon and a way home. She must survive and roam the deserts and tame the BARREN EARTH. There's lots of battles with guns and swords, and everyone is riding around on giant lizards trying to fight the Mulge (fungus people), the Harahashan (lizard people), and Zhengla, the jaundiced and vaguely Asian barbarian war king.
Of course Jinal ends up at his feet with her damn mouth open. Of course. Woman, do not give him ideas! He has mushrooms growing out of his head. I shudder to think of what horror lies behind the smelly crotch fur. Smell the glove Jinal. Smell the fucking glove! As you can imagine, this bodes ill for our intrepid heroine.


Luckily for Jinal, Zhengla has always wanted a golden-haired warrior Queen to ride at his side. He likes that she's feisty and knows martial arts and never wears pants. They wrestle a bit.

Until she is his by right of conquest (his words not mine). Ick, your mushroom horns are freaking me out. Just wait 'til we find out how he got those fucking nightmare things. It is, a wrongness all the way around. I promise you.

There is a money shot in every comic book, a splash page that is really supposed to wow you. Here comes the money shot:


Yeah. Whee. Big lizard in my backyard. Panties totally dry. Plus, the cliche of axe-throwing betrayal under the cover of a fight, but (of course) he turns and grabs the axe out of the air and throws it back killing Jinal's mount. Of course, he does. Those magic mushroom horns give him magic(k) powers and + 25 reflexes. Now she has to walk (the horrors), and where once she was a Queen...now she is a slave.


Being a slave involves lots of interesting career choices: walking, sitting at knee level, pouring things, wearing stupid outfits, getting smacked around, and being traded to mulge people for horrible sexual favors involving spores (my mind's eye it is evil). The possibilities are endless! It's like Jinal's been training for this her whole life.

Oh Jinal, you too can be USED. Seriously, this shit is ripped straight from a Harlequin Romance, and it makes me rage-y. Jinal, sweetie, you have a napkin on your head and a great many superfluous belts attached to your bikini top and your billowy crotch protector (still NOT pants as far as I am concerned). He has to sleep sometime doesn't he? Stick a hatpin in his ear and be done with it. You are the worst warrior woman ever. NEVER SUBMIT. Death is preferable to his horrible mushroom-y caress. I can just imagine his breath too, never mind his ball funk. Oy. fucking. vey.


Finally, she is given a gun and the opportunity to kill Zhengla. He deserves to die for putting her in that outfit alone. What does our girl do? She mouth-breathes for awhile giving her tiny brain ample time to process the request.

Then, she fucking falls in love. BARF. I was 12 when I first read this comic book, and I was ENRAGED then. Such total and utter bullshit, let's fall in love with the man who enslaved me and beat me and wanted to pimp me out to the Mulge. He doesn't even call her by her name! He refers to her as "golden-hair". At least learn your slaves' names! Worst. employer. ever. I make this picture palatable by imagining his mushroom horns launching off his head like little rockets. And what's up with the golden aura? Is that the sheen of their love, or the funk of his sex pheromones igniting? HATE. HATE. HATE.

Speaking of mushroom horns, once Jinal embraces Zhengla's destiny or whatever the kids are calling it these days. She gets the horrible and disturbing story of how he received both his destiny and his fungus horns. Brace yourselves. The artwork and inking are so bad that it's kind of hard visually to see what's going on which is kind of a blessing. Once you wrap your brain around this story though...ugh.

Let me boil it down for you. Zhengla went into a door in a giant mushroom and found these Mulge assholes doing something rapey...sigh....to this woman tied to a slab of rock....oh yeah...and she's been crucified by mushrooms nailing her to said slab. AND, she has mushrooms growing out of her eyes? I told you it was a fate worse than death to sleep with the fungus men. Rightly so, she begs him to kill her, and then she will give him the greatest gift of all, a dream.

BUT...to get that dream? Zhengla has to kill the chick and rip her eyes out. Blargh! Then, he has to kill a giant lizard, dip the mushroom EYES in lizard BLOOD, and EAT them. Double FUCKIN' BLARGH! What does he get for all that effort? THIS.

My eyes they bleed. I have had better hallucinations from cough syrup. If that caliber of crappy vision is all it takes to ignite my DESTINY, then welcome to my personal Qwisatz Haderach Jihad. I'll be your messiah; expect the death and destruction to be starting any day now. You may want to stock up on asbestos underwear too, as I'm fond of fire. NO, don't. Asbestos causes cancer.

I stopped reading this terrible series at this point and never went further. Done. ENOUGH with your pants-less shenanigans. However, I did learn the ending during my research on this bullshit. Jinal hangs with Zhengla 'til he conquers the Barren Earth. Then, she kills him, eats the mushrooms growing out of his head, and learns in a psychedelic vision that she is really the messiah who is destined to unite the Barren Earth with the Qlov, the Mulge, the Harahashan (lizard/human hybrids), and the regular humans who eschew pants. Except for then, her friends in their spaceship show up, and Jinal is all Audi 5. Gotta jet and get a cherry lime and cruise the Galactic Sonic for cute boys. You can take your messiah-hood and shove it; I'm tired of hanging out in this dump; and I need a mani and a pedi, stat.

THE END.

Dear Gary Cohn and Ron Randall, on behalf of little girls everywhere, let me say I hate you for birthing this shite into the world.