Friday, March 17

Lost Friday - Caption Edition.

Another Lost Friday is upon us. We have much...

What? Another rerun? What in the hell, dude?

Look, we were force-fed yet another rerun on Wednesday, so if you want to know what's coming up for the next week or two on Lost, check out my last Lost Friday, because I don't want to talk about it anymore. By the time they finally toss a fresh episode our way, Aaron will be driving a car around the island. That was the best joke I could come up with concerning the amount of time it's taking them to crank out episodes, and for that I am truly sorry.

Because we've got nothing to talk about this week, I thought it would be good (and significantly easier on me) to pull together yet another CDP clip show, this time focusing on the goodness that are the trademark Lost Friday Captions. This is the part of the post that I get the most comments and e-mail on, which is quite nice and scary of you. It's one of my few chances to put a personal spin on the same old Lost recaps, and I get to make fun of things that bring me joy, which is icing on the cake, as far as I'm concerned.

Here now, a collection of classic photos and captions spanning the entire second season of Lost up to this point. Enjoy and marvel.

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("Three thousand blinking lights, and I can't get one damn key made!")

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(Even after a horrific plane crash, Locke still likes to bust out the vacation tapes.)

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("Did you say sumthin' about my stubble?")

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(You can save your 'Kate is a horse-face' jokes; I'm way ahead of you.)

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(This is what happens when George Bush tries to make toast.)

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("Hi mom, I killed dad. Still serving breakfast?")

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("I had to take an entire bottle of these a day just to make working with Neve Campbell tolerable.")

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("The books beat me at ping-pong again, Sawyer.")

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(It's becoming painfully obvious that Locke can't read.)

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("Damn it, why can't I ever find the Torture Channel on this thing?")

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(As Charlie rambles on, Eko silently wonders how quickly he could saw him in half.)

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("Don't leave me, CDP! I love you more than toast!")

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(One of these things is an indestructible black mass that can pulverize all in its path. The other is the Smoke Monster.)

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("Age/Sex/Location? Michael/Male/Hatch, you?")

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("Mention Party Of Five one more time! I dare you!")

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(To Charlie's surprise, a piano made entirely of heroin washes ashore.)

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("So, you ever been with a huge guy before?")

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("I can't believe I was on Party Of Five for seven years.")

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(Nobody takes the last piece of Bundt cake on John Locke's watch. Nobody.)

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("Shhh! According To Jim is on, and it's hard enough keeping up as is!")

There you have it, another Lost Friday shot in the ass due to constant reairings. Thanks ABC, now I look like a jerk. Send any questions to the comments section; send any hate mail to communistdance@yahoo.com. If you want to check out every Lost Friday in its entirety, here they all are in quick-dissolving tablets:

SEASON TWO - RERUN EDITION: VOLUME 7
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 15 REVIEW
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 14 REVIEW
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 13 REVIEW
SEASON TWO - RERUN EDITION: VOLUME 6
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 12 REVIEW
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 11 REVIEW
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 10 REVIEW
SEASON TWO - RERUN EDITION: VOLUME 5
SEASON TWO - RERUN EDITION: VOLUME 4
SEASON TWO - RERUN EDITION: VOLUME 3
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 9 REVIEW
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 8 REVIEW
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 7 REVIEW
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 6 REVIEW
SEASON TWO - RERUN EDITION: VOLUME 2
SEASON TWO - RERUN EDITION
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 5 REVIEW
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 4 REVIEW
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 3 REVIEW
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 1 REVIEW
SEASON TWO PREVIEW


COMING NEXT WEEK!
THE WORST ALBUM COVERS OF ALL TIME!
THE VERY FIRST CDP MAD LIB!
KATHARINE McPHEE WATCH!
A BRAND NEW LOST FRIDAY!

Thursday, March 16

Katharine McPhee Watch - Volume 1.

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92,000 people auditioned for American Idol.

There are now 11 singers left, and Katharine McPhee is one of them.

Just thought you might want to know.

Lost Friday will be torn from my loins and slapped on the table tomorrow morning. Sweet release.

Wednesday, March 15

No Scents Whatsoever.

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(You might want to stick around for this story, it's pretty good.)

As you can probably imagine by looking at photos or recklessly fantasizing, I smell great.

I mean, I always smell great, regardless of whether I just stepped out of the shower or a condemned bait shop that's on fire. It's one of my few gifts (along with my ability to eat a 16-inch sub in 39 seconds), one which I truly respect and treasure. Sure, I sweat and get filthy like everyone else, but it takes my body mere seconds to attack and destroy the foul perversions of cleanliness, leaving nothing behind but the fresh scent of pine and cinnamon. If you ever were to meet me, you'd be enthralled and encapsulated by my pheromones, unable to stand more than 4 inches away from me at all times.

My current cologne of choice is Swiss Army. While this particular scent isn't the most popular in the world, you can find at almost any department store. It's about $60 for a thimble-sized amount, but it's totally worth it to smell original. I haven't met a lady yet who wasn't completely smitten with it. It's a secret weapon that I trust you not to share with too many guys. My reputation is at stake. Some of my other favorites include Cool Water, Preferred Stock and Polo, although most of these have been collecting dust under my bathroom sink for some time now, shuddering with awe in the presense of the Army. I have a Cool Water air freshener in my car, too, in case you wanted to know that the Wild Stallion smelled like. I know you did.

Scents are important, and are the closest thing to a time machine us (we) humans have. Scents instantly transport us back to the most memorable time we last took it into our lungs. It's crazy the things you can remember when floored with the right smell; or sometimes, the things you would rather forget.

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(According to legend, my Grandpa designed the wolf still used as the team logo. No foolin'.)

When I was a freshman in High School, I wore traditional Old Spice aftershave and cologne, mainly because it was already in the house and I didn't want to go buying anything else. Besides, there was something about the red sailboat on the bottle that screamed 'manly!' to me, even at such an oily and adolescent age.

One night, before a big football game, I slathered it onto my tiny 14 year old body with the ferocity of a man on a mission. Well, a little boy on a mission, at least. It was going to be a big night for me, as I was all set to make my move on a friend I had been sidling up to for a while. While I don't recommend attempting to turn good female friends into possible mating partners, sometimes you just gotta go for it, and let the Old Spice do all the heavy lifting.

So, there I was, sitting in the bleachers next to her. We'll call her 'Margaret.' I was insanely overdressed for a football game, sporting the single best outfit I had in my arsenal. Unfortunately for me, my best outfit in 1996 was an extra-large plaid collar shirt and super-tight pants. I hadn't yet learned that when I picked out things to wear, other people would actually, you know, see them.

Besides, that's what was popular in 1993, and I hadn't gotten around to buying any new clothes since then. My mom figured that I'd be an extra-large someday, it was only a matter of time before the plaid fit me perfectly. My pants, however, shrunk every day with my ever-growing puberty frame. I felt like the Incredible Hulk, pants tearing up the seams, rivets popping out like old Chevy pistons.

Denim squeaking and tugging with every shift of my buttocks on the freezing cold bench, I got closer to Margaret as we talked. In the distance, a friend got my attention and remarked that my outfit was "Lookin' good!" Of course, he was almost certainly lying to me, or too far away to even make out who I was. Come to think of it, that guy wasn't even talking to me.

Me and Margaret talked about school and whatnot, getting closer with each break in the conversation. My braces and oily T-zone glistened off of the floodlights as I pulled out every joke and 1970's celebrity impression I could think of. She took it in like I was the Toronto skyline.

At the exact same time I made my move to hold her hand, the almost toxic scent of Old Spice wafted into her nostrils like an unleashed chemical weapon. I could tell she was investigating what the odor was, and it was only a matter of time before she became drunk off the fumes and passed out into my lap, begging me to take her to the backseat of her mom's Chrysler LeBaron.

"Oh, you're wearing Old Spice," Margaret said, looking directly into my eyes with a kind of calm urgency.

"Yup, that's right," I fired back, smooth as a silk pillow.

"Well, my dad wears Old Spice," she said, slowly looking down and letting go of my hand.

I was ruined. It was all over. Nobody wants to think of their own father when they're in a situation like this. Out of all the colognes and aftershaves in the world, I had to choose the same one that her stupid dad liked to wear. In the distance, I could hear him laughing and slapping gallons of Old Spice onto his neck and cheeks, content that he successfully chastised me from over 35 miles away.

In less than five minutes, Margaret was gone, talking to that guy who made fun of my outfit. The football game hadn't even started yet.

Cradling my head in my hands and trembling with defeat, I looked around for a friendly face. I found some friends that were sitting in the top row of bleachers, and took a seat. I told the guys what had happened, and they did their best to cheer me up and take my mind off of the situation.

Now, when most guys are faced with this sort of monumental rejection and humiliation, they normally do something monumentally stupid to compensate for it, and that's exactly what I did. My friends had this horrid idea to take off a piece of clothing every time our team scored a touchdown. Thinking that the game would be a blowout in the opposite direction, we all talked big and swore that we were game for the stunt. Bear in mind that it was probably 35 degrees out that night, so if we didn't get kicked out, creeping death would come knocking eventually. If this wasn't bad enough, someone had plastered me with maroon lipstick at some point, which were our team colors.

As you would assume, this happened to be the night our team scored 63 points.

Off came the giant plaid shirt, down came the painted-on pants. A small mound of shoes, socks and baseball caps started to form under our bench. There I stood, in front of Margaret and about 500 of my new best friends, making sure everyone knew that I could handle rejection and teenage defeat with amazing bravado and charm. Bare feet freezing to the bleachers, my nipples rock-hard and blue with frost, I made a stand. If anyone was going to make me look like an ass, it was going to be me, or at the very least, my friends.

We were asked to leave before it all went terribly wrong, but know that I would have finished what I started.

Shivering and clutching my clothes, still radiating Old Spice in all directions, I walked into the parking lot and waited for my Mom to pick me up. Adding insult to injury, the lipstick that I was wearing caused an allergic reaction, swelling and cracking my lips to Jolie-like proportions. I looked like I had been robbed of my clothes, repeatedly punched in the face and left for dead in a freezer. On the inside, however, I felt toasty warm with pride.

And that's what I think of when I smell Old Spice.

Before I go today, I wanted to hand out a Commie Award.

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Peter Tomarken died in a plane crash with his wife early this week (story here). He was best known as the host of one of my favorite game shows of all time, Press Your Luck. I still take in an hour of PYL every weekend. The Game Show Network will be running a Press Your Luck marathon tonight and again over the next few days, so check 'em out if you get the chance.

Spill it in the comments section. Lost Friday may or may not be 48 hours away, I haven't decided yet.

Monday, March 13

Katharine McPhee And 11 Losers.

The following post is about American Idol.

Hey, where are you going?

As a straight, 20-something, white male, I have a lot to say on this subject, as you would assume. Me and the Missus have never missed an episode of AI in its entire 5 year run, and that makes me kind of an expert on the subject, albeit rather conflicted and feminine. Sometimes after taking in an hour or two of AI, I need to watch a viral video of a guy being shot in the pants with paintballs just to reaffirm my masculinity.

That all being said, I really enjoy the show and have been excited about this season. As was the case last year, I have been perfect with my picks so far (seriously), and I'm hoping that this hot prediction streak will last me until after the NCAA tournament is over, so maybe I can get back some of the money I lost on it last year (Duke sucks).

Last week, Ayla, Gedeon, Will and Kinnik got booted, which was more than fine with me. Will and Ayla were too unoriginal, and Gedeon and Kinnik were too creepy and robotic. I know a lot of people thought that Kevin or Melissa should have been cut, but these people were going to have to go eventually, and the rest won't make it very far in the Top 12 regardless. They have about as much of a chance of winning as Paula Abdul passing a sobriety test any given night of the week.

You can't convince me that Gedeon wasn't a robot, or android at the very least. Didn't you hear him talk? "I-have-created-this-painting-that-represents-the-never-ending-circle of-BRAINS!!!" The way he articulated everything just reeked of an alien pretending to be a human. Just imagine what Gedeon would be like in the bedroom. "I-am-now-going-to-press-my-lips-to-your-neck-and-remove-my-trousers-simultaneously. Pray-for-me." Ladies love that stuff.

Here now, are my predictions for who's getting cut and when. Bear in mind that this isn't a list of who I want to win, just a list of people I think will win. In a perfect world, Katharine McPhee would have signed on the dotted line years ago, and when I say 'dotted line,' I mean...nevermind.

Here we go:

CUTS 1-3 (random order):

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Melissa McGhee.

Melissa was on the verge of being cut last week, and she should be the first woman to go now that we're in the Top 12. Although she's gotten better and grown on me a bit, she doesn't have the originality or range to match the other amazing women left on the show. Besides, it's very hard for a singer to do well on this show when they weren't mentioned at all during the first two months.

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Bucky Covington.

Bucky has no business still being here. Most of the guys have left him in the dust, and he can't even cut it as a country singer. I think he's a nice and geniune guy, but that doesn't mean he can sing well. He might not be the first guy to get cut, but he'll be lucky to make it into the Top 10. Besides, he reminds me of one those hicks in school that always found a way to get a girlfriend that was so much better than them it wasn't even funny.

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Kevin Covais.

Kevin has made it this far on pity alone. He's a sweet, little crooner in big boy pants, and it's only a matter of time before everyone catches on. His stage presense is weak at best, and people are making fun of him right to his face every week. On the bright side, the ladies dig him, so he's always got that. If I were him, I'd spend the last week or two just trying to score some phone numbers and pity smooches, and leave a happy guy.

CUTS 4-6 (random order):

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Elliott Yamin.

Elliott might be the best male singer on the show. I think he's great and his range is amazing. However, there are a couple of guys that are stronger popularity-wise (and better looking) than him, and he will be pushed out earlier than expected. It's a shame, but the show is a lot more than a singing competition. Each week, I worry about Elliott because he doesn't appeal to the majority of the voting public, not because he can't sing.

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Lisa Tucker.

This will be the first big surprise of the Top 12. Lisa was slated to win this thing, but her song selection and overall average performances as of late may have waned her popularity a bit. Unless does something to reaffirm herself as a contender, she won't make it to the Top 6. According to the Missus, she looks worlds better when she doesn't curl her hair, but I prefer the 80's Whitney Houston look. It's a lot better than the 2000 tweaked-out Whitney Houston look.

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Taylor Hicks.

I can't really imagine the show without Taylor Hicks. Regardless of weather or not he's a great singer, he's an absolute blast to watch because he's loving every second he's on stage. However, this novelty will wear off once the musically-themed weeks roll in, and he'll have to say goodbye after a good run. I'm also sick of people asking me if I think Taylor has some sort of a tick or palsy. If I said it once, I've said it a million times. YES!

CUTS 7-9 (random order):

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Ace Young.

Obviously, I have some issues with Ace. Mainly, the fact that he can sing very well and the ladies get all squishy when he takes the stage. Good for him, the smug little turd. See if I care. The truth is, if you like Ace, you should like Chris, and Chris can sing better than Ace. Deal? Deal. He seems like a real nice guy and could kick Constantine's ass into the next county, but he's no American Idol.

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Mandisa.

Man, this woman can sing. She's one of the few people that gets better every single week. In a perfect world, she'd probably win this thing, but the voting public wouldn't see to that. I admire her willingness to sing anything and everything. There's something about her that's really attractive and genuine, but I don't think enough people will see this to give her a victory. Expect her to bow out after a good run.

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Katharine McPhee.

Honestly, I hope I'm wrong about this. I love Katharine McPhee, and not in a respectful singer way, either. I think she's jaw-droppingly beautiful and likeable, and you're all horrid scum for not voting for her. She has this way of bringing an audience to their knees with a seductive ballad, then cutely bouncing around the stage when she gets praise from the judges. I don't care if she wins the contest or not, as long as she finds a career where she'll continue to be on my television. That all being said, her voice is amazing and her attitude is killer. Again, I love her. A lot. Maybe too much.

THE FINAL THREE (random order):

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Kellie Pickler.

Okay, so she's a dumb-as-a-post idiot. So her Mom's in jail and her Dad is estranged. So she can't read or write. The public loves that crap, and she's almost exactly like Carrie Underwood, last year's Hershey's gobbling Idol champ. She's sweet and innocent, can belt a song like nobody's business, and she's not going to be cut for a very long time, if at all. She's currently roommating with Katharine McPhee in the AI hotel, and they showed a clip of them wrestling on one of the beds. Then my brain exploded.

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Chris Daughtry.

Chris is my favorite guy in the competition. His voice is radio-ready and rock-freaking-solid. He can out-sing every guy left on the show, and his stage persona is out of this world. The only downfall is that he's sang nothing but rock songs up to this point. When the themed episodes start bearing down on him, he may struggle with the songs forced upon him. If he can pull it off, however, he'll win hands down. Chris is the Bo Bice of Season 5, only he might actually be better.

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Paris Bennett.

Since I saw Paris and Kellie in the auditions, I knew that one of them would win it. I still believe that, although I don't necessarily agree with it (I'd be a great A&R guy, I can pick stars, regardless of weather or not I can stand them). Paris would be a good winner. Everyone loves her, her voice is unique and deep like Fantasia's, only Paris can read and sell records. I'd be shocked not to see Paris in the finals.

So, there you have it. Sound off in the comments section about AI, or about my fleeting heterosexuality. It's up to you, really.

And to Katharine McPhee, if you're reading this, I have a degree in music, recording and sound engineering. If you don't win, look me up and I can make things happen for you. I have some new songs that would be perfect for you, or at least the crude likeness of you that I fashioned out of tin foil and hair.