So I took a trip down to the new IKEA showroom this afternoon. I haven’t seen that much cardboard since I drove though Centennial Park. They’ve really got a good thing going down there. Meatballs and futons for everyone. I especially liked how you have no idea where you are or how to get out. I spent 20 minutes looking for the klossk. Quite an impressive crowd, too. Next time I’ll try to pick up a few troféé whyvs, a myhlff and a six-pack of jahaylbÃ¥tes. I have to go put together my new spatula now. Luckily, it’s a three day weekend.

So I’ve got this girl friend. There’s a space between those words because we never hooked up. I can’t remember exactly why we never hooked up, but I do remember her introducing me to her hot friend as “that guy I was telling you about who totally reminds me of my gay uncle.” Because “uncle” alone wasn’t enough to cock-block my self-esteem for a decade. Anyway, this isn’t really about her. It’s about the awesome cookies her grandfather used to make that she’d bring to the office. Peanut butter on Ritz crackers dipped in chocolate. Awe-some. Then she moved away, got married (to a dude who’s older than me and wears product in his hair, for the record), and no more cookies for Uncle Chad. Then Hershey’s comes to the rescue with the TAKE 5 candy bar. It’s pretzel, smeared with peanut butter, drizzled with caramel, sprinkled with peanuts, covered in chocolate. I can’t recommend it highly enough. It’s fabulous. Like a Barbra Streisand concert in your mouth. Or a swordfight.

I’m at a point in my life where I’ve come to grips with the fact that the highlight will probably be seeing Peter Jackson’s King Kong this Christmas, followed by watching the trailer 1200 times, and coming in at a distant third: being alive for the birth of stuffed crust pizza. And I’m ok with it. Dude. Giant monkeys and dinosaurs. And Naomi Watts. Yeah, like paying alimony could possibly be better than that. GET OFF MY BACK AND GET A PUPPY, MOM!

And it was amazing. Incredibly powerful yet intoxicatingly relaxing. I’m sure I’ll dream well tonight. Thank you. Hypothetically.

(Of course, I’m referring to my visit to The Medical Institute of Georgia, and their efforts to cure my sleep apnea by addressing those two fit-causing dimples in the back of my throat.)

Britney Spears is going to appear naked on the cover of Vanity Fair in her 7th month of pregnancy. Why is it ok to pander to all the materni-chasers out there but I get the hairy eyeball when I pick up a cookbook at Costco?

The New York Post is reporting genetically engineered palm-furrier Angelina Jolie is pregnant with questioning-your-sexuality sponsor Brad Pitt’s “love” child. I put “love” in quotes here because the human word simply doesn’t do justice to the feelings these two demi-gods must experience when they collide coitally. The down side, of course, is the impending race of spontaneous-orgasm-inducing super-hottie retards that will become our genital overlords. Like Planet Of The Apes, except, you know, we’ll look like apes compared to them.

This is something you definitely don’t want to have that “baggy” look with. Costumes for your junk.

Internet access: $14.95
Photo paper: $9.95
Getting laughed at for something besides the erectile dysfunction: priceless

Not content with being the TNT of fast food, Carl’s Junior is parlaying the bad taste they left in everyone’s mouth with their Paris Hilton soft-core burger porn into a multimedia cross-promotional girlfriend-losing empire. They’ve transformed their homepage into Lucky Magazine for 20-something dudes. Designed to resemble a “bachelor’s living room,” albeit a bachelor that lives in an Ikea showroom, the site features messages from sponsors like Maxim Magazine and Vans footwear, branded gadgets and electronics, including a Olevia plasma tv that projects ads for movies, video games, hip clothing and of course, Paris being hot.

“For a fraction of our overall media budget, we can have a sizable Web presence,” Mr. Haley said. “But over the next four to 10 years that production and media budget will shift from traditional to nontraditional, where online advertising and promotion becomes our primary medium.”

Because when I’m hungry, and can’t decide what fast food to poison myself with, the first thing I do is log on to the internet to see what breakfast quesadilla Tony Hawk recommends.

Advertising, in its never-ending desperate quest to prove it’s just as cool as Hollywood, has adopted Tinseltown’s current trend of digging up classics and trying to make a buck off them. Perhaps in an effort to address the “final throes of the Iraqi insurgency,” Coke has resurrected its 1971 flower power answer-to-Vietnam “Singing on the Hilltop” spot. Actually, I’d be willing to bet the whole war thing never occurred to them. In reality, it’s just a launch platform for their new “Coca-Cola Zero” sugarless sugar water (we’ll save comments on product naming for another time). The new version foregoes the hilltop for the rooftop of a hipster’s loft, and replaces the hippies with what may or may not be G. Love & Special Sauce. But don’t quote me on that. It’s been a while since I was totally high. They’ve also “updated” the lyrics. The new tune proclaims “I’d like to teach the world to chill, take time to stop and smile… I’d like to buy the world a Coke®, and chill with it a while.” Now, this all ties in with their whole new “Chillosophy” strategy, presumably concocted by their new VP of Marketing, P.M. Dawn. The new spot is appropriately called “Chilltop.” Check it out. It’s phat. Which, like chill, is another word from 1989.

A while back, a buddy suggested I watch The Girl Next Door, a movie about… well, if you’re the kind of person who watches stuff like that you’ve already seen it. And if you’re not, please leave, you pompous assbag.

Anyway, shortly after the recommendation, Ebert and NotEbert did their little “Worst Movies of the Year” show, and lo and behold, there it was. It was actually Ebert’s #3 pick. White Chicks was #7 and The Olsen Twins Cocktease Manhattan or whatever it was came in at #5, to give you some idea of the benchmarks we’re talking about. Roger said it made him feel “unclean.” Did their criticism keep me away? Hello? Dude, he said the movie made him feel “un-clean.” If anything their description only galvanized my need to watch it. That and the prospect of seeing Elisha Cuthbert in a thong.

My best friend Netflix supplied me with my junk, and I settled in for an evening of slack-jawed dumbfoundedness at one of the “Worst Movies of the Year.” Except, it wasn’t that bad. It was amusing. Mildly titillating. Honestly, I’d give it a C+. Maybe a B+ if I didn’t have Skinemax. Was it great? Hell no. But I laughed out loud a few times. Squirmed a little. That’s better than average at my house. Because I didn’t start the movie until about 12:30, by the time it was over, naturally, I was drunk, and it seemed like a good idea to rip off an e-note to Roger.

So I just watched The Girl Next Door. After reading your review, and watching you and Richard tear it up on TV, I was basically expecting a snuff film. “Ugly, nauseating, dirty.” I think you used all those words to describe it. Don’t get me wrong. It ain’t no Citizen Kane. And yeah, it’s probably not even Risky Business. But I thought it was kind of cute. Timothy Olyphant was actually very good. Sort of Ray Liotta circa Something Wild. I mean, obviously it’s a fantasy. Like almost every pop movie ever made. Can’t we suspend disbelief a little and think a porn star can be a nice girl? Anyway, my question for The Answer Man is, since clearly I did not have the same guttural reaction to The Girl Next Door that you and Richard did, am I a bad person?

-devon

And sure enough, the next day, Santa shows up a little early.

No, Devon, you are a good person who happens to disagree with us.

-Roger Ebert

The lesson here is, well, actually, I’m not sure what the lesson is. But according to Pulitzer Prize winner Roger Ebert, I’m a good person, and I got him to say “snuff film” inside his head. What you got?

Besides another picture of Elisha, you perv.

(if you want to hear their original review, it’s here, or you can read Roger’s print review that’s even more damning here. Interestingly, he still gives it one and a half stars.)

Apparently, James Earl Jones is sick and that revival of On Golden Pond he was starring in on Broadway is closing as a result. I never did find out if Queen Latifah was in it.

Get better, James. Nobody wants a tremor in the force any time soon.

China is all pissed at McDonald’s for a tv spot that those nutty commies claim slights their honor.

The reports said viewers complained that the ad’s depiction of a middle-aged man on his knees begging for a discount was disturbing because Chinese consider such an act humiliating. McDonald’s said the act aimed to publicize the chain’s year-round special offers.

Now I ask you, how is McDonald’s supposed to know that? It’s like white is black and up is down over there.

At least he doesn’t commit seppuku. Oh wait, that’s Japanese. My bad.

I was tooling down Ponce this afternoon, and found myself behind a middle-aged Dekalbian gal with a “Gay & Lesbian Advocates & Defenders” sticker on the back of her car. Nothing out of place there. Then I noticed right below it a “W stands for women – Georgebush.com” sticker. My brow furrowed in confusion. Then she put on her right turn signal, and took a left on Clairmont. At which point I was thoroughly convinced I was being punk’d by George Will.

I wandered into my local Quik-E-Mart today, where I go pretty much every three days for my Starbucks Doubleshot® and heroin fix. As I approached the entrance I noticed my buddy/pusher Hamas (I’m not exactly sure what his Christian name is, but that’s how I refer to him in my inner monologues where I ask him why he hates freedom) in a bit of a standoff with another fellow, who we’ll describe as a “local.” And approximately 5’10’’ 150 lbs. There were some heated words, not all of which I really understood because of Hamas’ Godless accent. I ducked inside, and they followed. I went to retrieve my premium coffee drink and divined the stranger was looking for employment, but Hamas had none to give. The argument became rather colorful and loud and then things “got a little weird.” And not in a good, Penthouse Forum way. In what has got to be the worst case of not knowing what color your parachute is ever, the guy pulled out a gun, pointed it at the clerk and screamed, “Give me a job!” As I crouched behind the shelves, I couldn’t help but wonder if my mother would be ashamed of me for catching a stray bullet next to a Little Debbie display (for the last time, THEY DON’T SELL TASTYKAKES DOWN HERE). After what was probably only about 5 seconds but felt like a lethal overdose of Metamucil, I guess the gunman realized he wasn’t in a Denzel Washington morality play and ran off to his next interview.

Hamas didn’t charge me for the coffee. But I had to pay for my cigarettes. Neither of which I dared partake in until I got home. Or more specifically, on my toilet.

I recently caught wind of some drama on the AdPulp blog. The who’s and what’s and why’s aren’t very important, but it got me thinking about something.

Advertising awards.

There seem to be two schools of thought. The first is “Gotta get ‘em, by any means necessary.” You see this from junior creatives jockeying for better jobs and pay, to CEO’s jockeying for better clients and agency prestige. The second is “Who needs ‘em. They don’t mean jack to anybody, especially clients.” And there’s merits to both arguments.

Kellogg’s could give a rat’s about scoring a Gold Lion. They just want to move more sugared wheat, and if your pie charts and proprietary NoodlePuddle® algorithms prove you can do that, congratulations – here’s your $900 million. Just be sure to keep up with your dues at the Battle Creek Country Club. Their Cobb Salad is to die for.

Ask a group of young uninitiated creatives “Who’s got Kellogg’s?” though and some nerd in the back will start rattling off a couple of different agencies. Maybe he’s right. I don’t know. My point is neither do most of them, because they all want to work at Crispin. Or Goodby. Or Mother. Because they do cool stuff (actually, they want to work at Mother because it’s like the A-Team – “if you can find them, maybe you can hire… Mother). They don’t usually say they want to win awards, but it’s implied. Or at least understood. “I want to do cool stuff – cool stuff wins awards – I’m totally going to Cannes, bitch.”

But some people ask does “cool” move product? And by extension, justify its existence? Well, it definitely moves cool products. Look at Mini. Or Apple. Or the PT Cruiser. What? You never saw those PT Cruiser wood-panel Michael Paré mannequins on scratch n’ sniff surfboards? Dude, they were all over The One Show. Oh yeah, that only happened in my head. Yet there was still a waiting list to pay 15% over sticker for a Neon with a hatchback. Hmm. I don’t want to get into a whole chicken or egg thing, because I’m telling you for a fact there is no right answer. Sometimes the advertising drives the product, sometimes the product drives the advertising, and sometimes it doesn’t matter. Sometimes cool works. And sometimes it doesn’t.

There’s all the horror stories of “cool backlash,” like Chiat producing one of the most memorable car spots ever, with G.I. Joe wooing Barbie into his Z, leaving Ken alone in the Dream-Condo with an underage and curious Skipper (I saw the unrated version). Not only did that spot win ass-loads of awards, average folks loved it. LOVED IT. It was one of those spots that stuck in the collective conscious usually reserved for gems like the Ditech Guy. Hell, I remember Katie Couric talking to the director about it. Nissan sales didn’t grow though. They fell. Why? I don’t know. It was cool, and people liked it. They remembered it. But it didn’t work. The fact that Nissan wasn’t actually producing a Z at the time probably didn’t help.

Then there’s the upside of awards. Damn, they sure are pretty. They look awful nice in that big case in the lobby. And some potential clients are impressed with them. Mostly in the same way some people are impressed by all those diplomas in your proctologist’s office. Sure, the Goodby’s and Chiat’s do award-winning work and high-profile work. And sometimes it’s the same work. But I’ll bet dollars to Aflac ducks it’s the high-profile part that gets them more business. Do awards help little shops? I guess. I know it fills up a good 9 minutes of meeting time when you show Gatlinburg Tire & Muffler your reel. Smaller clients get to feel like they’re playing with the big boys, and agencies get to swing their big Pencils. Everybody wins. And awards certainly help fuel the creative fire, directly (out of ego) and indirectly (out of desperation). How many times have you been reduced to thumbing through CA at 10pm trying to come up with that big idea? Never? Yeah, me neither.

Personally, I always thought advertising awards were a little silly. Especially when I didn’t win. Strangely, less so when I did. The ceremonies with their red carpets and Armanied celebrities, the “fans” of uber-creatives, the press – have you seen the pictures from France this week? It’s like a Bond movie meets Caligula only with more martinis, less attractive white men and by my count the exact same amount of cleavage. It’s all so gloriously masturbatory. Is it art that should be celebrated? Sure, why not. But someone should explain to them there’s a difference between celebrating and canonizing.

I’m not dissing “cool” or “awards.” Or “sellouts” or “Grey.” I think we need both. One is like our parents, who teach us how to balance our checkbook, and the other is like the uncle that teaches us how to roll the perfect joint. And creatives will always want recognition. It’s human nature. The human eye is trained to pick up on patterns, and the advertising eye is trained to pick up on patterns that win awards. We may not be able to create it all the time, but we sure recognize it when we see it. You can recognize it because it’s usually followed by “envy” and “frustration with current clients.” Don’t forget though, someone’s gotta cash that check from Kellogg’s. And dude, they put candied cranberries on that Waldorf Salad.

It’s Star Trek. It’s The Flintstones. It’s STONE TREK.

I was out at the logo-embiggener league softball game tonight, cheering on some former co-whores. After the game I ended up sitting around vying for the giggles of a cutie pie we’ll call “Trmandi.” We went round and round with one bon mot after another, with every pass ratcheting up the Algonquin caliber comedy gold. I think at some point somebody mentioned Chuck E. Cheese’s Goodtime Emporium. Then, in the revisionist history of my memory that will service me vigorously for weeks, with her musky kiwi-sweet she-glow hanging thick in the summer’s eve, she looked deep into my steely eyes, brushed a feathery clump of my long chestnut bangs from my lean chiseled face, opened her pouty rose-petal lips and whispered, “I just love that game Hit-The-Beaver.”

The preceding “fictional” post is dedicated to J. Stephen McMennamy.

From the “Who’s buying this, and how can I make sure I don’t live next door” file: A Dutch company is marketing Hufu® – tofu designed to taste like and have a similar texture to human flesh. All I can say is, it’s about damn time.

There are so many jokes going through my head right now, and all of them are absolutely revolting. Almost as revolting as marketing Hufu® – tofu designed to taste like and have a similar texture to human flesh.

I’m pretty sure prolonged viewing of this optical illusion will unleash mutant superpowers. Or spontaneous explosive loose stool.

Either way, you should put on spandex tights before you look at it.

“Princess’s little dog house is empty now.”

Honestly, I’m not quite sure what part of this makes me go “WTF” more.
I want to take a red pen to humanity.

I’m just going to quote the opening of this story from the local Spartanburg, South Carolina Fox channel’s website:

“A Campobello teen is accused of raping one neighbor’s dog and another neighbor’s two little girls. Now the dog has died and charges against the teen have been upgraded.”

I cannot stress enough the importance of reading the entire story. About a dog named Princess being viciously raped to death, the shattered family of said dog demanding justice, and the Government’s determination to prosecute this deadly caniphile to the fullest extent of its animal cruelty laws. And I think something or other about two little girls. Oh, wait. No, it doesn’t say anything about the girls. Except that one of them is three years old. (And that’s in a photo caption.)

Sylvia Jones says, “When I got here we were laying on the deck looking at him and he had his pants down and he was doing sexual activity with the dog like a man would do to a woman.”

Which, in honor of the deceased, I will now always refer to as “Princess style.” Though I suspect in the Jones house, it will continue to be known as “people style.”

(Seriously, I cannot even begin to wrap my head around how crazy that quote is on so many levels)

When the voice-over guy on Cheaters describes a suspect as a “sandwich artist,” is he trying to be a dick? Either way, am I a dick for giggling?

I just got an e-mail from Tickle®. Don’t even bother asking how I got on their list. I don’t remember, but I assume it involved trying to get laid, and I’m assuming it didn’t work, because if it did, I’d own the company now and know a lot more about it.

Anyway, the header for the e-mail is “Are you as sexy as you think?”

Do they even know who they’re sending this to?

I sure as shit better be, or I’ll be on top of a crane in 20 minutes.

Holy crap on a biscotti! I’m in Kroger, minding my own business, when I find something that reminds me just what an age of wonders this is. It’s a latté in a can, THAT GETS HOT ALL BY ITSELF. Let me say that again. IT GETS HOT ALL BY ITSELF. I’m not even going to try to understand it. This must be what my mother feels like when I try to explain director commentaries to her. There’s some sort of magic kryptonite in the bottom that, when activated by the press of a button, turns your shelf-temperature coffee milk into piping hot liquid love in five minutes. Of course, there’s a downside. Apparently, they’re not very eco-friendly. Whatever. Just think of the landfill we’ll save from all the Antigone Rising cd’s that’ll never get bought.

The other downside is it tastes like it’s spiked with MiracleGro. But dude, IT’S SCALDING HOT.

Batman Begins. Can’t quite verbalize how relieved I am.
You know when Katie Holmes is the lamest thing in the movie, you’re doing ok.

Sam Raimi did an excellent job translating the “comic book” look and feel of Spider-Man while maintaining the pathos and humor of the character. But mostly I was pleased to see Peter Parker’s driving motivation, guilt, left front and center on the screen. I’ve always thought that was the reason Spider-Man had such a stranglehold on the casual comics fan. Guilt is something we all live with.
But Batman is something different.
He’s not the normal guy like Peter Parker, who we can’t help but relate to, with all his typical everyday problems. We want to relate to Bruce Wayne. Lord, do we want to relate. The irony is he’s the lucky bastard we all envy, turned on his ear. Gorgeous, filthy rich and tortured beyond imagination. If we met him on the street, we’d hate his guts. Or try to bang him. Or both. But oh, that delicious guilt. It’s true, as Stan Lee so eloquently wrote (or so we’ve always been led to believe), “With great power, comes great responsibility.” But with guilt, rage and a few billion dollars, we can also have vengeance, justice, and a car that can jump over rivers. Christopher Nolan’s Batman delivers the Bruce Wayne that’s never been to the movies before. Not the goth-fetish surrealism of the first two of the franchise – and thank God not the camp-crap Crayola-vomit of the second two. Not the everyman thrust to greatness like Spider-Man, who we root for like we’d root for the hometown baseball team, but a fascinating tragic character we think we understand, but ultimately can’t. And for our sakes, hopefully never will. Plus there isn’t a Bat-Nipple in sight.
Don’t get me wrong – I loves me some Spider-Man.
But I’ll always be a Batman man.
And in case you don’t already know, Superman’s for pussies.

The one thing I didn’t like came straight from DC Comics. The new DC logo. They launched it last month on all their comics, “coincidently” just in time to go on the opening shot of their most anticipated film since Tim Burton’s first Batman 16 years ago. I vaguely remember the last time they changed their logo. It was 1977. I’d just turned six years old. It always seemed fresh to me, like I was the one to discover it, and it meant there was something new and exciting inside. [in case you don't know, it's the one at the bottom that looks good, next to the one that looks like ass] That logo remained basically unchanged for almost 30 years. I can look at a run of Batman comics over 300 strong, and on every one the same “DC Bullet” as they called it would be proudly displayed in the corner. No more. The new logo is swooshy and stylized and already looks dated to me. In fact, it looks like a parody of a logo. Wait, does Washington have an arena football team? Let them use it. It’s fine for The PowerPuff Girls (and Superman) but get that crap off my Batman. Nerd out.

The cops came out to “investigate” my crime. Mostly they just ended up ogling my car. At first it was a single uniform in a cruiser, who was pretty shocked and disconcertingly excited I had the serial numbers for my stolen items. He leaves, but then 15 minutes later, he comes back with a big dude dressed like you fantasize about dressing when you have those dreams about kicking people’s asses for looking at you funny. He says he’s on “the strike team.” I get a little wet. The uniform tells me this other guy has a lot more experience at this sort of thing and it would help to get “a fresh pair of eyes” on the empty glove box where my iPod used to be. His experience tells him I’m pretty much SOL. His advice: I need more light in my driveway. And a big gun.

According to Officer Stomperelli, if someone’s “fucking with your shit, just put two in his chest.” That means shoot him. Then, you take one of his shoes, put it on, and kick your own door down. Seriously. I’m filling in some blanks here, but I assume after that you should probably take the shoe off and put it back on the dead guy, because if you didn’t, well, that would just look a little gay. He says it’s the law, and by God, that’s good enough for me.

Somebody broke into my car last night and stole my iPod and the wicked cool portable GPS I got for my birthday. Since my neighborhood is nothing but crack-heads and lesbians, and lesbians are a lot more likely to have all the proprietary Apple power cords, firewire cables and OSX they’ll need, my money’s on the lesbians. Everybody knows crack-heads are slaves to Windows.

God damn I hate urban life. Yeah, you heard me Usher. I said “urban.”

Enjoy the 20 gigs of “Styx”, fucktwig.

So the latest advertising brouhaha has popped up regarding TBS’s promotion of their foray into the reality show/retro-fetish genre. From what I can tell, “The Real Gilligan’s Island” is “Survivor” without, um, an audience I guess. I haven’t actually seen the show, and since Angie Everhart has apparently already been kicked off the island, I have no reason to. Because I really respect her draftsman-like hut-thatchery. Anyway, the promo in question is a parody of the Miller Lite “Catfight” spot replacing the hot models with hot models dressed up like Mary Ann and Ginger, and the beer with coconut cream pie. It’s what we call subtle humor. Feminist groups are naturally blasting the spot as sexist and guilty of objectifying huge luscious racks spattered with custard, err, I mean, women. In an attempt to mollify the outraged critics and downplay the controversy, TBS has added a special “extra hot, mature-audience only” director’s cut and 4-minute making-of documentary to their website. Now, I’m all for being sensitive to the wishes of middle-aged single girls with cats, but, c’mon. This is TBS. The network that invented wrestling. What did you expect? The Professor reading excerpts from Proust? Pick your battles. Like trying to make The Spice Channel free so everyone can see how offensive it is. Yeah, go do that.

Note: The “extra hot” version is only available after 10 pm, because that’s when we should all be talking about how it makes us feel over chai.

You’ve impregnated Britney Spears, you’ve got your own line of baggy clothes and all the Iced Mocha Frappachinos® you can drink until she divorces you for a younger, actually black backup dancer, and you can’t even get your ass off the golf cart YOU’RE PAYING SOMEONE ELSE TO DRIVE to take your cash cow for a walk? And you know he’s not even going to finish that. Because it’s just a Grandé, bitch. He just go get anotha wheneva he frickin’ want. This one be gettin all watery an’ shit anyways. They only like eleventeen dollars. Pay the lady, Maurice.

Ok, Phil Spector’s Wall of Hair is pretty good, too.

So the cruelest of all reality shows, Average Joe, is returning. But this time, THERE’S A TWIST! Because this time, The Joes Strike Back, probably by sweating a lot, not knowing how to dance, having receding hairlines and smothering themselves in Axe Body Spray. I’m not sure exactly how it’ll all play out, but I am sure it will involve dodge ball, a swimming pool and lots of fake tears when the insanely hot chick learns a valuable lesson about inner beauty before she goes off and gets a Dirty Sanchez from John Stamos.

And this time she’s a redhead. It’s like the self-esteem equivalent of a snuff film.

So a friend of mine went to a wedding last weekend in Alabama, or South Carolina, or Canaan, or someplace, I don’t remember. They’re all standing around while the preacher does his little sermon about how to have a successful marriage. In an obvious attempt to make the whole “footprints in the sand” chestnut his own, he starts in on how “when you’re making reservations for two, you really ought to make reservations for three, because Jesus will be there with you.” Apparently he goes on and on about how Jesus is the best dinner companion you can have, because, well, I don’t know, you can save money on drinks or you never have to ask the waiter for more bread or something. Anyway, he wraps it all up by reminding everyone that you can’t go wrong when “you have a threesome with Jesus.” At which point I’m guessing the best man totally high-fived him.

Then I found this, and have decided to immediately return to the church.

And don’t even get me started on this. Because I’d only last about 30 seconds.