Archive for June, 2009

By Patrick Ross

Let’s face it: sitcoms by definition are pretty formulaic. Guideline is set, character breaks guideline, character learns lesson, character makes up with others. The originality is supposed to be in the delivery of the laughs in between, but as you can see, sitcom writers are just damned lazy.

4) “I’ll be frank.” “Can I still be Theo?”

Worst Offenders:
The Cosby Show, Full House, the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air

Why It’s Supposed to be Funny:
You see, ‘frank’ is a rarely used word to mean ‘completely honest’, but these darn kids (or mildly retarded roommate, in Full House’s case) just see it as a name! What a delicious G-rated double entendre! This can come in any number of variations, such as the Cosby-classic “Can I still be Theo?” to the modern spins, such as “ooh! I’ll be Dave!”

Why It’s Not:
This tried-and-true line is basically one gigantic slap in the face to the American people, and a complete defamation of the character who utters the “punchline” to this “joke”. The second person in this back-and-forth is supposed to be so dim-witted that he doesn’t understand the word “frank”, automatically assumes that the person talking down to them is initiating some freakish role-play scenario, and, possibly evoking repressed memories from youth, immediately jumps on board with it.

What Would Make it Funny:
If Bill Cosby punched Theo in the face and the scene just fades to black while focusing on his son’s lifeless, bleeding heap on the ground.

I have no idea what’s going on in this picture. Wait, yes I do. That’s why I hate myself.

3) The Ironic “exact opposite of what I just said happens” Maneuver

Worst Offenders:
Every sitcom ever made.

Why It’s Supposed to be Funny:
You can’t really blame the writers for pulling out this get-out-of-jail-free card from time to time. After all, expecting one thing and experiencing the total opposite is one of the paragons of humor. This one happens so much, it’s hard to cite specific examples, but here’s an example:

 Rational character: “Don’t do that, you might hurt yourself!”
Irreverent yet lovable character: “Don’t worry, I define smooth! I have a higher-than-average self worth for reasons unknown!”
(Character #2 falls down a flight of stairs)

 You can throw in any hapless, yet affable characters in the second position and you will see where I’m coming from. Urkel, Joey Gladstone, Tim Taylor, you name it. If a character is notoriously accident prone (which, inexplicably, there is always at least one such character), this is bound to happen fifteen to twenty times an episode.

Why It’s Not:
Reread the example I gave. If even one wrinkle forms around your mouth from the beginnings of a smile forming, you deserve a swift kick to the junk.

What Would Make it Funny:
If character #2 fell down the stairs and never got up. The next episode is a touching funeral service.

 2) The “off-the-cuff birds and the bees” explanation

Worst offenders:
Full House, the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air

 Why It’s Supposed to be Funny:
Whenever a character gets pregnant on a sitcom, it’s always met with unbelievable surprise, even if it’s a known fact the couple has been trying to get pregnant for months. One of the shocked family members/friends will exclaim, “how did this happen!”. That’s where the funny begins. One friend will very bluntly explain “well, you see, when two people love each other very much…”. OH the sexual innuendos! I can’t even take it without bursting into laughter! Variations include the questioning buffoon catching his blunder, muttering “well of course I know how it HAPPENED…” with a cocked eyebrow and a suggestive smile.

Why It’s Not:
I don’t know if there’s anything easier to turn to for a cheap laugh than vague sexual references.

What Would Make it Funny:
If after the question is posed, the mom-to-be solemnly looks at the ground and says “…I was raped”.


1) The “I just inadvertently murdered my friend/roommate/loved one’s pet and sole companion, but I’ll just buy another one and he’ll never notice” Caper

Worst Offenders:
Family Matters, Seinfeld, Full House

Why It’s Supposed to Be Funny:
To be perfectly honest, I have no idea. Is this something that happens often? Sitcoms are entirely based around being able to relate, but I can’t think of one goddamned time myself or anyone I’ve ever known has lost or killed a pet or otherwise priceless possession of a friend and instead of fessing up, tried to cover it up with messy, last-minute wackiness. Again, this comes in a number of varieties. The pet is most common, but for no real reason, Family Matters seems to come back to this theme a number of times with inanimate objects. Cakes, laptops, you name it. The laptop one is actually unintentionally funny for it’s outdated-ness; Eddie wants to borrow Laura’s laptop because “I wanna go on the ‘Internet’; they have a new site:!” And upon breaking it (a comical tug-of-war because Urkel wanted to play the latest “3D computer game”), Urkel explains Laura’s laptop is missing because he “gave it to a friend who will download it with the latest softwares”. …Actually, nope, even latent with early 90s views on the Internet as a passing fad, it’s still not funny at all.

Why It’s Not:
It’s in no way realistic, and also the person who commits this heinous borderline crime should really never be talked to again for how little they can be trusted. No amount of sappy piano music at the end of the episode would make me ever talk to this asshole again.

What Would Make it Funny:
To teach the friend a lesson, the victim skins him alive and stuffs him, assuring his parents that “there’s definitely nothing different about him”.


By Russ Whiting

I’VE WORKED AS A PERSONAL TRAINER AT THE LOCAL FITNESS CLUB FOR THE PAST THREE years now, and attended the same club for almost five. In my time there, I’ve come across a vast array of people from all walks of life; some of them shining, affable individuals who have shaped my experience for the better; and then . . . from the other end of the spectrum, there are these people. These horrible, repugnant bastards:



This is an aging bar whore or a steroid abuser far past their prime; perhaps by a decade or two, if we’re being lenient. Shhh . . . don’t tell that to the uneven globs of cellulite and acne-ridden lumps protruding from gym outfits that look small enough to have been embezzled from Baby Gap!

Because going blind is not fun.


These poor beings usually fall into one of two subcategories. On the one hand, you have the man or woman that is above the standards of what is considered healthy in areas such as body fat percentage, weight, or desired muscularity for their age group, yet for some inexplicable reason, it’s just never enough. In their mind they need to be “skinnier, bigger, or (insert desired trait here).” In severe cases, this is known as Body dysmorphic disorder, and while it’s not really a laughing matter to rip on people that suffer from a psychiatric disorder (Or is it?), it’s more prevalent than you think, and worth mentioning in an elucidating sense.

On the other hand, you have someone that could be accurately classified as a liar, an ignorant sap, or a poor misguided bastard that chronically brings about self-inflicted failure. They may workout adamantly in the gym for hours at a time, but usually subject themselves to a major flaw that inhibits themselves to the point of inconclusive results every time. It’s just like an ancient Greek tragedy, only with Twinkies in place of incest and eye mutilation!

It’s great to set goals, or to aspire to build a physique that lives up to its fullest potential; however, these goals have to be well-defined and realistic. Unless you’re shoving needles into the cusp of your ass, or ingesting pills that are made to stimulate horses, results aren’t going to come overnight. Overall, it should be about your health and well being, not looking like a human anatomy chart or running twenty miles a day on a diet consisting of a crouton and two fronds of lettuce. Remember kids, if you tore your bicep from overworking it, or your shins have burst through the skin from excessive running, then a day or two off once in a while isn’t going to kill you. And ladies, I will still bang you even if you can’t cut off the flow of blood to my cock with your adductors.

Another thing that helps is what I like to call “not being a complete and utter dumb-ass.” Point in case: The overweight guy who spends four hours at the gym, partaking in every cardio, spin, and swimming class that is offered to him with the gusto of a pedophile at a playground. Let’s call him Ron.
After accomplishing such impressive feats of human tenacity and endurance, Ron goes home and proceeds to devour four pounds of cupcakes and a small child and then comes back wondering “Why he just can’t seem to shed any weight.” If you’re making the effort to discipline yourself in the gym, why not instill this in your diet as well? Devouring every Hostess or Little Debby snack item in sight may not be the best approach.


No true list of loathsome individuals at the gym would be complete without this pitiful clown. It doesn’t matter if he’s lifting five pound dumbbells over his head, or doing tricep kickbacks for eight hundred – this guy or chick has been created in life with only one fundamental purpose etched into their brain: and that’s to grunt like a bloated, constipated mule while at the gym!

Sure, I’m all for getting into the zone during your workouts. And sure, I’ve been known to exert a bit of audible breathing during a bout of intense muscular contraction. But does the whole damn gym really need to hear the blubbering wails of someone who sounds like they just busted a nut on a Kodiak bear’s face? These banshee shrieks are usually accompanied by the weights being slammed onto the floor in an attempt to bring even more attention to their endeavors.

“Yes, we hear you loud and clear, douche bag. And we still want to stab you with an ice pick through your heart.”


I know there are other people here that could really make expedient and advantageous use of this machine or exercise bench, but I think I’ll just pitch a tent, spread a picnic blanket, and sit here like an inebriated sloth on disability!”

They’re only there when you need to get something done, leisurely loafing around like the gigantic bags of shit that they are. Extra points if they decided to whip out their cell phone while they’re “working out”, or if they stare at you like you just spit in their baby’s face when you ask them how much longer they’ll be there – on the very same machine they’ve been on for the past 45 minutes.


You could be Mr. Olympia or even have written several books on kinesiology. None of that matters! Because this person just expediently skimmed over the latest article in Men’s Diary Issue #69, and you’re totally doing it wrong!

“Yo dawg, ever tried that exercise while juggling two medicine balls and clenching your left ass cheek at a hypotenuse angle?”
“No, but I’d sure like to finish a fucking repetition without hearing your grating, harpy-like voice!”

What a sweetheart! She had the “philanthropic” and “practical” intentions to squeeze into a pair of spandex pants so tight, that I can see the cleft of her glutes with each step she takes on the treadmill! That, and every individual nook, cranny, and pore of her taint.
Oh wait, here’s another classy vixen, wearing lycra shorts the size of a baby’s bib and stretching with her ass six inches away from my face on the bench press! Bless her innocuous little soul!

This can be a catch twenty two. Either you are so mesmerized that the sight of her pulls you in like a modern day siren’s song, and then BOOM, you have fallen off the treadmill in a gangly pile of limbs and other extremities; or you’re a shy guy and you can’t even use your favorite exercise machine because she’s perched upon one in the same vicinity like some jungle lioness in heat. So what’s the good part? It may actually motivate you to work out more often, if only for a glimpse of her sweet, sweet can. This also makes you a sad, lonely little man that doesn’t deserve the touch of a woman.
The best, and perhaps most deliciously paradoxical part of her dressing so scantily is that ninety nine percent of the people like you that attempt to talk to her while she’s performing squat thrusts like a nubile whore will be brushed away like insignificant granules of dirt and doo-doo. I’m sorry sweety, you don’t want to get hit on, you just want to be the hottest chick in the gym! My mistake!


“Every breath you take, every move you make. I’ll be watching you.”

You’ve just about finished your final repetition after a solid chest workout, and you find that the Watcher is still lurking there in the corner, pretending to do bicep curls. Your eyes abhorrently move to his position, but he looks away and pretends that he’s engaged in something other than intently watching perspiration glean off your body. As soon as you look away, he’s on you again, watching. Waiting . . .

Unless you’re a fifteen year old girl with no friends, enjoy being the target of pedophilia, or are Lindsay Lohan, this is unnerving as fuck, and we damn well know it’s not simply because he’s “making sure you’re using correct form.” This has actually affected me on a personal basis, and I sobbed openly like a sniveling child while typing this paragraph. Remind me to tell the story in a future article on day.


This guy seems to exist for no other reason than to materialize whenever you’re done with your workout and heading into the locker room; it doesn’t matter what you’re doing; taking a piss, changing quietly from your workout attire, or simply tying an errant shoelace. There he’ll be: that slovenly, hairy old dude. And oh yeah, he’s not wearing any clothes.

Sure, that’s what the locker room is there for. There are lockers (!), showers, toiletries, sometimes even saunas and steam rooms. But those are merely there for decoration when this guy’s on the prowl. Instead of going from one hygienic task to the next in a time-efficient, conventional manner that ninety nine percent of the normal population engages in, this guy is seen languidly lounging around the locker room benches like some ancient Roman dinner banquet attendee, the white towel draped loosely around his waist serving as the metaphorical toga.

The aforementioned could merely be relegated to irritating behavior, but no. Oh dear God, no. Things go terribly awry and fast. Naked old guy usually finds it pertinent to sweep one leg up on the bench for unknown reasons: like a blasphemous Captain Morgan, fully displaying his floppy, drooping balls. He’s just standing there, trying to uphold a conversation or humming annoyingly to himself, while his dank junk is dangling and swinging plainly for all to see like they’re the oscillating pendulum of a perverse grandfather clock. To add insult to eye-raping injury, Old Man Dangly is usually attempting (unsuccessfully) to apply a coat of Gold Bond medicated powder to his loins, hilariously and nauseatingly missing the mark by a long shot, and instead littering the floor and other people’s gym bags in a chalky white blanket analogous to some deviant Christmas morning.
“Sure is nice weather we’re having isn’t it? Oop, excuse me, I seemed to have missed a spot.”
“The forecast from my end says I’m going to stuff you and your old balls into a locker if you don’t hurry the hell up!”

By Patrick Ross and Russ Whiting

We all loved the television shows we grew up watching. They will always have a special, nostalgic place in our hearts. But sometimes people take their love of things way too far, and in frighteningly bizarre formats. Like insanely detailed Wikipedia articles, for instance!

4. Clifford the Big Red Dog
I Think I Remember This… If you grew up in the early-to-mid-90s, chances are you have vague, probably terrifying memories of this mutated freak of nature. Clifford the Big Red Dog, outside of having the least creative name in the history of fictional animals, was a gift to young Emily, a girl who clearly lacked the social skills required to maintain friends of her own species or proportion. Clifford was actually given as a smaller-than-average puppy, but due to the immense amount of love and compassion Emily showed towards him, he inexplicably grew to dinosauric proportions. Okay, hold on. So, you’re saying that the message that Clifford delivers to children is that if you love and care for your animals, they will become gargantuan horrors, become nearly impossible to look after, and will inevitably live a shortened, unsatisfying life culminating in a painful death soon thereafter of horrible heart complications. Nice.

Wait, What the Fuck?
This article starts off innocently enough, with brief, frank descriptions of the book series. Things begin becoming sour, however, when describing the television adaptation, which for me falls under the “They made a cartoon out of this? Why?” category. Let’s take a look at the entry most offensive to sane, functional members of society:

Presumably what the author of this article dresses like on a daily basis

“Clifford The Big Red Dog: Male red dog, based on a giant Vizsla. Friendly, outgoing and helpful. He sometimes gets into trouble because of his size or is tempted into trouble by his friends andthose he meets. Clifford’s size, like giants in medieval legends, is inconsistent — he is often shown as being about 15′ tall from paws to head, but can appear far larger — in one episode he removes the top of the lighthouse and swims out with it to guide the ferry through the fog to the dock.”

My dear God. I have a hard time believing that Clifford is modeled after anything based in this plane of reality. The conversation following the inspiration for this abominable series must have been something like this: “What do kids like? Dogs! What would they like even more? BIG RED DOGS!”.

The discrepancies over the exact size of Clifford is just plain laughable. A man honestly sat in his basement, watching ole Cliff’s latest shenanigans (presumably on his own time, for fun), and spit out his Mountain Dew in outrage upon witnessing Clifford swim out with the top of a lighthouse. “He is 15 feet tall dammit! What is so hard to get about that?! 15 feet from paw to snout! I swear to God, someone better have gotten their asses fired for that gaffe!”

“In no way does this coincide with episode s2e07! Have people no integrity?! God, I’m worthless.”

Probable Next, Overly Detailed Update: “It should be noted that Clifford producing offspring is improbable, if not impossible. Clifford’s genitalia, although never explicitly shown or touched upon, would be over four feet long, larger than most earthen canines in their entirety, and would likely impale and kill any common female dog immediately upon insertion. It is for this reason that Clifford is destined to live a life of solitude, eternally damned by his freakish stature.”

3. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles III
I Think I Remember This . . .

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles! Fucking radicalllllll, awesome, tubularrrr! Turtle Power! If hearing these titular words, or even some of those catch phrases doesn’t instill some sort of excitement or sentimental bravado in you; then your childhood was absolutely terrible, your parents were worthless, and I’d love to spit a wad of bile and excrement into your sniveling, pig-like face!

Err . . . anyways, in the late 80s and early 90s, these guys were as pervasive to you and I as quivering little boy anus to a certain pop singer! By no stretch of any imagination should I have to elaborate on who these “turtles four” were, but just in case your parents actually abandoned you in a dank sewer shortly after birth (which is the only possible explanation for not knowing who they are, and ironically, where the turtles lived) then hang on to your . . . shells, because Sensei Russ is here to hold your hands as we board the nostalgic Cowabunga Express back down memory lane!

. . .Fuck, I hate myself right now.

The brothers are anthropomorphized (mutatered) turtles that wear colored bandanas on their heads, love pizza, and talk like surfers – they are also trained in the ways of the ninja by their half man, half rat mentor, Splinter! They kicked ass, hung out with a fiery redhead reported named April O’Neill – whom they probably all banged out at one point or another, and captured our hearts in the process! They made billions of dollars, spawned an empire of merchandising, and even starred in one of my favorite movies of all time, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles! The first one! But as is the case in life, the first flick spawned sequels . . . the horrible, horrible sequels.

“Hey guys, it’s me, the actor playing Donatello! I know you can’t see my face right now – but I’m crying! If your parents ever catch you doing drugs, or engaging in pre-marital sex, feel free to blame it on this movie – that way it will get pulled off the shelves and hopefully burned!”

Wait, What the Fuck?

Alright, so maybe griping about somebody voluntarily summarizing the third installment of our beloved Ninja Turtles on the big screen could be perceived as somewhat persnickety; I would go so far as to call myself perhaps the world’s biggest douchebag for conceptualizing in my head even one word that goes into this pitiful, worthless article! But hell, who would I be if I didn’t bring awareness to individuals that are bigger, more worthless, sniveling dorks than even me – and that sure would be the author of the Wikipedia article for Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles III!

You might remember this as a young kid as the one where the mutated bros go back in time to feudal Japan to fight some unsavory Asian samurai types that are pillaging innocent villages and raping women – pretty much the activities that ninety percent of real life Japanese people engage in today; according to my extensive research on Japanese culture (Hentai comic books and graphic tentacle rape films). Who am I kidding, you probably remember this as the one where the most exciting part of the movie was wiping Daddy’s drool off your shirt while he snored obliviously.

The summary of the flick is fine and dandy until the undoubtedly impotent author begins throwing in little snippets of overly pretentious and bombastic description to relate seemingly insignificant and pointless events. It’s like all of a sudden, Bitch Titties (the real name of the author, don’t worry, I double checked this), sitting there in his Chef Boyardee beefaroni stained t-shirt, got word that some prestigious Harvard professor or Gene Siskel’s ghost would be analyzing his Wikipedia entry – and then awarding and lauding him with a free Doctorate degree and a voracious, spit-laden handjob.

Point in case:
“In 20th-century New York, Kenshin is becoming impatient and worried. To placate them, Casey introduces him, and the Honor Guards, to ice hockey. However, this plan comically goes awry when the Guards believe that hockey consists of players beating one another.”

Whoa, okay there brainiac. Why don’t you just settle down for a minute. First of all, this is the shittiest of the Ninja Turtle movies. If you’re looking to show off your literary prowess, this is not the time, nor the place. This is a movie we watched when we were eight to ten years old, we could barely get hard-ons, much less worry about what Casey Jones is doing to ‘placate’ Asian men. And how in any way did this plan go comically awry? I don’t even remember the vaguest hint of a smile forming in the corners of my mouth while watching this film even as a fourth grader, so unless you are the scriptwriter’s father, or just a sycophantic queer that enjoys kissing ass, I suggest you go back in and edit this part of the article immediately. This brings me to another brain-buster:

“The Turtles then debate whether or not to go home, wishing to remain on grounds that they are appreciated and respected in feudal Japan, unlike 20th-century New York City where they must hide underground to avoid being targets of human xenophobia.”

Wow, you really deserve a beating, don’t you? Okay, we get it, the turtles aren’t really well received by the public – let’s not turn this into your college thesis for fuck’s sake. We’re not talking about the Civil Rights Act of 1964, or Donatello refusing to give up his seat on the front of the bus or something. If the Turtles were really hated that badly in present day New York, I’m sure the United States military could have sent in a battalion of Special Forces troops with better aim than Bebop and Rocksteady to flush them out of the sewers. Or easier still, they could have had that one lonesome pizza boy who always gets stuck delivering to the “goddamn sewer grating,” as he called it, to simply slip some rat poison into their pepperoni and plankton pizza, or whatever the hell it is that turtles eat. But no – the boys didn’t hate their lives, as Bitch Titties seems to think; those rebellious rapscallions were probably just going through their angsty, Goth phase! They are teenagers after all! They’re turtles four, so cut ‘em some slack! (Yup, that was a pun based off the theme song and yes, I’m a bad ass)

Not pictured in this movie poster, the subtitle: “My Childhood Being Raped.”

Probable Next, Overly-Detailed Update:

Michelangelo, lamenting the fact that he has impregnated a Vietnamese prostitute, decides to travel back in time to the day that said whore was conceived, shoving the bluntest end of his nunchucks into the mother’s freshly distended vagina – thus performing the first Teenage Mutant Ninja Abortion. Say, that would have been an even better name for this movie!

2. Steve Urkel
I Think I Remember This…

If you’re anything like me, television completely raised you, and you learned more about growing up and how to deal with problems from Danny Tanner and the Full House gang than you did from your own parents (also a child’s first glimpse into vague homosexual ambiguity). ABC’s TGIF lineup was about as can’t-miss-action when I was a kid as twisted rape fantasy clips on RedTube are today (don’t judge me). This block of saccharin-sweet, family-friendly drivel contained one particularly nauseating gem: this show was called Family Matters, which during the first maybe one and a half episodes was an applicable show name. For the remaining 99% of the show’s embarrassing tenure, however, the show may as well have been called “Not Like the Family Matters at All, Because Steve Urkel is Time Traveling Forward and Backward, Cloning Human Flesh, Improving God’s Design Tenfold, Curing Incurable Disease and Generally Taking a Dump on Every Rule of Science and Faith”.

Proposed intro scene for season 2.

If there was ever an example of placing all of your eggs in one horrifyingly annoying, blood boiling basket, it would be this. Family Matters was thrown together at the tail-end of a board meeting after the intern who was blowing both Miller and Boyett suggested a show about a well-off black family with normal, everyday problems, the likes of which are usually in no way entertaining to watch the solutions to. Not having the heart to tell her that the Cosby Show already existed, this abortion was hastily put into production. What many people (except miserable, pathetic twentysomethings trapped in a nine year old’s body such as myself) don’t know is that Family Matters was actually a spinoff of Perfect Strangers, a show about two very different people living together and the inevitable hilarity that ensued! While most spinoffs feature a breakout character that audiences demand more airtime for (Frasier, The Jeffersons, Go Diego Go!…what?), Family Matters was a show inexplicably created about and centered around the elevator operator on Perfect Strangers, and the completely normal life in which she lived.

Before I get into the Steve Urkel Wikipedia entry, let’s take a jaunt over to the “List of Family Matters Episodes” just to illustrate the complete 180 this show did:

Episode 3: “Short Story” October 6, 1989 Rachel’s short story has characters that hit too close to home. Carl investigates the family water bill.
Well that sounds markedly average. Like an episode of the Cosby Show, only probably not even remotely humorous. I sure hope the characters learned a lesson about themselves along the way!

Episode 193: “A Pirate’s Life For Me” March 14, 1997 Urkel and Carl go back in time on board a 1700s pirate vessel, where they are made to walk the plank after Urkel accidentally drops his time travel watch overboard. Can they escape back to their present time before they become sharkbait?
I have no words for this. A show originally about a family finding themselves and loving one another somehow degenerated into a weekly 22 minute circus concerning time-travelling pirates. How did this happen? Steven Q. Urkel of course. What is he all about? I’ll let the deranged, pathetic miscreant who wrote the Wiki on him tell the story he was born to tell!

Wait, What the Fuck?
A few of these articles we’ve painfully outlined start out well enough, and then apparently the utter excitement of the dredge of society who wrote the article takes over, and it just mutates into a pithy, verbose puddle of liquid excrement (or a pile of solid, pristine gold, depending on your view of things). This article, however, is an exception. The entire thing is just verbal garbage from start to finish. It was genuinely difficult to choose just a few examples to show from this minefield of mindfucks, but here is what might be my favorite excerpt:

“The Urkels are very intelligent people; Steve and his family were known to do the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle in pen in about 20 minutes. However, Urkel’s parents did not love him. This is made clear through the recurring gags of comical verbal and physical abuse mentioned in the show (i.e.: his parents set a curfew for when he is allowed to come home at midnight, used birthday candles that blew up, etc.) When he was born his parents tried to push him back in and his parents do not own a car because he was born in one. In 1995, his parents moved to Russia without Steve, because he didn’t want to go, apparently disowning him.”

At this point in the Wiki article, it becomes less an objective chronicle of a television show and more a vicious diatribe of the author’s own miserable life, using Urkel as a guise for his own embarrassing being. It’s like the kid in third grade who would always explain issues with “my friend has this problem, and it’s definitely not me”. Yeah, just like that, except for the laughably socially inept crowd.

“I’m in a prison of my own emotions! I mean, Urkel is!”

The anonymous Urkel aficionado has chronicled and cited specific examples of Steve’s parents utterly loathing and eventually denying his existence. Urkel’s parents placed an unforgivable burden on the Winslows by fleeing to an opposite hemisphere without anyone’s prior knowledge, and the pariah who wrote this article in his own free time commiserates with the situation. Look, everyone has outlets. Some people play music. Some people keep a journal. Some people live vicariously through a sitcom character by writing a painfully profuse Wikipedia article.

Probable Next, Overly-Detailed Update:
“In an upcoming episode, I…I mean Urkel comes home to find his personal belongings engulfed in flames on the front yard. Everyone I’ve ever loved has left me and I’ll never be happy and my dad didn’t love me enough and I hate my life and I’m going to just grab my brother’s gun and do it tonight, I swear. ….Oops I mean ‘he’. Not ‘I’, ‘he’.”

1. Scooby-Doo
I Think I Remember This . . .

Oh, Scoobert! This is the Wikipedia entry that started it all, folks – the catalyst for innumerable jokes and the source of endless entertainment between me and my esteemed colleague Patrick (Perhaps a testament to just how pathetic a grown man’s life can be). It was stumbling upon this very article in the prestigious world of Wiki that made me realize that there are worthless dorks among us – dorks with an unyielding zealousness for Scooby Dooby Doo knowledge! And for that . . . I both love – and commensurately loathe them.

“Like, what are we all about Scoob?” You know Scooby Doo. This is just like the Ninja Turtles summary, I shouldn’t have to explain this shit to you. The gang was a bunch of “meddlesome kids” who drove around in their psychedelic van, smoked weed everyday (Okay, this was only actually the dog and his dirty hippy friend), and solved perplexing mysteries that would have stultified even this era’s greatest detectives! These kids were alright, weren’t they? These mysteries usually involved a simple janitor or humble groundskeeper inexplicably disguising himself in a state of the art, intricately designed, technological zenith of a ghost suit that would have put Tony Stark to shame. Janitors sure made a lot back in those days, didn’t they?
“Rhy’d you rave to rame me Roobert! RHY RATE YOU ROM!”

Wait, What the Fuck?
“Alright, alright, you’re going to make fun of some unwitting, innocent Wikipedia entry author yet again. What’s the catch this time?” Well, I’m glad you asked! You see, I wouldn’t mind it if the posting had simply sufficed in writing about Scooby Doo’s appearance and “anatomy,” (yes, that is how it’s titled in the piece) and even his personality:

“Scooby has some difficulty with pronunciation (because he is a dog), and tends to pronounce most words as if they begin with an “R”. His catch phrase, usually howled at the end of every episode, is “Scooby-Dooby-Doo!” or “Rooby-Rooby-Roo.”

Haha, sure, sure. Everyone knows that! (And might I thank the author for pointing out that he has difficulty speaking a human language because of the fact that he’s a dog! Remarkable information! I had always thought it was because his unparalleled skills of articulation and phonetic ability had been hindered by excessive sniffing of Velma’s ass). That’s just loveable ol’ Scoob, talking with an “R” at the beginning of each word. Having a speech impediment of such affable proportions is great fun, we know this as well!

“Rhy rlept with your rife rast right, ross!” (I slept with your wife last night boss) Or, “Rhy rhave you the RHIV rirus in your rutt!” (I gave you AIDS in your butt, enjoy dying). Try it some time!

Where what little respect I had for the author completely diminishes, and turns into outright pity, is when he/she/it concocts a Scooby Doo family tree; complete with every canine, four legged creature, or monstrosity that could have ever dreamed of being in the Doo Family Lineage. Sure, Scrappy Doo seems to ring a bell, and was annoying as all fuck, but Yankee Doodle Doo? Yabba Doo? What’s going on here? Now I realize that the author didn’t create all these characters, and Hanna Barbera and their conglomerated turd heap of ideas is what produced such filth; but I’ll be damned if I won’t blame it on the author anyways, simply for bringing them up (and also being born)!

“Yankee-Doodle-Doo: Scooby’s ancestor. Not much is known about him. He appears to be a pilgrim.”

A pilgrim? Alright, that just doesn’t even make one fucking lick of sense with the words Yankee Doodle in close proximity. A dog named Yankee Doodle Doo should be dry humping the American flag, wearing star spangled boxing shorts like Apollo Creed, and unquestionably be savagely murdered in an equivalent fashion to our black boxing friend. Are we talking Pilgrims that came over on the Mayflower? Why not name him Bartholomew Doo . . . Standish or something equally retarded? Strike one, author. Strike one.

“Yabba-Doo: Scooby’s brother, a white dog owned by Deputy Dusty in the American southwest. Unlike Scooby’s and Scrappy’s, his typical custom catch-phrase at the end is “Yippity-Yabbity-Doooo!!!” (and not “Yabba-Dabba-Doo!”, presumably due to another Hanna-Barbera character’s usage of that phrase).”

Admittedly, cowboys are cool, and paradigmatic bad-asses through and through (Until Ang Lee came along). But I have to venture the question, what in God’s name is up with that catch phrase? Is Yabba Doo so hopped up on moonshine that he can’t muster up the state of mind to vociferate his excitement in a way that doesn’t make him look like an inbred hick? I understand Fred Flinstone took his most feasible catch phrase, but “Yippity-Yabbity?” Surely the anthropomorphic dog of a Deputy deserves better than this.

“The John Wayne of the Scooby Doo lineage, the enigmatic Yabba Doo”

Which brings us to the ultimate travesty, the one and only:

Dumper Scoots: A confused lion that thinks he is a dog. Having the same speech pattern as Scooby-Doo, he believes he is Scooby’s cousin.

Sweet Jesus. Was Hanna-Barbera even trying at this point anymore? Dumper Scoots? Something that by all accounts should be the nickname for the liver-spotted geriatric lady that plops an steaming shit on her nursing home’s front lawn every morning?

Let’s just even say that one day a lion becomes self-cognizant to the point of conversing with the world in a distinctly human manner; is Scooby Doo the best that he can ascribe to be? I know if I were a lion (not just in the sack, which you probably already know) and I was graced with the gift with which Dumper Scoots was so fortunately blessed, I’d at least have sweet talked Daphne into sitting spread eagle on my bushy mane for some frolicksome romps in the jungle savannah – not hanging out with an oversized Marmaduke and his human friend, both of whom eat dog treats while high. I know Scooby Snacks are gourmet dog treats, but have some fucking self respect, Shaggy. What do I know though, supposedly these wonderful snacks transcend all boundaries in life, even the anguish of heartache:

“Amber: In Scooby-Doo and the Alien Invaders, Shaggy and Scooby are kidnapped by the “aliens” and abandoned in the desert. There they meet a wild life photographer, Crystal and her dog Amber. Scooby was heart broken when it is revealed that Amber and Crystal are actually aliens from another planet and must go home, though he and Shaggy quickly forget about them when they found out there was one more Scooby Snack box left.”

RHAT’S OUR ROOBY! Don’t let alien bitches get you down, kids – just smoke a bowl and stuff yourself silly on whatever your metaphorical Scooby Snack may be. There you have it! Thousands of dollars wasted on therapy or counseling can be solved by simply abiding by the mantra of a dog named Doo.

Probable Next, Overly-Detailed Entry:
Glory Rory “Hole” Doo: In Scooby-Doo’s Bathroom Capers, Shaggy and Scooby stumble upon a ghost that is causing a ruckus in a public bathroom facility! Armed with their irrefutable stink and a box of Scooby Snacks, Scooby and Shaggy are shocked to learn that Scooby’s second uncle is already on the case, Glory Rory “Hole” Doo! And he is already suckling the poor ghost into a conniption fit of submission between two adjacent bathroom stalls! GLORY RORYYYYYYY ROOOOOO!