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1. Yes, I Can Absolutely Believe It's Not Butter

And what kind of name is "I can't believe it's not butter" for a product, anyway?  Is it a perjorative statement of one's inability to trust their instincts... or is it an admission of a deep-seeded and twisted denial of what they've known to be the truth since the beginning?  Never has a dairy substitute so sternly demanded an introspection into what it really means to be human, indeed, to be just one among shelves and shelves of choices in the seemingly endless aisle that is our moral labyrinth.  The truth is, my head tells me that stuff in the tub is definitely not butter, but my heart believes that it is.  Every fiber of my being, every bit of my marrow, every piece of my soul believes... I think we all believe.  Only together, only united can we truly overcome this plague of confusing and manipulative packaging.  I don't know about you, but I'm tired of uppity ad executives suggesting questions that I really don't have the answers to.  Here's an idea that will not only strengthen their brand, but save money on print and eliminate all this confusion... shorten the name to "Not Butter."  It's simple, direct, to the point, and unpretentious... like having David Mamet edit a Samuel Beckett play.  If you're keeping score at home, I just won a bet for mentioning Samuel Beckett in the same article as I Can't Believe It's Not Butter, and that's a little epic.  People, you can keep on believing it's butter all you want, but at some point you're going to have to admit to yourself that you're living a lie.  It's probably going to involve a fair amount of counseling, some mood stabilizers, and a long conversation with your father that I think we've all seen coming for a while, now... be strong, be strong for all of us.

2. I've Seen "Con Air" More Times Than I Can Count On Both Hands

 

Wow, that was a lot harder to say than I thought it would be, but it's true.  I'm addicted to terrible movies.  Any possible combination of Nick Cage and/or John Travolta in a big-budget spectacular will get me to cough up twelve bucks for a ticket faster than a re-make of "The Jazz Singer" with Kevin James in blackface.  Actually, I'd go see that in a heartbeat... Hollywood, are you listening?  And when are we going to get a look at "Broken Arrow 2?"  It's been far too long between Howie Long vehicles and the sharp, stabbing pain in my brain is almost gone… and I think I’m starting to miss it, just a little bit.  If "Face Off" has taught us anything, it's that John Travolta trying to act like Nick Cage acting like John Travolta is no more interesting than John Travolta trying to act like a throw-rug or a poorly trimmed shrubbery or an infant that can talk.  "Look Who's Talking" had like, three sequels and I can't get a little "Battlefield Earth 2?"  The first movie was just so unclear about whether or not scientologists are completely fucking crazy that I really need a sequel to give me some closure.  What's that?  You want me to star in a movie about having to break into Alcatraz to stop a group of militants from wreaking havoc on the city of San Francisco?  Why, that sounds so plausible that we can't possibly not make this movie!  Speaking of plausibility, I'm afraid that it is my duty to inform all of you that any movie involving time-travel is automatically ridiculous because time travel is impossible.  Like, really impossible.  Here's what would really happen if you were able to travel at the speed of light: You'd go really fast for a while.  That's it.  Buildings don't magically rebuild themselves from fifty years ago, people long dead don't become reanimated, and the notion that you might be able to run into your past or future self is so fucking ludicrous that only past, present, and future Nick Cage could possibly pull it off.  

3. I Don't Like "Pearl Jam," Not Even a Little Bit

 

Do you know that I've actually lied about not liking Pearl Jam on more than one occasion.  Isn't that fucked up?  I've tried to like them, I really have... but goddamn it, I just don't... and somehow, I've become insecure about it.  That's information that I usually keep locked in my vault of shame along with the fact that I'm a huge Billy Joel fan (which I am) and that I enjoy watching soccer (which I do).  Every time I've told anybody that I don't like Pearl Jam, they look at me like it's 1957 and I just told them that I was Russian.  I'm sorry, but I can't understand what the fuck Eddie Vetter is talking about and the last place that I want to be at a concert is wedged between a sweaty dude with no shirt and a hemp necklace and some gross hippie who hopped off the Grateful Dead tour bus and onto the Pearl Jam tour bus as they passed each other on the highway in 1994.  And for someone who doesn't particularly like their music, I seem to go to an awful lot of their shows.  I think I've been to like, four Pearl Jam concerts, which just goes to show you what a fucking mess I am.  The last one I was at, I smoked a bunch of opium, drank a bottle and a half of red wine, drove home, wretched my guts out all night, then couldn't find my car in center city Philadelphia for a day and a half only to find out that it had been towed shortly after I parked it vertically in a horizontal parking spot on the side of JFK boulevard.  I don't remember any of the concert, but I'm sure I would've hated it, anyway. 

4. I Like “Wilco,” But I’m Also Pretty Sure That I Hate Everybody Else Who Likes “Wilco”

 

Wilco is easily the greatest band of all time.  That phrase struck my eardrums with such force that I almost fell off my barstool.  I almost immediately checked my nose to see if my brain was bleeding and, of course, it was.  I’ve had the same allergic reaction since I was six or seven, every time I hear hyperbole becoming slowly accepted as fact, my brain bleeds a little bit.  Now, listen Wilco shirt and skinny jeans, your French bulldog is adorable, but I’m pretty sure that I saw three or four other people walking that same dog on my way to this bar… and I’m not totally convinced that you guys aren’t just handing him off to each other around the corner somewhere, jingling the keys on your belt as a signal to pass him off like a relay baton.  Wilco is easily the greatest band of all time -  that’s not even up for debate, apparently.  Apologies to The Beatles, Steely Dan, Blue Oyster Cult, David Bowie, Mark Knopfler, and The Talking Heads… you guys clearly need to get yourselves some Chuck Taylors and a couple of obnoxious belt buckles.  No, David Byrne, I don’t care if you’re trying to rouse me from my superficial, cookie-cutter, shallow-and-loving-it suburban nirvana... you need a cooler belt buckle.  Maybe, like, one with a PBR logo on it or Che Guevara portrait on the front?  Get your shit together, David Byrne.                                        

5. If I Was Stranded On A Desert Island And Could Only Have One Book, It Would Be "The DaVinci Code" Because I'll Only Read Something If Tom Hanks Is In It

 

What I want to know is, if Steven Spielberg loves to direct Tom Hanks so much, why didn't he take him into consideration when he wrote "Jurassic Park?"  I mean, I love Sam Neil as much as the next guy, but let's stick to a proven formula, here.  The fact is, Tom Hanks plus over-written, nonsensical, literary garbage equals box-office gold!  If only Dan Brown had the foresight to have written "The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo" before that Swedish guy, then I probably would've seen that movie.  Listening to somebody trying to explain the plot of "The DaVinci Code" is almost as painful as being the person trying to explain the plot of "The DaVinci Code."  No, No you get either a believable premise or Tom Hanks, Mr. Howard.  We don't have the budget for both.  Of course you take Tom Hanks, because he's way better than Morgan Freeman was in those James Patterson books.  Dan Brown has the right idea after all, if I can't finish a book before my order of corn-dog bites and a medium diet coke, I'm pretty much over it, anyway.  I just finished Dan Brown’s most recent novel, “The Lost Symbol,” and here’s a spoiler alert: It’s absolutely terrible and the shocking twist ending is that the several hundred pages preceding it are a complete waste of time.  Tonight, I think I’ll spend some time Googling random conspiracy theories and intersplicing them with bits of dialogue and conjunctions that I’ve managed to insert inside my magic eight ball.  You can pick up a copy of whatever it turns out to be at your local airport, soon. 

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