Once in a lifetime, a movie comes along that changes the way we look at taxidermied deer, gonads, and moon fetuses; “Gentlemen Broncos” is that movie. While I cannot honestly say it is the best film I’ve ever watched, I can honestly say it is the best worst film I’ve ever watched, and that is exactly what I believe it was intended to be.

Jemaine Clement, of Flight of the Conchords fame, pulls off an Oscar-worthy performance as unethical sci-fi writer Dr. Chevalier. I had to rewind almost every scene he starred in because he had me laughing so hard I found myself missing parts of his hilarious dialogue.

“Gentlemen Broncos” was written and directed by the creative geniuses who brought us “Napoleon Dynamite,” and just like Napoleon, this movie grows on you the more you watch it.

If you have a great sense of humor, aren’t squeamish about vomit, and have access to a medical marijuana prescription, you’ll love “Gentlemen Broncos.”

Jack in the box (fucking sucks)

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Date: 2010-03-18, 7:24PM PDT

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People still eat this shit?

Just in case you don’t know; Jack in the box is not “real” food.

Stop being so fucking stupid.
•Location: fucking sucks
•it’s NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
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Half convinced the Sadistic Eyelash Curler from Hell was real or one day could be, you decide to celebrate the gift that is your ability to see. In honor of your incredible luck at not having gone blind yet, you opt to enjoy the one thing that makes life almost worth living: the 1984 classic film, The Brother from Another Planet.

Oh, you’re not aware of this stunning cinematic achievement? Well, then. I guess you’re not like me after all. Allow me to introduce you to the best synopsis of all time. What follows is almost exactly what was written in the Netflix text blurb, give or take some words on account of my Xanax intake at the time I read and attempted to memorize it.

An adult humanoid slave from outer space lands on Earth and must evade bounty hunters while attempting to win over his would-be adopters with his technical wizardry. The Brother From Another Planet is a heartfelt look at race and belonging.

Now, you may be saying to yourself, “Sybil, why is it so important that I maintain my eye health so that I might enjoy this ’80s blockbuster?”

And to you I might say, “Why ask such obvious rhetorical questions when so many more important queries exist. Queries such as, How can I reach the Brother’s level of technical wizardry so that I, too, may one day fix a broken arcade game with the touch of my hand? What set of skills must I acquire so that I, also, could regenerate my three-toed foot after crash landing on another planet and sustaining serious injury to my walking pod region? These are the important inquiries one must focus on at the present moment.”

“I see,” you say.

“And a good thing that is, sir/madam. Because if you could not see, you would have no idea what the fuck was going on in The Brother from Another Planet. And that is because the Brother is mute. He is a bona fide anti-talker. This dude is communicating on a level Scooby Doo can’t decipher. Elephants cannot hear this man. His screams of pain and longing are in freaking capable of being perceived by the human ear.

That’s right; you better thank your lucky Russian spy satellites that you can see, because if you were blind, you’d be looking at one hour, forty-nine minutes, and twenty-seven seconds of confusion. Well, literally, you wouldn’t be looking at anything, of course, but the real bummer is you couldn’t even get a mind picture of what the hell was happening on screen. Your ability to hear any kind of plot in this film is rendered moot since the protag makes less sound than my grandma’s debarked collie.”

So, I think we’ve all learned something here today. Appreciate your most important sense (the one you ALWAYS choose to keep in a game of Would You Rather) and by God, do not waste another minute using it to gaze at anything besides the most entertaining display of technical wizardry to hit the screen since Short Circuit 2 robot rolled into town.

*She hates when I call her my death mother. I don’t know why. I also don’t know why strangers ask me what orphanage I’m from when I refer to her as Birth Mother in public.

“Egg Donor,” I said, one wintry eve, whilst attempting to quash my eating claw’s proclivity for robotically jerking its way over to the rooster-shaped dish in front of me and picking up the stick of butter like some prize stuffed animal in an arcade machine and jamming it into my open gob. “What are you making me for supper?”

“Turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and pie,” she said. She then screamed at the obese family dog to back away from the oven before he “burned his beautiful fur coat off.”

With a great heave she hoisted a giant roasting pan out of the Plath-killer and over to the granite-topped island where I supervised, taking copious mental notes. She slammed it with such violent fervor that I wondered if her Ove Gloves did not have the maximum flesh protection their infomercial boasts. She shook the residual heat from her hands while screaming “Yowza!” and I ignored her cry for help and instead looked upon the vessel in which she’d baked my “vegetarian” stuffing.

I eyed the sick beast sprawled out before me, shaking my head in dismay.

“When did Ralph’s start selling pterodactyl carcasses and where is my Tofurkey, damnit?”

“Nikki! Don’t say bad words and it’s not a pterodactyl.”

“Pshaa, woman. I’ve not seen a sky beast so large since my days of watching Pee Wee’s Playhouse. You killed Pterry! Now how will neglected children celebrate the word of the day?”

“Oh, stop. Have some more eggnog,” she said, by way of silencing me.

I obeyed, but only because it was Lite.

After dinner, I scanned the room for a rogue Rascal I might ride to the bathroom, but could not find one. Angry at having to walk the thirty paces to the room of rest, I grunted and glared and pulled myself up, nearly turning the dinner table into a seesaw with my great heft. When I finally completed far more exercise than I’d have liked, I locked the door behind me and turned to greet my twin self in the freshly-Windexed mirror.

Turning sideways, I lifted what should have been a muumuu and stared agog at the eggnog that was now bloating my belly to Octomom proportions. Only this was before that pop culture reference would have made sense (as I am not an employee of Miss Cleo) and so I instead thought my belly bore an uncanny resemblance to a snowman. Yes, the three thick rolls of white flesh could easily stand in for Frosty in a North Pole police line up. I considered busting out the camera tripod, stripping nude, save for a top hat, scarf, and corncob pipe, and getting a jump start on my holiday cards for the next year. But that all seemed like a lot of effort, so instead I stooped back into a pie digesting torpor and did what I’m best at: digesting pie.

As fate would have it, I friend introduced me to her yoga instructor at a birthday party not long after I’d begun training to compete in the Glutton Bowl. When the instructor invited me to attend a class at the studio where she taught, I took one look at her figure and decided that if I could look like her while still failing to contract anorexia nervosa on a daily basis, I should at least consider giving it a try. But I had worked so hard to customize my sedentary lifestyle to fit my lethargic needs and I wasn’t sure I wanted to interfere with the steadfast habits I’d cultivated.

Just then, she lifted her drink and I saw the muscles in her arm contract in such a way that I thought, “Why she is the perfect combination of body types: three fourths Portia de Rossi thin and one fourth Madonna muscular.” I had a quick mental image of where I might land on the celebrity fitness chart and saw myself in the passenger seat riding home from the all-you-can-eat sushi buffet, weeping that it hurt too bad to buckle my seatbelt over my swollen marsupial pouch, and then dropping my eating claw down upon my unzipped pants. In neon letters the words AL BUNDY flashed above my mental image of myself. “Why I must give this yoga a try.”

The first thing I noticed about yoga class was the man in front of me. It appeared he had unfettered access to Will Farrell’s wardrobe from the movie Semi-Pro. Decked out in ’70s-inspired regalia, from his terry cloth head band, to his ass-cradling daisy duke short shorts, he stretched before me, shirtless. On the celebrity size chart, he’s was coming in somewhere between Rosie O’Donnell and Snuffleupagus and I, for one, approved. But what really drew me in and made me decide I loved yoga class before it’d even begun, was the mural of a ravenous-looking tiger tattooed across his back. In vibrant ink, bright blue waves splashed out around the tiger so it seemed to be leaping out of the sea to attack what would be a very confused beach-goer. The man’s impressive smattering of back hair poked through the tiger’s body and thus created a fine 3D display akin to a live zoo exhibit. I gazed at it with much admiration every time I got bored during pashnaramadan-glockenshpiel* pose. *May not be actual name.

The second thing I observed about the class was that I seemed to be smelting to death. There was no convincing me I wouldn’t be reduced to a human puddle by the time the teacher said Namaste.

Thirdly, a pungent scent wafted through the air. If Air-Wick were to capture this heady fragrance, I’m quite sure they’d name it Decaying Feral Dog Wrapped in Old Sweaty Carpet. It made it hard to comply with the constant refrain to “inhale deeply through my nose.” To be fair though, I think a disproportionate amount of the scent could be attributed to the eggnog sweating forth from my pores.

But it didn’t take long to become inured to the smell and every time I felt like complaining, I needed only to look around me at the toned, sweaty yogis whose hard, nubile bodies gave me much inspiration to press on.

I’d say the most difficult part of my first class, besides the constant urge to projectile vomit and pass out from the heat exhaustion, was my longing to rehydrate with eggnog. I had a thirst only the nog could cure and I kept having visions of myself wearing a gray hoodie and dumping a glass of the yellow egg juice down my throat while “Eye of the Tiger” blared in the background.

But alas, I could only quench my need for liquids with boring old water and even then I was only allowed to sip hydrogen and oxygen after suffering through multiple postures, many of which made my face turn purple. For once I am not employing hyperbole. My face actually turned bright strangulation-grade purple. I’d be hanging upside down, twisted like some Cirque de Soleil freak, listening to the instructor say this particular pose improved the complexion, only to look up and nearly scream in terror at my reflection. It looked like Satan had possessed me. I’m talking a purple so deep it was almost red. Almost burnt sienna.

Somehow I survived Intro to Masochism 101 and boy, was I happy I did. Because once the hour and a half ended, I realized I hadn’t been that happy to have survived a traumatic experience since I’d watched The Wiggles during a rough bout of babysitting duty.

For a long time I viewed hot yoga as a recently released prison inmate might view his time in the clink: It sure sucks when you’re on the inside, what with the incessant commands to bend over, but once you’ve done your time, you have a whole new appreciation for life on the outside.

After many sessions, the bile rose up less and less in my throat, and the black fog of unconsciousness only threatened to knock me out an average of two times a session as opposed to the previous ten times a session I’d experienced.

The other day I had a great class and felt rather pleased with my practice. As I lay in the final dead body pose, I realized I had gone a whole ninety minutes without worrying about anything, including when I’d get my next pie fix, quite possibly for the first time in my life. It was only when I left class and got back into traffic that my view of hot yoga changed.

I still think of hot yoga as prison, only I’ve become the old dude in Shawshank Redemption who wants to kill himself after he’s released, not while he’s doing time. This, to me, signals improvement and I’m proud of this shift. I’m proud to say I now truly enjoy hot yoga and only the occasional glass of eggnog.

If anyone knows of a high class alpaca ranch in the SoCal area please leave a comment. I’m kinda in the market for at least one female alpaca, but Big Mama’s got to be show quality. Non of that imitation llama crap and don’t send me to some toddler populated petting zoo, either.

I mean to say that I want to visit a premiere breeding ground for the finest, most sexy alpaca specimens. And don’t write me any hate mail saying, “You can’t get an alpaca at your tiny beach apartment! Where will it graze?” or “You cannot afford an alpaca. Do you have any idea how much it costs to feed and dress an alpaca?” or “You can’t get an alpaca after your bestiality conviction.” Silence! I’m not buying the freaking alpaca to put on my balcony, dummy. I just want to put one on layaway or something until I have a yard. Jesus, what kind of messed up pet owner do you think I am?!

Oh, look at YOU with your little matching beard and toupee set!

Mmmm. I could SO get all I Love Lucy with that conveyor belt. Makes my Gadget claw twitch with anticipation. 

Roger found Serta's pillow-top matress soothing, but not nearly as relaxing as the free side message it came with.

 Last night I completed some of the best non-Ambien-induced hibernation that I’ve experienced in fortnights; which is why I almost didn’t click on the link to the following article on MSN’s homepage today: 10 Ways to Go from Tired to Terrific – Expert strategies to regain your mojo.

Thank God I did, though. Now, when that dragging feeling kicks in and I can’t blame a fake illness like fibromyalgia or chronic fatigue syndrome, due to my being The Girl Who Cried Hypochondria, I’ll have some solutions for beating my narcolepsy/longing to fetal position myself in front of some Chuck Norris action. Or so I thought…

As I read through this article that listed breathing as a cure for tiredness, I resisted the urge to stab myself in the eye. I mean what kind of remedy is that? Getting enough sleep is listed as “necessary” for maintaining energy. Last time I checked suffocation induced far more sleep or sleep-like symptoms than breathing. Pshaa! Obviously MSN is not in the practice of hiring experts.

So here, I will tell you how to REALLY get that skip back into your step. The following is a far more helpful and, I think, far more realistic list of advice.

MY 10 Ways to go From Tired to Terrific
(Or at least from tired to tried by a jury.)

Crack
Everyone knows it’s addictive, but so is caffeine. Would you rather waste precious minutes sipping a nasty McDonald’s iced latte, or take just a few quick seconds to mainline the other white caffeine?

Wellbutrin SR
For those of you who are overly protective of your exit region and fear doing “hard” time that may or may not involve stiff consequences for dropping soap, this prescription is a LEGAL way to induce insomnia. Not only does it have a lower risk of sexual side effects, but it will help curb your nicotine addiction and lose some of the unwanted weight you gained when you opted to eat food instead of riding the white pony.

Ice Cold Showers
Nothing gets the blood moving like an artic shower, and by that I do not mean some kind of sick Eskimo sex act.

So, I realize I need to list about seven more antidotes here, but I’m, yawn, just so very sleepy. You see, I don’t follow any of my aforementioned advice and I’ve been so distracted by reading Fabio’s fan site all day that I forgot to make my chewable coffee brew. Must go suffocate…