A Thousand Monkeys Fighting Over One Typewriter

Vacation

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 22 Jun 2008 19:01:00 +0000

I'd like to apologize for falling behind on my posts here, but I've fallen prey to summer. It's difficult to give a good goddamn about literary criticism and politics when you spend most of your day lounging on your deck, smoking cheap tobacco and strumming (badly) on your guitar.

However, I have undertaken a project of sorts. I've decided that my diet is getting a bit boring as of late, so I've done everything in my power to make it less healthy and more delicious. The fruit of my labor is described below, as an apology for my recent laziness.

Louis Berceli's Ridiculously Delicious Heart Attack Inducing Burger

First, grill a thick beef patty as rare as you can while actually cooking it. A lot of gourmet recipes call for onions and other whorebaggery mixed in with the meat, but that is just bad business when you're in the mood for something thick, greasy and smothered in cheese.

Speaking of cheese, melt a few slices of Colby over the burger.

While this is going on, fry up ten thick slices of bacon. These should finish around the same time as the burger, which you will put them on.

Now, in the pan still sizzling with bacon fat, fry two eggs over well. Put these on the burger.

Put the burger on a grilled bun with lettuce, tomato and mayonaise. Serve with fries (or pan fries, if you'd like) smothered in colby cheese and topped with crumbled bacon.

Passenger exemplifies civil disobedience ethic.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 21 Jun 2008 19:01:00 +0000

I like to smoke. Cigarettes are wonderful for a number of reasons, most of which outweigh the monstrous risks for me, mostly because I lack any sense of forethought or self-preservation. My libertarian leanings also influence my distaste for smoking bans, which I would oppose even if I were not a smoker. Lastly, Thoreau has instilled in me a love for civil disobedience, for resistance against unjust laws.

Nevertheless, even I cringed a bit when I read this story. A woman on a Jet Blue flight apparently decided that federal bans on smoking in planes are unjust, and so retaliated against the oppression by lighting one up mid-flight. That's cute and all, but she took it a step beyond my Thoreauvian sensibilities when she punched a flight attendant in the jaw, acted hysterical upon attempts at restraint, and repeatedly referred to a flight attendant (whom she had threatened to kill) as a "dumb motherfucker" and a "fucking nigger."

She had allegedly had three vodka drinks over the course of the flight; she dismissed this as a reason, saying that she has a high tolerance for alcohol.

The Poverty of Contemporary Philosophy

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 20 Jun 2008 19:00:00 +0000

Every time I make the mistake of reading a work of analytic philosophy, I become both disgusted and elated; disgusted at what passes for philosophy right now, and elated that I am not enrolled in a philosophy program at the University level. Philosophy there has been largely reduced to conceptual and linguistic analysis; that is, the task of the philosopher is no longer seen as understanding the world and our interaction with it. It is taken to be a "second-order" discipline whose central task is to clarify and explicate the concepts and language used by "first-order" disciplines such, popularly, science. This assumption is so accepted among analytic philosophers that Jay F. Rosenberg, in his The Practice of Philosophy: Handbook for Beginners, is able to make this statement without so much as a qualification.

The history of analytic philosophy extends back more than 100 years, with the relevant beginning in theMoore-Russell-Wittgenstein trinity. These three advocated an approach to philosophy based in common sense, rigorous logic, and language, respectively. These techniques were viewed by them as means to an end: tools by which the philosopher may more acutely carry out his tasks.

Over time, these ideas were seized upon by third-rate philosophers undeserving of the title. While ostensibly utilizing the tools created by and paying homage to the three philosophers mentioned above, they created systems of thought which viewed the analysis of concepts and language as an end in themselves. First, with Logical Positivism, which saw the task of philosophy as differentiating between meaningful and meaningless propositions by setting every statement against a scientific standard, and later with Linguistic Analysis and all of her bastard children, which saw philosophy as being "talk about talk," with its highest task, according to one of the guiding lights of the movement, J.L. Austin, being the elucidation and dissection of ordinary-language speech acts, determining the fine distinction between, for instance, a "tool" and an "implement", and the implications of that distinction. Gilbert Ryle, a major figure of that period, had the audacity to call this the "whole and sole function of philosophy."

By their estimation, all so-called philosophical problems arose out of confusion over the language involved. Once that was cleared up, they maintained, the problems simply vanished. So there was no first-order task for philosophy to carry out, no questions of its own to answer. Instead, they should take their methods and turn them loose on other fields.

This view of philosophy has certainly changed somewhat, but the central premises under which it flourished have not, by my estimation, been abandoned. The modern philosopher understands a number of things to be basically true: that the sciences have taken the task of learning about the universe farther than any philosopher could, and what's more, it has taken over the field of epistemology with cognitive science, and so these fields are no longer accessible to the philosopher in the traditional way; that ethics and aesthetics are basically metaphysics and therefore propositions about these things are logically meaningless; that philosophers are in the business of analysis, not of theory or system building; and, though this is not often clearly stated, that while historical figures like Kant are interesting and had a lot to say, they were basically wrong about their whole approach to philosophy, and really, when you think about it, were not truly philosophers at all.

This analysis (ha, ha) of analytic philosophy is probably uncharitable and partially misinformed. I am speaking as an outsider; but I am a happy outsider, because I am not convinced that the serious philosophical problems that pervade our lives--problems of time and space, of perception and of human knowledge--are simply linguistic confusions, or that (as was often said) any problem that butted heads with common sense is simply not a problem at all, or at any rate not one worth addressing. Analytic philosophy is the worst sort of self-conscious intellectualism, and I'm glad to have no part in it.

Humanity, in photo form.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 16 Jun 2008 19:00:00 +0000

That's right kids, those are Nazis playing with a kitten. I think the human race is best summarized by this image alone.

The Thousand Monkeys Serial: Episode 1

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 15 Jun 2008 19:00:00 +0000

He wasn’t sure how he got there, or why there was blood on his hands. What he was sure of, what was painfully apparent, was that she was dead. And Naked. And, considering the incision down her front, the gaping hole that showed her insides in sickening view, that she was the source of the crimson gore that ran down his wrists.
“Ah, Monday already?” said James, strolling up behind him.
“Nah, Thursday,” said Alex. “I figured I get a head start.”
“You always were the industrious one. Have you made quota yet?”
“Let me check.”
The adrenaline fading and his senses restored, Alex fished about in his pocket. He produced a cocktail napkin stained with no small amount of feces.
“About three to go.”
“Jesus! That would make, what, like seven already? It’s only the twelfth, for Christ’s sake!”
Yes, he had been busy. Busy bringing new life to the world around him. Culling the herds, burning the dead growth, fertilizing the soil. There was no telling when the change would come, but revolution was irrevocably coming. There is no stopping that locomotive. Not with all the armies of priests, celebrities, orphans, cancer survivors, politicians, and white-haired, old bitches this sad community could muster.
James was saying something too softly to drown out Alex’s inner dialogue.
“What?”
“I said the Pittsburg union is talking about a strike.”
“A strike? Christ. Remember when the Miami boys went on strike? I’ll never forget those bastards they brought in as scabs.”
“I know! Fucking necrophiliacs; what were they thinking? I remember when people still had professionalism.”
An old woman walked a poodle past the alley. She glanced at Alex, froze and screamed.
“It’s alright, ma’am!” Shouted James and flashed her his credentials. This did little to comfort her and she ran off shrieking.
“It’s too early for this,” groaned James.

Scientology's continuing douchebaggery.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 13 Jun 2008 18:59:00 +0000

Yes, we all know that Scientology is an evil, money-grubbing cult. This has been made more than clear to everyone, so I won't bother spouting off the usual lines.

However, a new development must be shared.

Stu Wyatt was a man who spent a while wandering around France playing violin for money. He was stricken with a crippling neurological disorder and had to stop, and now campaigns for medical marijuana.

He also campaigns against Scientology, as all right-thinking human beings should, and rolls his wheelchair outside the "Free Stress Test" booth in plymouth to warn off passerby.

Recently, a woman running the booth decided to stick her foot under the wheel chair and claim he assaulted her. If you don't believe that, he handily taped the entire episode.

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Skip ahead to about 4:00 and you'll see it happen. I doubt she'll have much of a case, but in the event that this somehow goes forward it would help to have plenty of awareness concerning the incident.

Standard bitter hate post

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 11 Jun 2008 18:05:00 +0000

I hate it when mothers thank me when I remark about the cuteness of their infant. I wasn't complimenting you. You are not an adorable little baby girl. You were, in all likelihood, probably an ugly child.

I hate it when war veterans assume that the fact that they shot at some people for a while makes them experts on foreign policy. "I think the war in Iraq was a horrible blunder," I said. "I served in vietnam, son," he growled, "I think the war was necessary and has been handled as well as could be expected." The first statement does not justify the second, asshole.

I hate it when overweight bisexual teenage girls think they're Wiccan. Some bloated, greasy, black-haired, sexually confused social outcast with tater tot breasts and a scowl welded to her face calling herself Raven Moonspirit and threatening to put curses on The Conformists just to infuriate her Wasp parents, who are obviously trying to oppress her for her beliefs. No one will ever love you, Raven, not even the High Priest of your coven who told you that doing your rituals naked will release more spiritual energy.

I hate Dr. Phil.

I hate it when otherwise good news broadcasts insist on including a story about what sort of condom Britney fucking Spears prefers, and where Angelina Jolie buys her douching supplies. No one cares, and those who do care ought not to have their fetish catered to.

I have no funny ending for this, so instead I will post a relevant video.

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The video is shit, but the song is fun.

The greatest concept ever.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 10 Jun 2008 18:04:00 +0000

Do you like hip hop? Do you chess? Do you want to enjoy both at the same time, online?

RZA, bad motherfucker that he is, has the answer.

Wuchess. It's chess, courtesy of the Wu Tang Clan.

Brazilian Anti-Smoking Warning Labels

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 09 Jun 2008 18:04:00 +0000

This is the sort of thing that makes the anti-tobacco crowd so obnoxious. Apparently informing everyone about the dangers of smoking wasn't enough, and now we need to be swayed by disgust and horror.
Anyone who's seen Thank You for Smoking will find these a bit too familiar.

Sen. Hillary Clinton reads this blog!

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 08 Jun 2008 18:03:00 +0000

So, the bitch bit the bullet today, and I'd like all of you out there to bow down and thank me, as it was obviouslyall my doing. I just hope the press doesn't get wind of this. I don't need that kind of trouble.

Your welcome.

-Barnes

Startling developments

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 06 Jun 2008 18:03:00 +0000

Today, The Thousand Monkeys received a Google hit from a fellow in Germany searching for "fuck bussy on teen in usa." I can only assume it was a search for porn, and, despite the garbled syntax and apparent misspelling, I can even venture a reasonable guess what exactly he was looking for.

The somewhat disturbing bit of information is what evidently attracted this poor soul to this blog. If you type in his Google search, we appear on the first page (!) with the following snippet:

"Why the fuck do 11 year old girls run gossip websites? When I was 11, girls were into ... So more power to theteen who can make a few bucks from this. ..."

The would-be pornographer clearly has a poor command of the English language, but he knew the right words: fuck, 11 year old girls, teen, girls were into, make a few bucks.

So, this blog has hit a new high point: We are now on the front page of Google for child porn searches from German pedophiles. I'll raise a glass to it.

The Competent Man

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 05 Jun 2008 18:02:00 +0000

"A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly. Specialization is for insects."
-Robert Heinlein

The concept of the Competent Man is one most of us know from movies. The Competent Man is our square-jawed protagonist who is mysteriously proficient at any and all tasks he may need to perform. The perfect and most ludicrous example of this would be James Bond in Goldfinger. There is a scene where he sizes up the capacity of a fleet of trucks and deduces that they are just large enough to carry the entire contents of Fort Knox. Bond is also a gourmand, a martial artist, a fencer, and a computer hacker.

This sort of character is ridiculous, larger-than-life, most definitely. However, it does still have some use to us. Aspiring toward unattainable standards is arguably the most admirable pursuit a man can take up, and the Competent Man is the ultimate manifestation of such a thing.

During the Renaissance, the concept of a Universal Man became popular. A practical, attainable version of the Competent Man, the Universal Man was an individual who was proficient at just about anything required of him. He could fight a duel, write a poem, play an instrument and paint a picture. You will have noticed by now, I'm sure, that such a concept no longer exists or is even remembered.

If I may step onto my crumbling, mold-flecked soapbox for a moment, I blame this on the current sense of entitlement that everyone has. If you aren't good at something, it's alright. Maybe you're good at something else. Maybe you're destined to be the greatest plumber in your town, because you're special and no one should ever tell you otherwise. Characters in films now usually have a distinct lack of talent, their personality being glorified above their actual accomplishments. This is a symptom of the new Realist movement in film, something I have no complaints about in principle.

However, there's something to be said for James Bond and Indiana Jones. People need their unattainable standards, their superhumans on celluloid and paper to guide them. I see a nation whose colleges follow the curriculum of Cam's St. John's, where all disciplines are taught and majors do not exist. I see a generation of kids looking on in awe as the flawless hero guns down henchman no. 71 while curing cancer with a paperclip and some gum.

I grew up on Indiana Jones and Robert Heinlein, so I embraced that unattainable standard early on. I taught myself to write well, to appreciate good literature, to cook a decent meal and run a good distance. I lifted weights while learning to paint. I tried (and mostly failed, though I've picked it up again recently) to learn the guitar.

I could never claim to be an expert at any of these things, but most days I can comfortably say that I'm competent, and that's what matters in the end.

Midnight ruminations...

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 04 Jun 2008 18:02:00 +0000

If something exists, is it therefore knowable? If something is knowable, does it therefore exist? Which makes more sense: Plato's Forms or Derrida's Structures.

Thoughts? Anybody? Cam?

-Barnes

You people voted for Hubert Humphrey, and you killed Jesus!

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 04 Jun 2008 18:01:00 +0000

I swear on the fucking cross if this privileged, uppity, Wonderbread, stuffy, self-important cunt takes this thing to the DNC, I'm showing up with a shovel and a blow-torch, and I'm doing some fucking damage. Hillary Clinton, you and your hairy vagina need to get the fuck out of this race right this goddamn second before you tear our party apart. If McCain wins this thing, I truly believe we are good and fucked, and you ARE NOT the lady to beat him.

Remember 1968.

-a very pissed off Barnes

Take that, flash fiction.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 03 Jun 2008 18:01:00 +0000

"It goes without saying that I am far from a professional, in any field. One is tempted to call me a 'jack of all trades', but that implies some sort of proficiency. I lack that, though it could never be said that I am a failure, however. I grasp the world instinctively, and with a carefully composed grin. A staggering savant with a flawless fashion sense, that's me."

"Get the fuck out of my bathtub," I grunted, and he left.

I got a tombstone head and a graveyard mind...

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 03 Jun 2008 18:01:00 +0000

Rock and Roll royalty, Bo Diddley, dies today at 79.

Cameron's advice on reading

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 02 Jun 2008 18:00:00 +0000

Probably the worst offense a reader can commit is inserting himself into a text. By this I simply mean the persistent refusal to take a work on its own terms, ignoring the questions it raises and pursuing instead ones own. This can take a number of forms.

The most pernicious in modern academia are the various political theories of literature. Marxist, feminist, the lot of them. Critics of these schools assert that a feminist reading of a work is a valuable use of time and intellect. It's certainly entertaining, I'm sure, to scour Aeschylus for feminist themes, which are there if one wishes to find them; but in doing so, you will gain nothing from Aeschylus himself. You will see what you want to see, and take from the text only what you put into it. It's like betting on the only horse in the race. Certainly, you will win your bet, but when the odds are absolute, you can only break even.

One wonders why this sort of literary criticism is so fashionable nowadays. I suppose it has something to do with the relative ease of the thing. Searching for real answers to real questions is a daunting task. Much easier to invent questions for which you already have neatly pre-wrapped answers.

This sort of misreading is manifest in all other instances of violent self-insertion into a work. In another instance--perhaps more widespread though lacking the benefit of a formal academic title--the literary rapist insists that he is endowed with the privilege to judge any and every work that he reads, usually with a negative eye, with special emphasis on received classics. By "judge", I do not mean the application of critical theory. I mean the black and white moralism of the iconoclastic undergrad who insists that Twain was racist and that Shakespeare was a misogynist. Instead of striving to understand, they seek only to pass judgment, to declare every classic trash and every author overrated. It is of course within the rights of a reader to judge an author and their work, but only once they understand the damn thing. Understanding, in the sense of absolute grasping of what the text is saying, is not an easy thing to come by; it is, perhaps, impossible. The difficulty of the task does not give the reader a free pass for ignorant maleficence.

(A related misstep, which only needs to be noted in passing, is the judging of characters. Until one understands Achilles and his motives, one is not permitted to call him (to quote a handful of my classmates) a crybaby, a hypocrite, a liar, or, a "weeping existentialist fuckass," as one friend memorably put it. Achilles is none of these, but the casual reader (eg, many professors of literature) doesn't take the effort to find out just who he is.)

The last act of self-insertion I'll mention, related to all the previous ones, is raising questions that the text has no interest in. Asking how many children Lady Macbeth had, for instance, or asking about liberty in Republic, or the size of Jean Valjean's left testicle. This, like all the other examples, is the easiest thing in the world: what's more difficult is discovering what the text itself is asking, and seeking the answers within it.

I am not an ideal reader, and I don't know how one ought to go about reading a given work. But by refusing to indulge your narcissism, by refusing to violate literature in the tradition of child molesters, and by refusing to take the easy way out, you will certainly have a more fulfilling reading experience, or at any rate, you will see something other than a mirror in words.

Poor Lennie...

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 02 Jun 2008 18:00:00 +0000

First God fucks you, and then the church has a go.

Some music for the evening

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 31 May 2008 17:59:00 +0000

I'm currently working on a number of projects, literary and bloggerary, so I have nothing to contribute tonight. In lieu of real content, here is a fantastic video by a new band this blog heartily endorses, the1921a, whose debut album ('21a) can be purchased through the sidebar (Working Performers of America; follow the store link). Enjoy, and if you like what you hear, please support this group.

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Louis' Tips On Etiquette

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 30 May 2008 17:59:00 +0000

Aging baptists will not see the humor in your demands that they call you "Love Messiah", and are even less amused by your threats to demonstrate your powers.

Die, Horsie, Die!

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 29 May 2008 17:59:00 +0000

So, I'm writing you now from my new MacBook laptop, which is as awesome as a blowjob with the balls cupped, with the balls cupped, dammit! (Sometimes you have to remind people.) Of course, it's most likely already fubar after frantically downloading several dubious applications in order to rip my iPod onto this thing, but c'est la vie.

Anyway, my reason for writing this is that something actually happened to me worth writing about. It all started when I was driving home from my grandparent's house (the generous source of my new puter), and I accidentally cut off some dicksack in a fire engine red Ford Mustang (the new Mustang, mind you, not the kind I'd actually feel bad about cutting off). This cum guzzler decides that, instead of merely allowing my transgression to pass by unanswered, he'd tailgate the living shite out of me and hurl insults into my rearview mirror. Noticing this had little effect on a superior being such as myself, the lesser ape decided to, as they say, take it up a notch. He revved his engine into the five or six thousands and ripped up to my side, arms flailing, mouth foaming, and spewing a general air of psychotic danger my way. He then, in what might be the quintessence of road rage, began rocking violently back and forth between his lane and the inside of mine, threatening to run me off the road. What is one to do in this situation? Look for divine providence, that is what.

Ahead of us in his lane was a massive pick up truck moving considerably slower than the two of us, and I saw my opportunity. I sped up to ninety, and slammed at my brakes when I got along side him. Boxing the monkey in the Mustang out, I prepared my ammunition. I had three chances: a can of Coke, and some kielbasa and potato salad from my Grandmother. He played into my hand and moved to my rear, nearly touching my bumper with his and continuing to flail and scream in pitiful anger. First the Coke. I hurl it over my shoulder and it glances off his hood. Seeing that that did no damage (except to his paint job) I decided to throw the tinfoil full of kielbasa next. Right off the windshield, but to no avail. And then glory. I opened the Cool Whip container full of greasy potato salad and sent it his way. BULLSEYE! The salad splattered all over the windshield right in front of his face, and he swerved into the breakdown lane. He may have went off the road, but fuck if I care. I gunned it again and got as much distance between me and the rabid baboon as possible.

And the moral of the story? Well, there are two. One: people in late model Mustangs are most likely douchebags, so be vigilant around them. Two: kielbasa is not an effective projectile, but is very tasty, so don't throw it; eat it.

-Barnes

Hero for the day.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 29 May 2008 17:58:00 +0000

Fun fact: Did you know that Tim Roth (Sir-Bleeds-A-Lot in Reservoir Dogs) named his children Hunter and Cormac, after his favorite authors?

Words of wisdom.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 29 May 2008 17:58:00 +0000

"Mmm. Very pretty."
-Igor Stravinsky, upon hearing one of his pieces.

This quote comes courtesy of my new music theory teacher, whose father apparently knew Stravinsky. Imagining that quote in a thick, possibly senile Russian accent makes it all the funnier.

The virtues of the Populist: A Restatement

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 27 May 2008 17:57:00 +0000

Some time ago, I posted a brief defense of socializing with the masses that generated a small amount of controversy among people who are opposed to such things. I'd like to clarify my views on the solitary life, to put a stop to any misconceptions that might be floating around these mighty internets.

I spend most of my free time alone. I specify "free time" because I must work to support myself, and, though I am on a hiatus, I am a student. Time spent at work and at school is time necessarily spent with people. When I am free of such things, I am most often to be found studying, reading, writing, and of late, translating. I have filled dozens of journals with solitary musings; I read rabidly, and though school has forced my output to dwindle, I write short fiction regularly. My time alone is some of my most valued, especially given its unfortunate infrequency.

The amount of time I actually spend with people is by far the less. On Saturdays, I usually see Barnes and Louis. Sundays are spent with assorted friends at restaurants and coffee shops. Once and a while, I'll get together with some people during the week, but other than weekends, I enjoy my time alone.

The fundamental difference between the renowned cave-dweller and me is that I enjoy solitude for what it offers, not for what it can shield me from. I am not a misanthrope. I have always enjoyed a general and abiding love for humanity, even if I dislike several of her constituents. Most people are fine by me, and when I emerge from my solitude I enjoy spending time with them. Solitude wrought from hatred is hardly the Thoreauvian ideal. The Man himself enjoyed the company of the simple woodcutter and the passers-by through his woods. Of course, referencing great men proves not a thing; but the point ought to be made that when one values solitude because one hates humanity, the actual merits of being alone are smothered.

It should also be noted that humanity is what makes solitude possible for most of us in the first place. Without the innumerable benefits conferred upon us by existing in a functional society, we would not have the books to read or the pens with which to write or the food to sustain us while doing both. Thoreau built his home with supplies from town, and sold his beans for a profit there. Without extraordinary effort that would likely detract from hating the world, effort that would include cultivating the land, building a home, and dozens of daily chores; without that sort of effort, solitude would be impossible if it were not for the hated many. The paradox of hating those who feed you would be funny if it weren't just sort of sad.

Have your solitude, gentle reader, and enjoy it. Be warned, though: excessive solitude has been known to cause misanthropy, a bloated sense of self-worth, and the delusion that feuds with your computer screen are meaningful.

In loving memory of good PSAs at the theatre.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 26 May 2008 17:57:00 +0000

I don't know if my local theatre is the only one to do this, but before every movie an animated sequence of frogs singing to the tune of "Heard It Through the Grapevine" comes on, telling us the usual about cell phones and smoking. It was cute at first, but now it makes me want to eat glass.

So, to alleviate the pain, here are two brilliant PSAs that came and went, forgotten by most.

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