Hung Like Huang

Jeff at Fiddler’s Green in San Francisco… attempting to do an inebriated Harry Caray whilst inebriated.

My friend on the logic behind his misfortunes:

I’m the only homeless person with a job. How the fuck does that work?!

I’m sorry, but can you really have a disney character look tough and scary to a person other than a child? Let me answer that: No. It’s still just a Nemo. I like how this dude also didn’t really bother to argue with his girlfriend about the name; he more or less, just compromised his pussy-whipped self by man-ifying said name/image.

Craiglist Guy: Nuh-uh, bro, this is like EXTREME NEMO!!! You don’t understand. He has muscles and shit. Look at how fucking scary he looks! I also added something Disney left out: a huge dong, just to demonstrate how manly I am.

Guy’s Friend: Oh alright…but did you really have to strap a giant dick to Nemo’s…ahem… EXTREME NEMO!!!’s head ? Heck, I don’t know fish anatomy, but I’m willing to bet that fish don’t have giant cocks protruding from their eye sockets.

Well, at least I thought the ad was a little funny. It literally took me seconds—olympic seconds, to be exact—to come up with dialogue that would aptly make fun of the lister.  What also caught my attention, was this tool’s assumption that cars can be given guy names. Everybody knows you give your car a respectable woman’s name… like Loraine or Susan or KILL-BOTTRESS 5000!

I usually don’t watch Oprah. (Question: Can a straight guy’s blog entry ever be prefaced in such a manner, that his straightitude isn’t taken down a notch to “Would you like a purse to go along with your appletini?” on the straightness chart?) I really don’t. Ever. Ahem. But I came across it yesterday, it was one of those episodes where she gives thousands of dollars worth of gifts to her audience; it was an Oprah’s “Favorite Things” episode. Oh yeah.

What’s fascinating about Oprah’s show is; one, her catering to a very, very well defined sector in American society, mostly white, upper-middle class bourgeois women; and two, is Oprah’s ability to bring out the most primordial, completely uninhibited desires of these women to life, their incessant and rabid appetite for things they don’t really need.

It really is like some sort of social experiment. It’s like Candid Camera, minus the candid, with a hint of crazy and a dash progesterone. These women go completely out of their fucking minds when they realize they’re getting free shit. COMPLETELY OUT OF THEIR FUCKING MINDS! I’m surprised I didn’t see women literally exploding from their inability to contain their excitement:

The hosted video was deleted, so just click here.

On the other hand, they did get some pretty sweet gifts. Sweet.So maybe these women have a right to act like complete lunatics.
What I wouldn’t give to be in that audience. What? Shut up. Free shit, dude! FREE SHIT! Whatever…

Here’s everything they got:

Oh snap! I can’t wait for this!

Do I smell a Razzie?

Hopefully, most of you who watch television are aware of the writers strikes that have been going on. Tons of shows have been affected. To name a few: The Daily Show, The Colbert Report, Lost, The Office, 24, the late nights (Connan, Leno, Letterman, etc.),Desperate Housewives, SNL, Scrubs.

Depending on how long these strikes go on for, it can be weeks to months before we ever get to see new episodes of our favorite shows. “Awww…but from where will I get my worldly view of current events (with a sarcastic twist), if I can’t watch John Stewart make faces while he squirms in his chair?” Thankfully, most movie studios have loads of unread scripts stacked in their closets, meaning they can pump out tired storylines for the next year or two. Yay!

If you’re still lost about what’s going on, I’ll give you the lowdown. Essentially, writers want to get paid for what they write. With the emergence of the internet and webcasts of tv programs, along with the staggering growth of DVD sales, writer’s are shutout from making a single cent on what is being deemed “new technology,” the internet and to a different degree, DVDs (the DVD demands are to better the poor, barely livable residuals that writers get now). But watch or download—the legal way, of course—any episode or season of your favorite show, and you come to find that it’s not free of advertisement or (monetary) cost to those that watch.

Still lost? John Stewart can pragmatically explain:

If the AMPTP remains steadfast in their reluctance to meet the writers’ demands, they’re looking at losing hundreds of millions of dollars in a very short time. For my television craving’s sake, let’s hope the strike doesn’t bleed into ‘08.

I’m pretty sure the more famous you get, the more likely you’ll have stalkers. But what happens when you’re Conan O’Brien? Well, it turns out you get the craziest of all stalkers, a delusional clergyman. According to some news source, for the past 14 months, O’Brien (along with his parents) has been accosted by an insane priest who has sent numerous letters and emails asking O’Brien for a “public confession.” Pretty weird.

The priest, Reverand David Ajemian, has even gone as far trying to break into O’Brien’s tapings. After having been denied access, the possesed priest sent O’Brien another letter:

“Is this the way you treat your most dangerous fans?”

Why would anybody want to stalk a somewhat obscure celebrity whose only crimes have been to stir a ruckus in the bear community (remember the masturbating bear??) ? Leave the Conebone alone. Go stalk somebody annoying, like Hillary Duff or Spencer Pratt.

I realized a few days ago that this site still exists. I mean, I really didn’t know what to expect… but I kind of thought that it would just have been swallowed whole, by the internet’s unforgiving, chasm-like vagina.

A few minutes ago, I decided that I would check my @hunglikehuan email account, you know… just in case I had emails from the thousands hundreds tens ones upon nones of devoted fans begging me to come back. As the smug bitch that I am, I would, of course, give ‘em the cold shoulder and decline. That wasn’t the case.

What I did find, though, was a staggering number of presumptuous spammers. How dare they assume: one, me being a guy; and two, my need for whole-sale value Viagra? Psh… I can totally score Viagra for sub-whole-sale value. If anybody needs a pallet of the peen-pill, holla.

Having finished my disappointing quarry through thousands of truly offensive email messages,

—to quote one of my favorites: “Ladies always giggled at me and even guys did in the public toilets! Well now I laugh at them because I took megadik for 6 months and now my dick is much bigger than ‘average’ size.” Is “average” now an imaginary concept?—

I headed over to the site’s stats page and found myself salivating just a bit. You see, this blog never really received all that many hits. And I was ok with that. Hell, I’m sure I would be pretty disappointed if tons of people visited, because…well… this site ain’t that great. In other words, I’m fine having a small amount of people wasting their time, but when it happens in ridiculous amounts, I’m likely to become annoyed.

What I’m not ok with, is getting more hits and referrals as a “dead” blog than as an active one. What the hell is a matter with you people? You’d rather stare at a dead, rotting corpse than a vibrant, funny twenty-something full of good intent and hope? You fucking freaks.

So with said accounts, I’m ready to drive visitors to an all-time low.

Yes, HungLikeHuang is back.

Somebody inquired about what my “to do before 30 list” was all about. Plain and simply, a list of things that I would like to do before I turn 30. Pretty straight forward stuff. If anything, this list will be an indication of how boring I really am:

1. Learn to dance Salsa.
2. Run a marathon.
3. Write a script and/or book.
4. Drive cross-country.
5. Live out of state (CA)/country for at least six months.
6. Become idealistic.
7. Read Atlas Shrugged, from cover to cover.
8. Visit Asia.
9. Land a part in a hugely popular TV show/movie as an extra.
10. Find myself.
11. Find my complement.

It came to my attention today, that writing (and reading), has become a very important part of my life. My current job requires a lot of driving. A lot of radio-less driving. It’s one of the best jobs that I’ve ever had, just so that it doesn’t sound like a complaint. You know the complaint: “Fuck, man, I hate my job. I hate work. Fuck work, man. Fuck, shit.” But it’s during those times spent stuck in traffic, having only the murky twilight of smog stricken scenery accompany me, that I begin to ask myself questions about me. About what I like, and why I like it. About what I hate, and why I hate it. The aim is to delineate and give importance to the vestments of my “self.” In short, a defragmentation of the constituents that make me (and you) unique as an individual. It has never, though, been clear, in my mind, how I choose to denote, define, and justify the reasons to write and better, what it means to write. So I am going to take a stab at it…right… about… NOW! No, just kidding. That would take entirely too much time to do, and too much time to read, on your behalf. You’re welcome. I think I’d rather regale you with short blurbs that give you insight into my life.

“Welcome to my world.” (It’s more dramatic if you read that out loud in an over motive actor-y way as you use your open hands to mime smoke moving away to reveal your face.)

So I went out shopping with my mom not too long ago. Yup. What I like about going out in public with my parents, individually, is that I learn tons of new things about them. What I’ve learned about my dad, is that he totally digs being out where a lot of people congregate. He loves to people watch. My dad loves to go through every possible situation that would deem it necessary to use some form of public/social etiquette. It’s as if he prepares how he’s going to interact with other people. It’s like: “Well, if you liked how I held the door open for you, then you’ll really love it when I pick up those keys you just dropped. All in a days work, ladies and gents. Now, for my next act, I’m going to help that kindly old lady cross the street…”

My mom, on the other hand, is the complete opposite… kind of. My mom becomes entranced with stores. Any kind of store, my mom will endlessly sort, shovel, and skim through merchandise. Like through all of it. My mom will walk into an aisle swarming with efficient and hurried shoppers, with a cart full of whatever. She’ll then notice something out of the corner of her eye, and just completely forgets that she’s pushing a cart, leaves it in the fast lane part of the aisle and walks off into a distant corner of the store to rustle with the discount rack. No attention is paid by her to the angry lot who get caught in the five cart radius around her, known as the non-ebb and flow zone.* But when people begin to cause a ruckus, I’ve got my moms back: “Deal with it, bitch!”

*A zone of tarry with disastrous consequences such as inconvenience, annoyance, bewilderment, and anger. A term appropriately made up by me.