Cru Jones Society

We’ve reached critical mass with this problem, and it’s high time we address it before an entire generation of jerkoffs is born wearing this highly useful athletic gear like it’s something off the runways of Milan. Under Armour, and athletic gear in general, is not fashion. Under Armour is only the latest company of many to make its way to mainstream couture acceptance, but due to its form-fitting nature, also the most offensive. Continue Reading »

Dear news media,

It’s been more than a month with this bullshit, knock it off. Yesterday I went to the front page of the online versions of the Rocky Mountain News, the Denver Post, Yahoo!, MSN, Los Angeles Times, New York Times, and Washington Post. Here is a sampling of the pictures I saw: Continue Reading »

I ride the bus everyday to and from work. I enjoy not having to deal with the traffic myself, or search for reasonable parking day after day, or the wear and tear on my car. It also gives me the opportunity to catch up on my reading. What I could do without are all the other people who ride the bus. Continue Reading »

A mea culpa from E Dagger, an excerpt from the article that was, and a link that is neither here nor there, but funny as hell. I’ll explain after the jump. Continue Reading »

No one enjoys poking fun at Brett Favre more than me. My dream in college was to found brettfavreisacryingbaby.com, but I knew far too little about web design at that point to make this dream a reality. I thought it was a fantastic idea only because Brett Favre is one of the greatest players of all-time and embarrassingly sensitive. More importantly, I didn’t go forth with it because keeping up with such an endeavor would have cut severely into my borderline alcoholic collegiate drinking schedule due to the insane number of instances I would have had to log of Brett Favre either crying, looking like he’s about to cry, or just generally grimacing with misty eyes. I’m amazed the man never played under Dick Vermeil because those two together could outcry a room full of menopausal women watching Terms of Endearment. Continue Reading »

I grant you that murdering an innocent little creature foolishly sprinting across the road in hopes of defying his inevitable gory Goodyear demise is no picnic, but there’s just something unsettlingly icky about running over the poor guy again.

He’s already dead. It looks disgusting. And here comes your charging, fuel-injected, clumsy rhinoceros of a car just to really ram the point home and splay his guts everywhere to reassure everyone that, yes, this thing is still dead. I did this on the way to the office last week causing the following sentence to sputter out of my mouth (mind you, I was alone):

“Oh, no. I… yeeeeuck…. Jesus. That’s fucking just… ew… I mean… right? Fuck…. Poor bastard.”

By the way, I always gender roadkill as male because trying to dart across the street and beat oncoming traffic in the face of all logic strikes me as an inherently male trait. I’m certain I’ve sent my fair share of female rodents (and in two possible cases, armadillos) to that great forest in the sky, but females of any species seem less likely to try something this intrinsically moronic than males.

Plus, when you run it over again, you probably degrade the flavor of the poor creature making a less tasty stew for the Beverly Hillbillies when they inevitably drive by and scrape it off the road.

edagger@crujonessociety.com

I suppose I was destined to hate all of M. Night Shyamalan’s films from the start. Before I had seen it, and concurrently, before the overblown hype machine took hold of The Sixth Sense and propelled it into the pop culture stratosphere about 10 years ago, my friend Stephen ruined the twist ending for me. And without the twist ending, what is The Sixth Sense? It’s a painfully slow, ridiculously overwrought, somber, depressing snooze-fest that is so full of its own pretensions, it might as well be European. Continue Reading »

First off, I am not necessarily a climate change denier. I believe the earth is probably getting warmer, and doing so at a rate not unlike what it’s done for thousands of years. I don’t believe that human-made carbon emissions are the root of this rise, but I understand why eco-freaks dispense their doomsday theories. They’re simply starting high by exaggerating potential outcomes in their negotiations to achieve their real desired policy changes. Fine. Continue Reading »

How did this get popular? Seriously? It’s half a haircut.

Either shave your head into a real mohawk, or don’t have one at all. You can’t have it both ways. This reminds me of approximately 15 years ago when rappers would wear their overalls with one of the fasteners unbuttoned so the flap was hanging down. Or something I still see today when some idiot has his pants hanging down around his ass. Either pull the pants up or don’t wear pants at all. You look like you’re in the process of getting dressed or preparing to be sexually attacked in prison.

On second thought, just pull your goddamn pants up. There is no second option. If you’re in public, you wear pants - no exceptions!

Same goes with faux-hawks. You’re not fooling anyone, you just look like you ran out of ideas. Ummm… maybe I’ll push my hair together so it looks like I’m making a church with it. No you won’t! You’ll either shave your head so there’s only one spiky strip remaining, which will be as cool as something from 1983 can be and will frighten old people and Eastern Asian tourists, or you’ll style your hair like a non-douche bag. No going half way here!

The only time a faux hawk is acceptable is if you’re in the shower with a girl (or another dude if you’re gay, I suppose) and she makes one for you with the shampoo. That’s it. All other times it’s either a real mohawk or none at all. This exception applies if you’re Ferris Bueller, too.

If you ever get a bug up your ass about wearing a faux-hawk, just remember the image below from the movie For Your Consideration:

There. You’re cured. Don’t wear a stupid faux-hawk.

edagger@crujonessociety.com

It’s time to start growing your playoff beard. The Colorado Avalanche are in the playoffs with games starting tonight! Since we narrowly missed facing a juggernaut San Jose Sharks team (and might play them next round if we get past the soul-suckingly boring Minnesota Wild), I’m reminded of one of the all-time bonehead front office moves.

Of course, I’m talking about the Boston Bruins trading away their captain in the middle of the ‘05-’06 season. What’s the thought process here? “How can we, the Boston Bruins, both improve our chances of winning the Stanley Cup while enhancing our public image? I know! We’ll trade away our most popular player, leading scorer, and overall face of the franchise! Joe Thornton, pack your bags! We’re sending you to a better team, a warmer climate, and a more forgiving fanbase for 60 cents on the dollar!”

As an added bonus, Thornton now plays in the Western Conference where my Avalanche gets to face him about 6x more often, and might have to deal with him up close and personal for up to seven games in a couple weeks. Thanks, Bruins!

I suppose this is the kind of tactic we should expect from the town that traded Babe Ruth. Should the Avalanche fall, I hope Thornton hoists that cup with the Sharks just to spite the Bruins (especially since Boston wins every other damn title in sports). Maybe 90 years from now, the Bruins can hoist the Cup once again. For now, enjoy last place, dipshits!

Here’s lookin’ up your dress…

lee.s.hart@crujonessociety.com

It is a well established fact that with the possible exception of someone being fired, no news in the white collared world travels faster than that of donuts, bagels, muffins or any other breakfast treat brought into the office by some vendor, client, boss, or someone paying penance for inconveniencing everyone else somehow. Hungry denizens of the cubicle world descend on the treats like vultures on fresh road kill, everyone knowing full well the ratio of donuts to people is simply impossible. Most of the time, the tasty treats are not long for the world, usually picked clean in a matter of minutes. I challenge anyone to present a situation more maddening than arriving a few minutes late, perhaps due to the fact that you were actually being productive for just a little while and being welcomed with this:

What the hell? There are two possible explanations I can venture for this all too common situation, which seems to happen at least 60% of the time someone brings donuts to the Office.

1. Someone trying to be “nice” didn’t want to take the last one, and ripped it in half to leave the other half for someone else.

2. Some fatty feels guilty about taking a whole donut and only takes half. Although I’m sure the aforementioned fatty probably made at least one other trip to the donut box for whole ones when he or she didn’t think anyone was watching.

Little do these people realize the fallout they cause from such an act. Everyone in the office who missed out on the donuts, or who decides to go for seconds later in the day is doomed to walk up to the box with high hopes only to find them dashed by a sorry looking half donut. It would be way too easy to just eat the whole last donut and throw the box away so as to prevent everyone else from false hope the entire afternoon. Instead, the janitor is destined to throw the stale half out at the end of the day (or does he eat it when nobody is looking?) because no self respecting human being would ever take half a donut from a box, thereby leaving everyone in the office doomed to walk by the donut table and open the box only to be greeted with horrible disappointment.

Half donut eater: I hate you.

For every yin, there is a yang. For every silver lining, there exists a cloud. And for every “40 Year-Old Virgin,” there is a “Dan in Real Life.” Such is the way of the Cru Jones Society. For every “Thing We Love,” there must be a “Thing We Hate.”

Let’s start the list.

“Drill down;” “Get into the weeds;” “Another bite of the apple;” “Run it up the flagpole.” Phrases like these do not demonstrate your business acumen; they only showcase what a jagoff the rest of world thinks you are. Every time I hear someone say something like this - or any of 100 annoying trite business-isms - I want to rip the Bluetooth right out of the offender’s ear and chuck it into the nearest storm drain. You’re not clever, you’re not cool, you’re a blow-dried windbag - a blow-dried windbag speaking in thinly-veiled code to other blow-dried windbags. The business world is already irritating enough without these idiotic, esoteric colloquialisms to further alienate corporate America from the rest of the real world. The next time you find yourself tempted to use one of these clichés, do everyone a favor and light yourself on fire instead.