Cru Jones Society

Question: It’s January 5. How many times have you heard some variation of this joke from somebody who’s enjoying a cocktail, eating a brownie, or continuing to smoke?

“Well, it looks like I already broke my new year’s resolution! Hee-yuck!”

Las Vegas has set the over/under on this at 8.5.

Like global warming jokes, new year’s resolutions turn every dickhead you meet on the street into Shecky Greene replete with an unfunny one-liner and some self-effacing bon mot you didn’t ask to hear. And because they’re used largely as a punchline by people who are the furthest thing from funny, new year’s resolutions have turned from an innocuous, albeit largely meaningless, cultural nicety, to an irritating clothesline from which people you don’t like hang their labored jokes. Continue Reading »

I was at a wedding this past weekend, a very lovely event. I was rocking my suit, looking like money, like the bomb and having a gay old time. The drinks were flowing, the music was bumping, and the dace floor was calling. But there was one thing bugging. It bugged me since the ceremony, and I even made sure to make a note of it in my phone lest I forget in my drunken drunkenness that would come later. I do not understand nor do I appreciate people who attend weddings but do not dress appropriately.

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Let me draw a picture for you. It’s Friday afternoon. It had been a long week and I left work early. I was ready to get home and put the week behind me. Flying down the highway, I was that much closer to a cold beer. Then I pull off onto another highway and suddenly it’s bumper to bumper traffic. What the hell? I left early and I don’t hear Jesse and Joey: The Rush Hour Renegades, so this isn’t rush hour traffic. What is going on? Continue Reading »

I love movies. I have for a long time. Hell, I’ll sometimes watch movies for the sole purpose of saying I have seen them. For the longest time my dream was to write and direct movies. Maybe I will, there’s still time. But it seems lately Hollywood is succumbing to the pressures of an overly sensitive society. And that pisses me right off. Continue Reading »

Look at that shiny, pretty thing up there. It’s a fine automobile. In fact, according to Carfax, it’s consistently one of the cars that best holds its value each year. It’s a fun plaything. I worked at a vehicle accessory store, and the Jeep Wrangler is just about the only vehicle with fun after-market products built specifically for it. It’s pretty. The Jeep Wrangler’s stocky, army tough physique belies a sporty little ride that is cute enough for the vain Cher Horowitz to slip around town in throughout the movie Clueless.

It’s possible to own a Jeep Wrangler without being a complete and udder bag of douche. And if I think about it hard enough, I’ll bet I can even come up with someone I know who isn’t one. But we don’t have that kind of time. (If I’ve missed someone obvious in my circle of friends, I apologize)

So, if you somehow own a Jeep Wrangler and haven’t annoyed everyone you know yet, congratulations. This article is not directed at you. For the remaining 99% of you… we hate you. Continue Reading »

It’s April, damn near May, which means the Stanley Cup playoffs are in full swing. Even though my beloved Avalanche spent the latter part of the season looking like retards trying to fuck a doorknob and thus aren’t in the hunt for the cup, there’s still hockey so I’m watching. Watching these hockey matches means having to put up with the air wave atrocity known as Versus. Continue Reading »

Consider this neither a concession speech nor an admission of being wrong in the seemingly endless Beirut/Beer Pong debate. I’m not wrong. The game involving 10 cups on either end of a table where teams of two alternate shots attempting to eliminate their opponents’ cups is Beirut. Beer Pong is a different game entirely and owes its getting two games under its name to a varied buffet of factors. And while it pains me to no end to assert this, I get why Beer Pong is the dominant name. I’ll explain. Continue Reading »

As much as we might wish for it, the Cru Jones Society isn’t exactly rolling in cash yet. We all still have real jobs which prevent us from devoting the entirety of our time to bringing you ridiculous articles about cartoon villains, new ways to defile your liver while watching popular television shows, and meditations on assholes you may or may not sit next to on your next comedy club excursion.

As such, the majority of our day is spent kowtowing to white collar demands of office life or [description of occupation removed in accordance with United States Government request]. As a result, the three of us are amazed that many of the men around us are so painfully clueless about the proper way to put together an outfit. While we’re by no means the fashion police, there are some basic rules every man should follow in putting together an outfit. Here’s a primary list of offenses to basic fashion sense. Continue Reading »

There is something that’s been in the back of my mind for a long time, I just don’t understand pop culture’s fascination with monkeys, especially chimpanzees.  Yes, they have big eyes and expressive human like faces.  They can open bananas with their feet, and those Japanese white ones even hang around in hot springs like old men at my health club.  Which incidentally includes being stark ass naked, which is probably why I stopped going there, but I digress.   With apologies to Dane Cook,  does anyone really want to have a monkey around?

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Here’s a special bonus Things We Hate I wrote in my head while walking to my car yesterday after work. Enjoy.

As I trudged toward my car four blocks away after work yesterday, no longer parked at the godforsaken Greyhound bus station (Thank God), with the snow pummeling my face, my head bundled up like some oppressed Middle Eastern woman, and my hands full of weird prizes from winning my company’s ugly sweater contest, all I could think about was this quote from Hugh Hefner that I read in Esquire last year: “There isn’t a whole lot of point to living half the year in a lousy climate.”

The words circled in my head as I trudged through below-zero temperatures, even frostier wind chills, and snow that looked more like nuclear fallout than the delightful rooftop compliment portrayed by that menace Thomas Kincade. My forehead ached from the cold, my tender, cold-ridden nose burned from the wind, and my beleaguered salt-stained chinos looked like they belonged to Willy Loman after yet another unsuccessful sales trip. Hugh fucking Hefner, man.

This is a man from Chicago, which gives him better lousy climate ethos than virtually anyone outside of Alaska. He now lives in Southern California where experiencing “bad weather” is akin to getting a mild brain freeze from sipping your daiquiri through a straw a bit too quickly. Maybe there’s more to this Hefner guy than just all the decadent parties and rampant sex… Besides, it was fucking -16 degrees yesterday. It could have been Kim buttfucking Kardashian who made that point above and it would have sounded brilliant. Anything of that sort sounds brilliant when your snot freezes.

edagger@crujonessociety.com

The Cru Jones Society reads a lot. We read everything we can get our hands on – books, literature, magazines, comics, criticism, humor, you name it, we’re reading it.

I don’t care for most fiction; real life is much more interesting to me. I can’t relate to vampires, couldn’t give a crap about wizards, warlocks, and elves, and think Tom Clancy is a fear-mongering asshole. But none of things really bother me. The fiction universe is designed to provide either escape or release for its readers. What really bothers me is when nonfiction authors – and so-called journalists – get too full of their own shit. They think of themselves as discoverers of truth, expedition leaders to the cave of the unseen. In reality, they’re nothing more low-rent Dr. Phils – just as bloviating, just as arrogant. Continue Reading »

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