Jurassic World Review

I saw Jurassic World last Friday. Since then, a lot of people have asked me what I thought about it. They plan to see it, and they want to know what to expect. Every time I’m asked, I say, “Good dinosaurs.” I tell them that: 1) Because it’s true—the dinosaurs are pretty good, and 2) I have nothing else positive to say, and I don’t want to ruin it for them.

Jurassic World is garbage, and the fact that it’s made a billion dollars and has a 71% rating on Rotten Tomatoes appalls me.

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I’m going to tell you why it’s garbage. Now would probably be the time to give a spoiler alert, but I refuse to do that—you cannot spoil garbage. Plus, if you’ve seen the trailer then you know the entire plot: An extra mean dinosaur stomps around and murders some people. There you go.

Why Jurassic World is garbage

Subplots: There are 1,000 of them, and none support the actual story. For instance, the kids’ parents are getting a divorce. There are only three references to this.

1. After dropping their kids off at the airport, the dad says, “So much for a family breakfast.” The mom gives him the stank eye and responds with something like, “Why did you have to say that?” Clearly, they hate each other. (Also, let’s ignore that this exchange MAKES ZERO SENSE IN THE CONTEXT OF THE SCENE. The kids got dropped off at the airport. Didn’t you know they were going on a trip, dad? Why are you so upset you didn’t get to eat breakfast with them? You could have stopped at McDonald’s or something, you B-hole.)

2. When they’re at Jurassic World, the little brother tells the big brother that their parents are getting mail from divorce lawyers. Little brother cries a bunch, big brother says IDGAF.

3. At the end, after lots of people died but their kids didn’t, the parents arrive at the park holding hands and looking relieved. Divorce averted!

That’s just one example, but there are lots more. The older brother, Zach, is jerky to his girlfriend and creepily stares at pretty girls. Claire, the main character girl, gets pressured to have babies. She’s also a crappy aunt. None of the subplots are developed, interesting, or at all significant to the main story. THEY’RE DUMB AND THEY SUCK.

Romance: I already mentioned the marital troubles between the kids’ parents and the older brother’s hornidogginess, but those fools aren’t even the worst offenders. The two main characters—Claire and Owen—are the worst.

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Look at these fools.

Apparently Claire and Owen had gone on a date before and hated each other. She was too uptight, he was too laid back, and neither was down to clown. After a couple minutes fighting dinosaurs together, though, they fall deeply in love. Nobody falls in love that quickly, especially under that much stress. Do you know how stressful it must be, getting hunted by dinosaurs!?! Claire works at Jurassic World—her customers are getting pecked to death by dinosaur birds—and she and Owen are just chilling, ogling each other and making out.

Dinosaur behavior: I said the dinosaurs are good because they look good. They do not act good. They are irrational as eff.

They got beef.

Stupid assholes.

Here’s the dilly: In order to attract more people to the park, geneticists spliced the DNA of a bunch of dinosaurs (and non-dinosaurs) to create the baddest bitch dinosaur of all time. Her name’s Indominus Rex, and she a mothereffer. Such a mothereffer, in fact, that she escapes her cage to go on a killing spree. Everyone tries to stop her but can’t because, like I said, she a mothereffer.

Owen is an ex-Navy man who takes the lead on the Indominus Rex hunt. Before that, though, he trained Velociraptors. He had a pretty good handle over them, even claimed to be their alpha.

Some dude named Hoskins at the training place—whose title and authority were never disclosed, I don’t think—believes raptors would make A1 soldiers. Owen disagrees, but Hoskins doesn’t care and decides to send the raptors out, alongside humans, to fight Indominus anyway. Turns out Indominus is part raptor, so the other, full-blooded raptors immediately change allegiance from Owen to Indominus. They start trying to kill humans ASAP. They eat Hoskins.

Then Owen looks his favorite raptor, Blue, in the eye in a meaningful way and just like that regains his trust. All raptors are back on board, ready to fight Indominus.

BUT the raptors are weak compared to her, and are getting their asses kicked. Claire says, “Hey, maybe T. Rex will be down to join the cause.” She makes someone open T. Rex’s gate. Even though he’s a mean mofo too, he immediately starts fighting Indominus. She kicks his ass, so the raptors pitch in to help T. Rex take her down. Then the water-dwelling Mosasaur says, “Yeah I’ll help too” and he eats Indominus. At the end of the scene, T. Rex looks at the raptor like, “Should I eat you now?” Raptor looks scared and T. Rex shrugs and walks away.

WOULD DINOSAURS REALLY BE THAT SWEET AND HELPFUL? I think not. Dinosaurs are cool as hell, but I’m pretty sure they’re not particularly sweet or helpful. I’ve never met any, so I don’t know. Maybe the herbivores are—Brachiosauruses seem chill—but T. Rexes and Velociraptors do not.

To everyone who wants to know if Jurassic World is any good: It is not.

Chris Pratt is pretty dreamy, though.

Room Raiders 2015

Remember Room Raiders? The dating/reality show on MTV that ran from 2004 to 2009? The dumbest show ever created? If not, let me remind you.

Room Raiders, the show that gives three unsuspecting singles the surprise of their lives when they find out they’re being picked for a date, not by their looks or charm, but by what’s inside their bedrooms. The girls watch helplessly as their dirtiest secrets are revealed.

Basically, one eligible contestant would raid the bedrooms of three other eligible contestants. Eligible contestant number one would rifle through the others’ things, judge them by the posters on their walls and the underpants in their drawers, and then—without ever meeting any of them—choose a winner to date.

I had two problems with this show. First, I hated that the people who had their rooms raided—the raidees—pretended to not know what was going on. They’d be in their house, taking naps or dropping deuces, and suddenly a stranger in sunglasses and a jumpsuit would run in, kidnap them, and throw them in the back of a van. The raidees would pretend to be a little confused, but otherwise went along it. THAT DON’T MAKE NO SENSE. IF A STRANGER CAME INTO MY CRIB TO STEAL ME I’D BE THROWING BOWS AND KNEEING B-SACKS. THAT CAN STAND FOR BALLSACKS OR BOOBSACKS, DEPENDING ON MY CAPTOR’S GENDER AND HEIGHT. I WOULD WILD OUT.

The absurdity of the premise was my first problem with Room Raiders. My second was that I was never on it.

I never signed up or auditioned for it or anything, I just always thought it’d be cool to have a stranger paw through my business and evaluate me as a love interest based on their findings. And I mean that sincerely—I truly did dream of being on Room Raiders. I think the show’s been canceled (or if it hasn’t, I’m too old and booed up now), so I’ve got to raid my own room. And since I’m the one doing the raiding, I’m going to feel free to explain the things that need explaining.

Things in my bed

  • 9 pillows (one for emotional purposes, one for sleeping, and 7 because I’m too nice to kick them out)
  • 1 green blanket with holes in it
  • 1 fitted sheet, with both mud and blood stains (from tiny dog paws and picked scabs, respectively)
  • 0 top sheets
  • Several dead or dying ticks, of both Wood and Deer varieties (result of the tiny dogs that co-sleep wit me)
  • 1 plastic dog bone
  • 1 piece of a deer antler

Things on top of my bedside table

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Look at how impressively smooth those tinfoil balls are!

  • 1 brand new, beautiful Nalliegene bottle
  • 1 pair of tweezers for late-night belly tweezing
  • 1 tube of Abreva
  • Many bottles of lotion
  • Many never-to-be-read library books
  • 1 Bart Simpson thumb drive
  • 2 impressively smooth balls of tinfoil
  • Couple dead ticks

Things inside of my bedside table

  • 1 tube of Abreva
  • 1 baby tub of Vaseline
  • 1 baby Etch a Sketch
  • 1 empty box pet deodorizer for when my dog pees on my bed

Things in my closet

Photo on 5-12-15 at 9.42 PM

Look how lovingly Chico is looking at me. He think I look fly.

  • 1 pair Spanish sag pants
  • 1 Angora orange turtleneck sleeveless sweater
  • 1 shirt with sleeves but no shoulders
  • 39 shirts that need to be retired
  • 2 freakum dresses that will never be worn
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Look at that d-bag kid. Nice tie, loser. Pay attention to your damn girl.

Miscellaneous things

  • 2 sets pink frill curtains
  • 1 pink carpet
  • 1 additional twin-sized bed in the corner where my mom sleeps when it gets too hot in the rest of the house
  • 1 creepy picture of adult children in a relationship that is most likely abusive
  • 6 glow-in-the-dark stars
  • 1 broken clock
  • 1 broken vacuum cleaner
  • 1 broken drafting table
  • 2 TVs

I’ve been living in it for the past two years, but I’d like to point out this is technically my sister’s bedroom, even though she moved out the house in ’01. So, really, this has been a raid of my sister’s room, not mine. Sorry, Chris.

P.S. What things would someone find if they raided your room?

Exercising at work

Ready for some scary news? Are you sitting down?

THEN BETTER STAND UP FOOL UNLESS YOU TRYNA DIE.

Because people who sit die.

That is a fact. Every single person who has ever sat will die. And people who spend six or more hours a day sitting are 78% more likely to die earlier than they maybe would have—of cancer, diabetes, heart disease, and other bad sitting-induced diseases. They’re also 109% more likely to be overweight.

Those are made up statistics, but they’re based in some fact. Google “sitting all day” and you will find millions—for real, millions—of results about how bad sitting is for you. From reputable sources, too: NPR, CNN, Today, etc.

The dramatic headlines say it all. It’s confirmed, he who sits the most dies the soonest.

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I sit a butt ton. I sit on my butt a butt ton. I once traded design services for a standing desk, but it was a portable one and it wiggle waggled around like crazy and gave me a migraine, so I sold it on Craigslist for a quick hundo.

So, like millions of other office workers, I sit on a cushy computer chair for seven hours a day. And I drive for at least an hour a day. Then I go home, walk the dogs for thirty minutes, and then sit down to eat dinner, watch TV, read, or whatever. I sit enough to die.

Since I very dearly would like to minimize the risk sitting puts me at, I try to incorporate fitness and movement into my everyday office routine. Here is how.

Water

I drink mad water. Probably 32 ounces every hour or two. When my Nalgene’s empty, I have to stand up, walk downstairs, fill up my bottle, and walk back upstairs to my office. And with water, of course, comes whizzing. I go pee about once an hour. It’s very healthy. Actually, once I had a water-drinking contest with a co-worker and got water poisoning and had to go home early. Normally, though, drinking water is healthy. I just had to learn to keep it under eight Nalgenes per five hours. That is not healthy. That is drowning.

Coffee runs

By coffee runs I mean getting up and walking across campus to a little market. I guess it works the other way too though, because I get super poopy from coffee. I take a sip and immediately got to rush to the bathroom. That’s TMI but it’s also standing up, and that’s good news.

I run for more than coffee. I’ll walk across campus for a single York peppermint patty. I’ll accompany co-workers to the library, or the mail center, or anywhere. If anyone invites me for a bit of walking, I accept their offer. Walking’s not sitting, and you know what that is? That’s good news.

Chatting

If a co-worker comes into my office to ask me something, I stand up. They’re standing anyway, so I look like a gentleman. A gentlelady. People at work find me very polite and agreeable.

Exercising

Although I am polite and agreeable, I also get bored extra quick when someone’s talking to me about worky stuff. So, while they talk, I drop down and do a few push-ups. Or I do calf raises, or a plank, or squats, or stretches, or other body weight exercises. Everyone in my department knows I’m passionate about not getting diseases from sitting too much, so they’re cool with it. Sometimes they even join in.

I also have a pull-up bar in my office—I try to do at least two pull-ups a day (pull-ups are hard). I get in some air crunches on the bar, too. I also do about five handstands against the wall per day. Doing those got more difficult when my boss moved into my office, but he knows to look away now.

Quick note: Squats are the trickiest, because girls wear tight pants sometimes. Squats and tight pants aren’t a good team. For example, a couple weeks ago I got up during a meeting to get water, go pee, and pop a few squats in the bathroom. I was wearing an old pair of semi-tight pants and, about three squats in, I blew out the B-hole. Ripped the crack seam right in half. It wasn’t huge, so I didn’t have to go home to change or anything, but that’s something I generally try to avoid—ripping my pants in the middle of a meeting.

All right, now you know how I get up from my chair. How do you get up from yours? We might not be the real Slim Shady, but let’s all still please stand up.

Self-Confidence and Social Media

My friend Katie and I went for a hike over the weekend. We brought skis and dogs to a small mountain where the snow came down through the pines on the hillside, muffling the groans of branches when it gusted and the creaks our feet made in the packed powder of the trail. At the peak we slid into ski boots and clicked into bindings, skiing down through falling snow while the dogs padded alongside—quiet and cold, the type of day that changes your life.

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BARF.

Holy moly writing that was terrible. I plagiarized half that diarrhea from a Hemingway book and still it’s making my insides burn with shatred. That’s a combo of shame and hatred and sharts, and it barely describes the amount of discomfort that paragraph makes me feel. “The type of day that changes your life.” Again:

BARF.

But after you’re done throwing up, you can admit it sounded a little bit dope, right? Not the trying-too-hard paragraph, but the hiking experience itself. Katie and I really did hike up a mountain and ski down it with our dogs in tow. Doesn’t it make us sound like a couple of cool Maine ladies who spend their days backcountrying around the backcountry, chilling with four-legged creatures, and adventuring?

Imagine if I posted about our hike on Instagram. That picture of me with the skis and the dogs, with a Walden filter, and some caption about winter and Maine and snow. Maybe I tag L.L.Bean in it. Maybe I quote Robert Frost.

“You can’t get too much winter in the winter.” –Robert Frost, Snow
#winter #maine #llbean #mansbestfriend #rescuepups #alwaysadopt

If I posted that on Instagram, you might think I was pretentious, but you also might think I was a lil bit cool. Quoting poets, rescuing dogs, hiking snowy mountains. You’d have no idea that I had to Google “Robert Frost quotes” to find that Robert Frost quote. Or that my dog didn’t come from a shelter—he came from a breeder, and I had to barter away months of my life in order to afford that tiny, expensive bed-whizzer. Or that my snowy hike last weekend was not at all life-changing, that in fact it sucked 100% balls.

It was less than two miles to the top but Katie and I each almost had true mental breakdowns on that hike. Our backs hurt, our feet froze, and snowmobilers kept trying to murder us. It took half an hour to get into our ski boots, I was convinced I shattered my Achilles tendon, and when we finally succeeded in putting our skis on, we learned the way back down was not down at all. That shady ass mountain was actually a field in disguise—we had to trek it cross-country style the whole way back. That hike was made of snot rockets and swear words, and it effin blew. But you wouldn’t know it from that picture.

I try to remember that every time I go on Instagram. I’m following lots of people who do cool things, and sometimes I get a little down on myself. My feed’s full of people’s pictures of their houses and vacations and brand new cars. Meanwhile, I’m living with my parents and starting collection jars for candy bars.* Every time I see a cool picture and I feel myself getting jealous, I think of all the ways it could actually suck.

  • Photo of someone’s new house: They have rats living in their walls.
  • Photo of a nice gift from a boyfriend: Their boyfriend is their cousin and also a thief.
  • Photo out of an airplane window: The person in the seat next to them has measles. And is also their boyfriend, the cousin/thief.
  • Photo at the gym, post-workout: They have rats at home, remember, so they like to get out the crib and Planet Fitness is open 24 hours.
  • Photo of their feet near water, someplace warm: The rest of their body is covered in rats. And hickeys from their cousin.

Really, all you have to do is add in rats and incest. Nobody’s life sounds good when you add in rats and incest.

*I’m up to 45 cents, if anyone would like to contribute.

Better Off Home

I took a shower last Saturday night. I put on mascara, perfume, and a T-shirt I’d only worn one other time without washing. I also seriously considered wearing earrings (but pierced ear holes smell like straight booty and idfwt). I was ready for a night out on the town in New England’s 29th biggest city. Curtis and I had plans to get dinner and drinks with a friend in Portland.

But on the way into town, we remembered PLANS ARE FOR FOOLS and instead got pizza and went back to my house to eat cheesecake and watch The Office on Netflix. I was asleep by 9 damn 30, and I couldn’t have been happier. (Also, our friend had furniture troubles and couldn’t make it, so it was just Curtis and me. Hells if we’re gonna spend a Saturday night socializing when we don’t have to.)

The thing is: going out blows. Sometimes I feel bad for thinking it blows so much, and that I don’t do more of it. I’m 25 now—when I’m 80, will I look back at my twenties and regret not going out to the club more often? Will I regret never learning how to twerk or jerk or yeet? (Those are all dances, by the way—not gross things.)

The answer is no. I won’t regret any of that. Because I did learn how to yeet. In my living room, in an old pair of my sister’s friend’s sweatpants, in front of my parents while they watched The Weather Channel. And then I went to bed and was asleep by 9 damn 30, and I couldn’t have been happier. I’m the type of person who’s better off in the crib.

To go out is to spend several hours interacting with others. I have nothing against others—some of my best friends are others—I’d just rather not have to interact with them in loud, dimly lit places when I’m sleepy. Plus I’m self-conscious in groups greater than two, so if I don’t drink I get bad social anxiety. But if I do drink, then I’m not self-conscious, which is even worse. My unself-conscious self is weirdly aggressive and … athletic, maybe. Or just competitive. And awful.

Por ejemplo, last year, I went to a strangers’ party in New York City. I was with friends who were related to these strangers, but I ain’t know them like that. I didn’t want to be socially anxious so I brought a bottle of Cîroc. At the same time I didn’t want to act like my uninhibited self and embarrass my friends, so I made a list of the things to avoid doing. The list included:

  • Speaking Spanish
  • Asking about food
  • Asking about candy
  • Doing push-ups
  • Talking about how getting into a fight could be cool
  • Drooling
  • Doing a southern accent
  • Talking about Patrick Stump
  • Talking about rappers
  • Rapping

This was a real list written in earnest days prior to going to New York. I even brought it along to make sure I didn’t forget about it.

It worked for a while, too. I went to the strangers’ party in New York, ate Hawaiian pizza, and had a sugary boozy drink. I laughed at people’s stories and spoke without stumbling and, in general, acted like a normal person. Until I met a girl from St. Louis.

You know who’s from St. Louis? The St. Lunatics. Nelly and Murphy Lee and their St. Louis-born rapping friends.

Me: Oh, St. Louis! Do you like Murphy Lee?
Girl from St. Louis: Murphy Lee?
Me: Yeah! You know, Baby Houie. One of the best in the Louie … “I’m so St. Louis, ask my tattooist. I was like the waterboy now they sayin’ you can do it.” You two related or anything?

Not only did I talk about rappers, I rapped. With that, all was lost. I started speaking terrible Spanish. Instead of push-ups I did fake pull-ups. I took a shot of white vinegar. Those strangers? I gave them all the suck-it sign and challenged them to dance battles.

That’s why I stay in the crib. We’re all better off because of it.

Surfing in the Winter

If you want to surf somewhere cold—like Maine in the winter, maybe—the first step is getting a thick wetsuit. If you don’t already have a thick wetsuit, visit your local surf shop and follow these steps:

AT THE SURF SHOP
Seek help from one of the friendly employees. Ideally you’ll find the owner of the shop, maybe a 60ish-year-old gentleman named John, and he’ll lead you to the wetsuit section of the store. You’ll want to be on your cell phone at this point, so John knows you’re important and not that serious about wetsuits. But you’ll also want him to sympathize with you, so knock over a skateboard display and fart a rotten one. This will show him you’re both down-to-earth and helpless, and it will endear you to him.

PICKING OUT THE SUIT
Follow John’s lead on this one. He knows how cold the waters can get, and will recommend the right ones to keep you warm. Some of them will have hoods, some will not—just make sure you tell him your sisters used to suffocate you under blankets and that you hate constrictive clothing and struggle with claustrophobia. He will not understand, but you’ll feel better having told him.

THE FITTING ROOM
John will escort you to the fitting room, likely located directly across from the main entrance of the store. Tell him you’re wearing underpants—not a bathing suit—under your clothes, and ask if that’s cool. Remember, you will have earned his pity from the skateboards and the farts, and he’ll reluctantly let it slide.

TRYING ON THE SUITS
Put on the first wetsuit. Since it’s supposed to be warm enough for cold-water surfing, it’s going to be crazy thick—six millimeters, even. Squirm your way in as best as you can. Then, once you’ve zipped yourself up, walk out from the fitting room and into the main part of the store, and ask John to check you out. He’ll tell you your crotch is sagging, and then he’ll make you tug at your junk for the next ten minutes. Finally he’ll tell you the wetsuit’s positioned correctly, and you’ll tell him you’re choking and that you “hate this so much.” Retreat to the fitting room.

TAKING OFF THE SUITS
Remember how you squirmed your way into the wetsuit? You will now realize that your shoulders are too broad and your fingers too weak to squirm your way back out. Tug helplessly for five minutes, get so sweaty the suit sticks to you even worse, and then run out of the fitting room shouting for help. Remind John about how much you hate constrictive clothing. Ask him to get you out of that GODDAMN THICK ASS FUCKING WETSUIT.

STILL TAKING OFF THE SUITS
It will require two people—John and a high school girl who works there—to get you out of the wetsuit. When they’re done, thank them by explaining, again, how your sisters used to try to suffocate you with blankets. You will notice both John and the girl are uncomfortable yet amused. Look down and realize you are in your underpants in the middle of the store (just the top half, but still definitely underpants). Hasten back to the fitting room.

NEXT STEPS
Do not buy a wetsuit. Do not surf anywhere cold.

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