There is one thing that I do feel we need to try again. One thing that failed, but only because the people who tried it didn’t realize that just because the results they got weren’t what they were expecting, they still held unbelievable value. In fact, even though their initial efforts were seen as a failure, if the originators of this outstanding concept had thought outside the box and made the appropriate adjustments to their presentation of said product, the popular culture of this country, especially in relation to spectator sports, would have turned out vastly different than it did.

Of course, the project in question is the use of monkeys as jockeys during greyhound races.

In 1930, Loretta and Charlie David developed the idea of using capuchin monkeys as jockeys on greyhound dogs during dog races. They felt that jockeys would add to the appeal of dog racing, as they are such a staple of horse racing. however, since people are far too large to serve as jockeys on greyhounds, they purchased 12 capuchin monkeys. Over a period of two years, they trained the monkeys to ride in a specially designed harness on the backs of the dogs. The idea was introduced in Palm beach and created a bit of a buzz at first, but soon died down. The idea failed because the monkeys, while racing around the track, would get into fights with each other, disrupting the race.

What the Davids saw was an idea that failed. What they should have seen was opportunity.

Sometimes people have an idea and that idea turns out completely different from what they originally conceived. This is usually viewed as a failure. If, however, the Davids were able to look outside the box and see what they actually had in their grasps, today they would have left a legacy of dominance and wealth in the world of entertainment.

Yes, the monkeys would hit each other and try to knock each other off of their horses. While this may have technically been against what they were trained to do, wasn’t it so much better? What would you rather see: a bunch of digs running around in a circle or a bunch of dogs running around in a circle, while trained monkey combatants did battle during the race, leaping from dog to dog, wrestling at high speeds, and knocking each other off their steeds?

If the monkeys could not be trained not to fight, they should have reversed tactics. Train those little guys to do battle! Teach them the fundamentals of jousting and grappling. Instruct them on the use of slings and nets. Hone their little monkey fighting skills until they are hardcore, tough as nails monkey combatants. this would have made the contest so much more entertaining. Instead of betting on who would cross the finish line first, spectators in the stands would place wagers on who would be the last monkey standing at the end of the brawl. You think the chariot race in Ben-Hur was entertaining? Just imagine instead of hammy actors knocking each other off of chariots, ferocious, yet adorable, capuchin monkeys doing battle at high speeds!

If marketed properly, Monkey Gladiatorial Matches on Dog-back would have become the most insanely popular sport the world has ever known. Baseball? Who wants to watch a bunch of guys stand around in a park throwing a ball back and forth while a guy with a stick swings at it and missed eighty five percent of the time when you could watch monkeys racing at lightning speeds, throwing nets at each other? Soccer? You can’t even use your hands in soccer. the game is so boring, members of the audience have to bring loud whistles to try to amuse themselves during the game. The only sound you would hear an audience member make during high speed monkey combat is the sound of their hearts beating in their chests as they stared with awe at the spectacle they were witnessing. Basketball? Who wants to watch a sport where the last two minutes take half a day and whenever there is a penalty, the action comes to a grinding halt as the player who suffered the infraction takes boring free throws? In Monkey Combat Racing, there are no fouls and the action never stops, until one monkey reigns supreme. Football? In a three hour broadcast of a football game, there is seven minutes of actual action. Greyhounds racing as fast as they can while monkeys leapt from dog to dog, drop kicking each other to the ground, would be 100% action from bell to bell.

The only sport with the potential to match Greyhound Monkey Jockey Warfare is hockey, but even that, as great as it is, falls short. While hockey has mostly action that doesn’t stop, as well as the fact that fighting is encouraged, it still doesn’t stack up. Hockey players are on skates on ice, making the potential for entertaining fights pretty high. However, as soon as a fight breaks out, the hockey players throw their sticks to the ground, thus making the encounter far less interesting. Monkeys don’t understand fair play and respect for their opponents. Monkeys are wild animals, creatures of instinct. The only way a monkey is throwing his weapon away during a brawl is if he hurls it at his opponent as hard as he can.

With the right production values, this idea could take over the sports world. Soon, niche sports like snowboarding and skateboarding would be a thing of the past. Then combat sports, like MMA and boxing would slowly vanish. Before you know it, institutions like baseball and basketball would lose their audiences to this new, far more riveting pastime. Within a few years, nobody will even remember the Super Bowl is on anymore. instead, companies the world over will be spending millions of dollars to unveil their most creative and original commercials between rounds of the Monkey Bowl.

It’s time for somebody in this country to repackage Greyhound Monkey Jockeys as the extreme sport it is meant to be. We remake everything else, why not this idea? This is a classic example of a missed opportunity, one that our remake crazed culture should leap on the first chance it gets. But if they don’t, in a few years, it will at the very least give me an opportunity to re-write this article.

But there is no place that technology has left anger behind more than with today’s phones. In the past, the phone was the ultimate place to let somebody know you were angry with them if you couldn’t do so in person. Phones today are getting more complex by the hour. New apps are released at what seems like an hourly rate, allowing you to do everything from get driving directions, find recipes, let people know where you are, have video conferences, get movie show times, listen to music, watch TV shows, play video games and the list goes on and on. It is amazing to me that when all of these apps are being developed, not one of these programmers thought to include a function that old phones did brilliantly and new phones can’t express at all. Slamming the phone in a rage!

When the world still used heavy, corded phones and you were in a heated argument with somebody and just couldn’t take it anymore, what did you do? That’s right, you took that phone in your hand and with all your anger fueled power, you SLAMMED that phone back onto its cradle. The person on the other end KNEW without a shadow of a doubt that you were pissed off! Today, what do you do when you’re really mad and want to cut a conversation short? you press the “end call” button. Doesn’t have quite the same impact does it? In fact, the other person may not even know you hung up the phone. They may think you just lost the connection and they may even call you back immediately, not even giving you ample time to storm around the room, curse their name and cool off. Or they may not even know the conversation has ended. Who hasn’t been talking, lost the connection, and just kept on talking, not even realizing the other person wasn’t hearing a word you said?

I am one of those cranky old people who thinks a phone should pretty much just be a phone. I like that my cell tells me the time and I do send text messages throughout the day. But other than that, I just want my phone to be a phone. I once went into a phone store to get a new cell. The woman who worked there approached me with a question I thought was odd. “What do you want your phone to do?” I was taken off guard by this inquiry. I wasn’t even sure how to react at first. After giving it several seconds of pondering, i replied with “I want it to make and receive phone calls.” She looked at me like i had twelve heads before showing me the kind of basic, no frills phone you would buy for your grandmother.

I don’t need to watch this week’s episode of Mad Men on a 3 inch screen. I have a television for that. I don’t need to listen to the new She&him album on my phone. I own a stereo. I don’t need my phone to play games, or give me directions. I especially don’t need my phone to be synced up with my Facebook account. If there is one thing people don’t need, it’s random updates from your boring life. “I’m at the grocery store. the cashier is so slow!” Thank God you had your smart phone to let me in on that nugget of joy! I especially don’t need the Foursquare updates. “Just checked in at Starbucks.” Good for you. Nobody needed to know where you are. If we did, we would call your phone and ask you.

The problem is, I don’t want a “smart” phone. I want an ANGRY phone! If there was a phone that had a “SLAM!” button to end calls, I would buy it in a heartbeat. There are a lot of frustrated, annoyed people out there. Why isn’t anybody using technology to benefit us?

My letter to Gamepro

Gamepro magazine is having a “Letter of the Month” contest, the winner getting an X-Box 360. Now, I don’t even really want an X-Box 360, as I’m waiting for the Playstation 3. BUT, if I have a shot at getting one for free, I’m gonna take it. So here it is, my entry for Letter of the Month.

Dear Gamepro,

I was reading the letters page in your magazine, all of which were people complaining about not being able to get an X-Box 360 at launch. All of these letters were basically people whining that they wanted the system but couldn’t get it. Basically, it had no effect on their lives at all. They were just disappointed. For them, I have one simple piece of advice: consider yourselves lucky. For while not being able to get your hands on the new piece of standard gaming equipment may have caused you some sadness, and possibly even caused you to shed a tear, you all still have your health and you will one day be able to enjoy life again. I, however, am not so lucky. My quest to obtain a 360 on launch day set forth a chain of events that has forever and irreversibly changed my life in ways that you could not have predicted in a thousand years. They say that if you set up a thousand typewriters with a thousand monkeys, in a thousand years, the law of averages says that one of the monkeys will eventually type “Hamlet.” Well, I’m willing to bet that no matter how amazing a monkey you chose, be it Lancelot Link: Secret Chimp, Grape Ape, or even that freaky germ infected monkey from Outbreak, you will never, ever, hear a tale so filled with terror, bad luck, and horrible consequences.
I awoke bright and early on the day the X-Box was due to launch, determined to get my hands on one of the systems. I believed that if I arrived early enough, I would be on line at a good enough point that I could procure my own system. I went to bed the night before, dreaming of photorealistic boxing matches in Fight Night Round 3, fighting the nefarious Nazi’s in Call of Duty 2, and having a new center of my home entertainment system. I awoke from that dream tired, but determined to succeed in my journey.
I hastily threw on my clothes and left my apartment at 2am, getting into my truck and driving to the nearest consumer electronics superstore, which will remain nameless. There, I was greeted by sever people who were already in line. Many of them had been on-line for days. However, I felt my odds of getting a system were still fairly decent, especially since three of the people on line thought that the line was for the release of Star Wars in 3-D.
As the hours passed, I kept warm with thoughts of cutting edge graphics and unparalleled game play. Finally, the moment arrived, and the store opened for business. It all took roughly three minutes. The store opened, they sold three units, and announced they were out of stock. Three units!?! It turns out that the majority of the 360s the store received were sold to the employees, and us hardcore gamers who were willing to brave the elements were left out in the cold. Frantically, I drove from store to store in the off chance that I could find one. I went to every store in the area, begging, pleading, following every rumor, leaving no hint unexplored. As the sun began to set, I realized that my task was hopeless. I would not be getting an X-Box 360 on that day.
In a haze, barely able to see through my teary eyes, I began to drive home. Something darted out in front of me, my blurred vision not quite able to make out what it was. It was moving too fast for my eyes to register what exactly it was, and maybe it was just a delusion brought on through my ordeals, but I could have sworn it was a small blue animal with red sneakers on.
In any event, I swerved to miss the almost super-sonic creature and crashed my car into a tree. After checking to make sure I was still alive, I got out of my car to observe the damage. There was no way I was driving this heap home. The collision had caused sever damage to the engine and I was lucky to be alive. I knew I was alive, because it was impossible for a dead body to hurt this much. Barely able to stand, I tried to signal for help, and breathed a sigh of relief when a car pulled up besides me.
A group of teenagers got out and surveyed the area. Realizing there was nobody else within miles, they group of hoodlums attacked me like a pack of hyenas, laughing and mocking me as they tossed me about and pummeled me about the head. The tossed me up against their car and as my face pressed against the back window of their car, I saw it. An X-Box 360 in the back seat. What kind of a God creates a world where a group of criminals and ruffians can get their hands on this system when a law abiding man like myself was shut out? All of the fight going out of me, I collapsed to the ground, my will to live almost completely gone.
It barely registered in my brain as one of the hooligans reached into my back pocket, taking out my wallet and removing all of the money I had saved up to purchase my X-Box 360 and at least four games at launch. Barely conscious, the only thing keeping my alive my instinct for survival, I crawled my way home.
Once home, I wallowed in despair. I had lost all of my money. My car was destroyed. I had been beaten senseless. I no longer saw the point in continuing this life. Needing a shoulder to cry on, but having made no friends because I spent all of my time playing video games in my apartment instead of interacting with the human race, I decided I would call the Suicide Hotline. There, surely, I would find a friendly voice. Somebody to console my and convince me that my life was indeed worth living. Barely able to stay conscious, my eyes covered in the stereotypical blood, sweat and tears, I picked up my phone and began to dial. Somewhere along the line I made a horrible mistake, as instead of the Suicide hotline, I reached the Nike Hotline. They told me to “Just Do it.”
Convinced that I should end my life, I pulled out my credit card and headed down to the local pawn shop in the poor section of time, looking to end my life. I asked the seedy looking man behind the counter for a gun. He sold it to me for what was, coincidentally enough, the exact amount of credit I had left on my card. It didn’t matter. I wouldn’t need a line of credit with a low interest rate where I was going.
Not wanting to die in my apartment, I made my way to the back parking lot of a large supermarket. It was a chain store that began my descent into madness, it would be at another chain store where I met my end. Saying a silent goodbye to my family and my poor cat Sammie, I put the gun up to my face and, with a final prayer begging for forgiveness, I closed my eyes and squeezed the trigger.
A feeling of intense pain shot through my face almost immediately. I fell to the ground, the gun falling out of my hands and landing on the pavement. My hand instinctively went to my eye, the source of the agony. However, what I felt could not have been a gunshot wound. And where, I asked myself, was the sound of the gun going off. Cautiously, I opened my eyes and looked. My hand was covered in blood, but not from the entry of a bullet entering my skull and slicing through my brain tissue, sending me into sweet oblivion. I looked at the gun I had purchased and almost fainted from the sheer horror. The gun I had purchased was not a real gun at all. Instead of discharging live ammunition, the only thing that sprang forth from this gun was a little flag with the word “BANG!” written on it in a cartoon font. How could I have been so foolish? Why didn’t I recognize the idiotic giggling of the proprietor of that house of ill repute where I purchased what I believed to be the ticket to my everlasting peace? Not believing I could possibly be that gullible, I fell to the ground in a heap and passed out.
When I awoke, I was in bed in a place I did not recognize. It turns out I was found by a kindly women, who, in a rare display of compassion and human kindness, managed to wrestle me into her car and took me to her house, where she began to nurse me back to health. Like something out of a bad romance novel, we were quickly in love, and were married a mere week after I regained consciousness in the home of this angel of mercy.
Once I was able to, I went to my local police precinct to inquire about the whereabouts of my car, as well as fill out a complaint against the group of sadistic teenagers who had beaten me half to death and robbed me of my money. I told the clerk at the front desk my name, and she looked at me with disgust. Perhaps she couldn’t handle the image of a bruised and beaten, one eyed gamer? I took a seat and awaited for somebody to take my statement. I noticed that for some reason,. Nobody would look at me, or even come within ten feet of me.
Finally, an officer came into the room and grabbed me by the arm, yanking me to my feet and taking me off into the back. I tried to ask what was going on, but was immediately slapped and told to be quiet. I was then taken in a police car to a local hospital. There, I was strapped down to a table, much to my dismay. The next thing I knew, there was a group of doctors and policemen around me, holding em down as one of them brandished a needle so huge, you would normally have to take a trip to Seattle to see it. Panicking, I passed out from the sheer terror enveloping my body. When I awoke, I was forever changed.
It seems that a man who was a convicted pedophile had a very similar name to mine, and rather than go to jail, he had worked out a deal to be chemically castrated, thus rendering him harmless and removing his urge to prey on defenseless children. Before I could explain that I was not, in fact, this vile man, the procedure was performed on me. Sadly, the effects are irreversible.
It didn’t take long before every lawyer in the state was knocking on my door. I was awarded a settlement of several million dollars for my ordeal. I now had the kind of money that would allow me to, at last, purchase an X-Box 360 from the jackals on Ebay. I would pay more than the system was worth, but after my series of recent events, I was willing to pay any price. However, it was not to be. You see, since I was now castrated, I was no longer able to satisfy my wife, both physically, as well as emotionally, since children were all she ever dreamed of. She wanted children almost as badly as I wanted to play Halo 3. She divorced me and, of coarse, got all the money.
So here I am. I have no wife. I have no car. I have no way to ever engage in sexual activity again. I’m broke. I am missing an eye. And I forever will be known as a predator of weak and defenseless children. I had hit rock bottom.
Some people, in their hour of greatest crisis, turn to drugs. Some people turn to religion. I turned to Gamepro magazine. And that’s where I saw it: my one last chance at anything resembling happiness. You asked for letters explaining why your readers deserved an X-Box 360 for free. The best letter would get the prize. While others have faced disappointment, I have had my life absolutely shattered. Please, if you have any sense of compassion in you at all, send me an X-Box 360. It won’t erase the past, but it just might give me a glimmer of hope for the future.

John Ferrigno

-John V. Ferrigno

For example, one black person is basically as loud as one white person. But two black people are as loud as four white people. Three black people are as loud as seven white people. Four black people are as loud as fifteen white people. It just grows and grows.

I don’t know why this is. It is a bizarre phenomenon with no scientific explanation. It’s like how a duck’s quack doesn’t echo and nobody knows why. But it IS the truth.

Anyone who has been in a canteen at a job with a large work force, or a high school cafeteria, has noticed this. The “black table” is about thirty seven times louder than the “white table.” (Also, you have to appreciate the irony of the segregation in lunch rooms. Blacks and whites marched hand in hand together during the 60s to end segregation so we could all live together in peace and harmony….and that is the last thing we ever did together! Blacks fought and marched and protested so they wouldn’t have to sit in the back of the bus but when you went to school where did all the black kids sit? But I digress….)

Anyway, we should really get to the bottom of this undiscovered and untapped energy source. This is a gold mine of untapped potential resources! Why, if we cracked its secrets, we could use the population of Detroit to provide energy of the entire globe!

Also, I think it’s time that we, as Americans, adopt a new method of mathematics and measurements. We have been using the bizarre version of ours for way too long. I would suggest we go Metric, but that makes too much sense on a basic level and everybody else in the world uses it, so we obviously can’t use that. So instead, I am thinking we should go with the natural partner of our new English, Ebonics, and use the new math, Blackematics.

Blackematics is very simple. All units and values are replaced with one solitary unit of measurement, “the motherfucker.” Everything is measured in relation to a motherfucker. As in “he’s crazier than a motherfucker.” “I got higher than a motherfucker.” “I ran faster than a motherfucker.” If you ever sat within earshot of “the black table” you have heard this measurement used to great effect. It seems to be working well for the Black community. I think we should just adopt it all over the country, throughout all races.

The only problem is knowing when the “motherfucker threshold” has been breached. I was going to ask one of the kindly blacks at my job, but unfortunately, there were seven of them sitting together, and the sound coming out of them was the equivalent of a neutron bomb and I couldn’t get near enough. I do not know exactly how loud a neutron bomb would be, but I’m assuming it’s louder than a motherfucker.