Snob

Why your friends with children no longer socialise and other horrifying new parent facts Christine Skoutelas explains the myriad reasons why parents with young children don't seem to want to socialise (TLDR: They are permanently exhausted).

Cracked.com also gives you '5 Terrifying things that nobody tells you about Newborns' - mostly physical. TLDR: Be prepared to become intimate with the little persons bodily secretions.

Cracked.com also nicely sums up '6 shockingly evil things Babies are capable of' TLDR: Babies, yes Babies, not toddlers are naturally capable of sophisticated emotional manipulation.

Finally BBC.com gives 30 Practical Tips for New parents

I have included the TLDR not because I want to encourage people not to RTA, but because if you are new parents you probably won't have the time nor energy.

Apologies for linking to Cracked I am not responsible if you find time mysteriously swallowed by a cracked.com article spiral.

8-Bit Philosophy: What is Real? (Plato) 8-Bit Philosophy: Does SCIENCE = TRUTH? (Nietzsche) 8-Bit Philosophy: Do Humans Operate Like Computers? (Kant)

Hola a todo el mundo.
Si os interesa mínimamente el arte torcido, lo que llaman por ahí “low-brow” y el garage y punk americano de los 90, deberíais ver este pedazo de documental. Long Gone John es el fundador del sello americano Sympathy for the Record Industry, una memorable discográfica que ha sacado discos de gente tan bestia como los Dwarves, White Stripes, Hole, Billy Childish, Gun Club, April March, Man or Astro-Man, Red Kross, Rocket from The Crypt, Suicide o los mismísimos Pleasure Fuckers. 

El sello siempre tuvo un halo creativo muy especial. Long Gone John, de exquisito gusto artístico, apostaba por nuevos ilustradores y les daba la oportunidad de “portadear” sus ediciones. Genios como Mark Ryden, Todd Schorr o Kozik derrocharon su pincel en portadas de Sympathy for the Record Industry. Long Gone John, coleccionista compulsivo, poco a poco fue haciéndose con una colección de arte impresionante de aquellos jóvenes artistas, una colección de un valor incalculable a día de hoy. Otra de sus grandes pasiones, como la nuestra, es coleccionar muñequitos. Ama los mercadillos, los visita semanalmente y compra compulsivamente objetos exóticos y diabólicos muñecos de épocas pasadas. Su pasión acabó en negocio y hace 10 años creó la empresa Necessaries Toy Foundation, donde amigos suyos diseñaban y él comercializaba los juguetes. Quizás os suene el muñeco de la famosa ENID del cómic Ghost World, él fue quien inmortalizó el estupendo juguete. También las muñecas bicéfalas de la pintora e ilustradora Camille Rose García. 

En 2006 salió el documental que hoy os recomendamos. ¿Tienes un amor desmedido por el arte torcido? ¿Coleccionas algo compulsivamente? ¿Te interesó algo la música americana independiente de los 90? ¿Amas a Mark Ryden o Robert Williams por encima de muchas cosas? Entonces dale una oportunidad a este documental, “Los tesoros de Long Gone John” es una invitación al excéntrico mundo de un soñador, de un niño pequeño encerrado en el cuerpo de un hombretón, de un amante de lo anormal, de un señor con un oído musical privilegiado. Sean bienvenidos al excéntrico y obsesivo mundo de un personaje irrepetible. Ojo a los cameos. Disfruten.

Odiamos a David S. Goyer. Él es uno de los responsables de los guiones de las espantosas últimas películas de Batman y Superman. Se ha convertido en el niño mimado de Warner/Legendary Pictures y también va a meter sus zarpas en Batman V Superman: Dawn of Justice y en La Liga de la Justicia. Culpamos directamente a este señor de lo mal organizado que está el universo DC en su versión cinematográfica. Mientras él esté al frente de la escritura de las historias de los héroes DC, las pelis de los superhéroes de la editorial DC nunca se podrán comparar con las de Marvel.

Hoy tenemos un motivo más para odiar a este tipejo:

Goyer ha participado recientemente en un Scriptnotes, un podcast en el que, entre otras lindezas, se ha despachado muy a gusto con She Hulk, una de las superheroínas de la casa de Stan Lee más populares. Esto es lo que ha dicho este tipejo:

“Tengo una teoría sobre She Hulk. Ella fue creada por un hombre, ¿verdad? Y en aquella época en particular creo que el 95 por ciento de los lectores, y ciertamente la mayoría de los guionistas de cómics eran todos hombres. Por eso Hulk es la clásica fantasía de poder masculino. La mayoría de la gente que lee tebeos sufrió acoso escolar en su infancia, y por aquella época, cuando eran niños, soñaban con convertirse en un gigante que de una palmada hiciera temblar la tierra”.

“Después de esto deciden crear a She-Hulk… ¿ A quién fue el listo que se le ocurrió esta idea? Hulka es algo así como la chica que te follarías si fueses Hulk, sabéis lo que quiero decir? She-Hulk es la extensión de la fantasía de poder machista. Siguiendo con la analogía del friki que era acosado, She-Hulk es la actriz porno gigante que solamente Hulk podría follar”.

Estas declaraciones demuestran mucho desconocimiento. Y son muy graves porque las ha pronunciado un “respetado” guionista de historias de superhéroes. Hulka nunca ha sido una fantasía machista. De hecho ha sido más bien todo lo contrario, ya que She Hulk se perfiló desde el principio como una heroína feminista, una mujer independiente que no quería estar sometida a los hombres.

David s. Goyer debería leerse algún cómic de She-Hulk para saber de lo que habla.

Gracias a Luis Díaz por el soplo.

The post David S. Goyer compara a She-Hulk con una estrella del porno appeared first on Teenage Thunder.

"Mad Jack" on the far right, clutching a claymore sword. Photo via WikiCommons

The first thing the Nazi garrison on Vågsøy Island, Norway, would have heard when the British No. 3 Commando battalion landed on December 27, 1941, was the sudden blaring drone of bagpipes. One commando stood at the fore of the landing craft, facing the impending battle and playing the peppy, martial “March of the Cameron Men.” Upon coming to a halt onshore, the soldier jumped from the craft, hucked a grenade at the Germans, then drew a full sword and ran screaming into the fray.

That maniacally fierce soldier was 35-year-old Lieutenant Colonel John Malcolm Thorpe Fleming Churchill, and his stunts at this battle, known as Operation Archery, were hardly the most bizarre and semi-suicidal of his life. Over the course of World War II, “Mad Jack,” as he came to be known, survived multiple explosions, escaped a couple of POW camps, captured more than 40 Germans at sword point in just one raid, and in 1940 scored the last recorded longbow kill in history. And that’s just the CliffsNotes on his wartime rap sheet.

For many war junkies and badass aficionados, Mad Jack’s exploits are the epitome of military romanticism. His recorded statements, full of swagger like “Any officer who goes into action without his sword is improperly dressed,” and, “I maintain that, as long as you tell a German loudly and clearly what to do, if you are senior to him he will cry ‘jawohl’ and get on with it enthusiastically and efficiently,” seem like the physical manifestation of some midcentury boy’s adventure tale. The Royal Norwegian Explorers Club found him such a paragon of brawn and endeavor that, in a book released this March, they named him one of the greatest adventurers of all time.

Photo via Wikimedia Commons

Not much is known about Churchill’s youth, save that he graduated from Britain’s premier Royal Military Academy Sandhurst in 1926 and, at age 20, was shipped off to Burma, where he spent the next few years driving his motorcycle around the region. Possibly bored by a long peacetime, Churchill left the army for a period in 1936 and spent some time as a Nairobi newspaper editor, male model, and a bagpipe-playing, arrow-shooting extra in films like The Thief of Baghdad and A Yank at Oxford. By the end of the decade, he’d become so obsessed with the pipes that he took second place in a 1938 military piping competition at the Aldershot Tattoo, causing a mild scandal because an Englishman had beat out so many Scots. The next year, his archery habit landed him a place as Britain’s shooter at the World Archery Championship in Oslo.

As soon as the Nazis invaded Poland and war became imminent, though, Churchill rushed to the battlefield. The longbow came out almost immediately during the Allied retreat to Dunkirk, France, in mid 1940. He took to practicing guerilla tactics, staging raids, and earning commendations for his bravery, even surviving a clipping by machine gun fire. Then, while watching a German force advance from a tower in the little village of L’Epinette, Churchill signaled his attack by shooting a Nazi sergeant through the chest with a barbed arrow, immediately followed by a hail of bullets from two fellow infantrymen in tow.

The next year, in 1941, Churchill volunteered to join the newly formed British commandos, with whom he launched his screaming Nordic raid. After emerging from the battle unscathed, a British demolition “expert” accidentally detonated a charge next to him, sending shards from the bottle of wine he was drinking into his forehead. But he was back on his feet soon after, joining the 1943 campaign in Italy, where he snuck out one night with a corporal, creeping from one German post to the next and surprising the guards with his claymore. By the end of the night he’d captured 42 prisoners with a sword and soon after earned the Distinguished Service Order.

In 1944, Churchill was sent to assist Josip Broz Tito’s forces in Yugoslavia, leading a full frontal assault on a well-defended tower on the island of Brač. Leading a charge through strafing fire and mortars, he was one of only seven men to reach the target and, after firing off every bullet he had, found himself the last man standing. So he stood playing “Will Ye No Come Back Again?” on his pipes until the advancing Germans knocked him out with a grenade blast. The Nazis reportedly ignored orders to kill him out of respect, but it probably helped that they assumed he was a relative of Winston Churchill, which prompted them to send him to Berlin for interrogation. After proving he had no valuable intel and causing panic by lighting a trash fire during one of his moves, he was sent to the Sachsenhausen concentration camp.

He promptly escaped the camp, shimmying under a wire fence, and attempted to walk about 125 miles through Nazi territory to the Baltic Sea. He was captured just miles from the shore and transferred to another camp, this time in Italy. As should have been expected by then, he escaped in 1945, sneaking away during a power outage and walking about 100 miles using a stolen rusted can to cook what he considered liberated vegetables looted from Nazi-held fields until he found an American regiment in Verona and convinced them he was a British officer.

While his equipment might have seemed outdated, it did serve its purpose on the battlefield. “Both the longbow and the claymore were extremely effective in the right circumstances,” says British weapons historian Mike Loades. “Both are capable of maiming and killing.” Based on images of Churchill, Loades suspects he used a lightweight bow with a draw weight under 40 pounds, versus the 100-pound of medieval bows and 180-pound modern warbows. But, says Loades, “unarmored German troops during WWII present a softer target than men in armor during the middle ages. Consequently a really heavy bow would not be necessary.” Modern bowhunters say a 70-pound draw bow can drop a deer easily at 20 yards, and a 40-pound bow would have a greater range, if lesser impact, so its killing potential in early modern times was still notable. Plus the bow had the benefit of silent firing.

Churchill probably didn’t use his bow for stealth warfare, though. This was a man known to charge enemies waving a sword and screaming “Commando!” at the top of his lungs. Loades thinks this sort of bravado might have been a tactic used to intimidate the enemy into fearing the charge of an unexpected madman. But that tactical pomp and ceremony had limited utility, and wearing a sword could bog one down in landings and hamper movement through tight presses of men. “WWII infantry warfare entailed a lot of crawling on your belly and maneuvering into ambush positions,” says Loades. “The clatter and clutter of a sword would not be helpful in such situations… That is why I refer to [Churchill’s] advocacy of the sword in modern battle as Romantic affectation.”

Loades still recognizes and admires Churchill’s bravery. But his survival may have had just as much to do with his assumed insanity as it did with his skill and true grit. Bill Millin, the Scottish piper who played on the beaches of Normandy as memorialized in The Longest Day, later met German prisoners who’d seen him on the beaches. They told him they didn’t fire because they thought he was obviously crazy. Similarly, there may be as much pity and confusion as intimidation and fear on the other side of the stories of Mad Jack.

Then there’s the grim twist just under the surface of Churchill’s Romanticism and braggadocio. The last of his famous lines is a brief requiem for the end of his beloved war: “If it wasn’t for those damn Yanks, we could have kept the war going another ten years.” As Loades rightly points out, little glimmers into Churchill’s psyche like this suggests his madness wasn’t all fun story fodder worthy of lionization.

“Shooting someone with a longbow as the overture to opening up with rifles doesn’t suggest a specific advantage for using the longbow in that situation,” says Loades, “but rather a macabre curiosity of using the situation to see what it was like to kill someone with a longbow. Of course to the enemy, they were going to die either way, but I’m not entirely sure this is the clear-cut, honorable boy’s adventure story it first appears to be.”

If there was a glint of psychopathy in Churchill during the war, he kept a tight lid on it later in life. After the war, he continued to bounce from adventure to adventure. He showed up briefly in Burma again before training in his 40s to become a parachutist. But his new pursuits involved a lot less blood, and sometimes even outright nonviolent heroism, as when he moved to Palestine and protected a medical convoy and evacuated hundreds of Jewish doctors during the violence surrounding the formation of Israel. Years later he eschewed active battle completely, moving to Australia, where he paid the bills as a land-air warfare instructor but spent much of his time fostering a love of surfing. He’d later return home to England to design his own boards and surf the five-foot tidal bore of the River Severn while working a desk job for the military. By the time he’d retired in 1959, Churchill had mellowed out enough that we was content to spend the last 37 years of his life sailing coal-fired ships along the Thames with his wife, piloting radio-controlled model warships, and raising a family. Whether or not, in his shockingly placid sunset years, he still broke out the bow and blade form time to time for some old kicks remains unknown.

Illustrations by Nick Nold

It was one of those rare moments when you realize the predicament you’re in can’t easily be fixed. I was having sex, and then there was a pop. The next minute, I sat stupidly at the end of the bed, staring down at my crotch—eyes wide, jaw hanging open.

“Is it just dye from the condom?”

My then quasi-girlfriend was a little too casual for my liking. I continued to stare at my penis, too stunned to answer.

“No, it’s definitely not the condom.”

After running a quick play-by-play in my head, my worst fears had been actualized. I had pulled out a minute before, hastily tearing off the black condom and smacking the light switch to examine the damage only to find out, to my horror, what looked like a growing blood blister on the side of my most dear possession. There’s only one thing I could do: begrudgingly ask this chick to drive me to the hospital.

Keep in mind, up until this point, I'd successfully managed to dodge my doctor for months. Even now, at the age of 26, my own mother has to lie in order to dupe me into getting somewhat regular check-ups. I’m pretty sure I broke my right hand three years ago, and even though I get shooting pains from my pinky to my elbow, I remain resolute. In this particular instance, I wasn’t going to take my chances. I also happened to be living just up the street from one of the only decent hospitals in Oakland.

After an awkward drive, and a very cautious two-block walk, I hurried through the emergency room, hoping that a broken dick is the triage trump card. Past a half-empty room filled with sickly 30-somethings, I sidled up to the desk to be greeted by the last person you'd want to see in this situation: a tall, bald, and buff Brazilian dude in scrubs and Crocs. Very calm and collected, with the pitch-perfect amount of pep you'd expect from someone wearing a WWJD bracelet, he turned to me. 

“Hey, man. How can I help you?”

He barely got out the question before both my palms were flat on the desk.

“I think I broke my dick, and I need a doctor right now.”

“Pardon?”

“I think I broke my dick, and I need a doctor right now.”

His quizzical head tilt was almost reptilian. This is not a hospital that gets a ton of action. Moments later, I showed this stranger my junk, which was looking worse than it had at the scene of the crash. Understanding the urgency of my condition, he skipped the pager and yelled for a doctor.

I was escorted to a room, where a nurse wearing officially licensed Grey's Anatomy scrubs put me on an IV. Before I could decide whether or not I should trust a medical professional who wears TV-themed uniforms, the on-call doctor was in the room breaking down the situation. Each plausible treatment scenario sounded worse than the last.

“Well, we have to explore the options, but most likely we will give you a shot up your urethra, which will make the veins more visible, and take it from there…?”

At least she can give me Vicodin, I thought.

The on-call doctor went on: “Dr. Cherrie, our urologist, has been woken and should be here within the hour to follow up.”

And so I sat there waiting. Later I’d find out that urologists are notoriously lazy. You know the guys who golf three times a week and phone in the rest? That’s your dick doctor.

By now, the girl who had given me a lift was gone. The nurse gradually cranked up the morphine so that by the time Cherrie strolled in, I was at an 11.

The resident penis expert seemed annoyed to have been summoned and, like everyone else, not terribly concerned. I asked him whether he had hit any traffic on the way here.

“It’s three in the morning—Jesse, is it? Take your pants off, Jesse.”

He inspected my penis for about 20 seconds before shrugging.

“Well, it looks like surgery.”

His professional assessment was as close to folksy as medical language can get. He told me I had a penile fracture, which is the professional way of saying, “Welp, your dick’s broken." He was about as insightful as a mechanic explaining a flat tire to you. In this case, the tire was my penis.

He gave me the option of waiting a week or two (minor tears can self-repair) but noted that the risk of permanent damage increased dramatically. No questions there; I called my friend Nick and told him that I would be needing a ride in the morning. Then I let my head slam back onto the pillow and let the morphine run its course.

The next thing I remember is waking up in post-op. With a sleepy smirk on his face, Nick was there, and like an ace, he was early. He took me back home, where I slept, for what would end up being the last time, next to the girl who had broken my dick.

The next morning, feeling almost a decade younger than I was, the shame settled back in as I waited for my dad to pick me up. As my luck would have it, my mom's car pulled up instead, and I got in.

The ride was deathly silent before my Mom finally spoke up, "Whatever you did, or tried to do, never do it again.”

I spent the next month in bed high and in pain. At my bedside, my dad, who was very sick at the time, had left some of his “You’re gonna die anyway” opiates and weed he’d called “too strong” for his taste, alongside an ice pack.

Why an ice pack? To shrivel up my morning boners, of course. You're not allowed to get those for three weeks after the operation because, if you do, you'll rip the stitches in your penis. There's no reverse Viagra. Just alcohol and ice packs.

I was healthy enough to "get back out there" about four months later, but my heart wasn’t in it until the next fall. It took a full year and a lot of booze to stop worrying at all.

I’ve tried perfecting this as a party story, but it’s a little varsity for polite company, and to be honest, my friends tell it better. If you’re wondering what my dick looks like now (or if it even works, for that matter), then yes, it's totally fine.

Follow Jesse Miller-Gordon on Twitter

Capela da Fonte, de estilo gótico rural en Pelamios.

DL Info Shared by Bob Robertson

La comisión asesora de Casco Histórico aprueba el traslado por los daños que causaron en la carballeira de Santa Susana. La alternativa propuesta es la Avenida da Coruña

El tumor maligno de cuello de útero puede erradicarse con la vacuna, afirma

• Harald zur Hausen apuesta por vacunar también a los niños contra el virus del papiloma humano

Un descarte de “23 fotogramas por segundo”. Puedes comprar el cómic completo aquí: http://carambacomics.com/catalogo/tebeos/23-fotogramas-por-segundo/

by Erik Voss

With SNL's 39th season coming to a close, we're taking a look at the past season with a series of posts examining the highs, lows, and other memorable moments from the past eight months. Here, we look at each episode as a whole, ranking them in order of overall success and positive resonance with viewers.

Obviously comedy is subjective, and everyone watches SNL looking for different things — this list is just one of many you can find online. As far as we're concerned, things like musical guests, surprise cameos, and drama surrounding the show are less important than the plain-and-simple comedy aspects of an episode: How many sketches had clear, clever premises versus how many followed the same, predictable pattern we've seen dozens of times? And of the good material, how strong and memorable was it compared to the highlights from other episodes? Did the host blend in seamlessly and appropriately complement the cast, or did he/she stick out like a sore thumb and come off as distracting or diva-ish? How well did the writers structure the episode around the host's talents — did they effectively navigate the host's strengths and weaknesses, or did they use him/her as little as possible? And simply, does the average viewer remember anything about this episode?

With those criteria in mind, here is our ranking of the 21 episodes of SNL Season 39.

1. Kerry Washington (Nov. 2). The Scandal star gave a flawless performance at precisely the moment the world needed to see a black woman kill it on SNL. A night without any weak links included a ballsy cold open and a solid mix of on-point racial humor, stellar character work, dark game shows, surreal short films, and catchy music videos.

2. Jonah Hill (Jan. 25). The two-time Oscar nominee had much better luck with his third stint hosting than fellow Team Apatow alums Paul Rudd and Seth Rogen, giving us an episode packed with hits ("Me," "The Hit," "Couples Quiz") and an enjoyable monologue with Leonardo DiCaprio.

3. Tina Fey (Sept. 28). SNL's beloved den mother spent the season premiere humbly showcasing the new cast members with some good-natured hazing (monologue, "New Cast Member or Arcade Fire"), making good sketches shine via supporting roles ("Girls Promo," "Used Car Commercial"), and offering new Weekend Update co-host Cecily Strong some sage advice.

4. Louis CK (March 29). Without anything as amazing as "Louie Lincoln," the comedian's second time hosting fell a little short from his first time in October 2012. However, he improved in just about every other category, particularly his chemistry with other cast members, with memorable sketches like "Dyke & Fats," "Black Jeopardy," and "Romantic Speech."

5. Melissa McCarthy (Feb. 1). While it seemed odd to book powerhouse host Melissa McCarthy on a night most people would be focused on saying goodbye to Seth Meyers, McCarthy delivered all the same, with hilarious performances as the temperamental Sheila Kelly and a vengeful member of a women's group.

6. Jimmy Fallon (Dec. 21). After a December of especially rocky episodes, I was more generous than most viewers were to the incoming Tonight Show host's second Christmas episode in three years. His frequent pairing with Justin Timberlake ("Wrappinville," "Celebrity Family Feud," "Barry Gibb Talk Show") at least provided the show with some much needed spark, while "Twin Bed" and "Baby It's Cold Outside" were two of the best pieces of the entire season.

7. Andy Samberg (May 17). The former cast member's first return to the show succeeded largely because SNL turned back the clock to 2007, with several of Andy Samberg's former costars joining him in classic bits like "the Vogelchecks" and the Lonely Island trio producing hilariously over-the-top digital shorts like "When Will the Bass Drop?"

8. Lena Dunham (March 8). I was pleasantly surprised at how much fun Lena Dunham's episode ended up being, which is largely a testament to the Girls star's willingness to dive headfirst into a parody of Scandal and her own frank okay-ness with nudity. The night also gave us some delightfully off-beat musical sketches, with "Ooh Child" and "What's Poppin.'"

9. Charlize Theron (May 10). My positive review of the season's penultimate episode surprised readers, but for the most part I stand by it. Whatever your thoughts on Charlize Theron as an actress may be, she delivered admirably alongside the ladies of the cast in "Cat Commercial," "Girlfriends Talk Show," and "Heshi." I also remain impressed by the animation in "Dragon Babies," and totally smitten with that exploding whale.

10. Jim Parsons (March 1). One review I would change my stance on would be my initial underwhelmed response to the Big Bang Theory star, who in retrospect showed about as much range as any of the one-trick hosts this season. Moreover, Jim Parsons' episode actually contained many strong components — "Bird Bible," "12 Years A Slave Auditions," and "Dance Floor Killer."

11. Josh Hutcherson (Nov. 23). One of the surprise successes from early in the season saw the Hunger Games heart-throb charm his way through several season-best sketches, including the lip-syncing delight "Your Love" and the debut of Beck Bennett's "Baby CEO" character.

12. Anna Kendrick (April 5). Despite not being given much to do other than sing like a Disney princess, Anna Kendrick's episode contained the best cold open from the season's second half, a wonderful return of "Les Jeunes de Paris," and a "Little Mermaid" scene that cleverly mocked modern pop divas.

13. Drake (Jan. 18). The first episode of 2014 saw the debut of new cast member Sasheer Zamata, in a pleasant but largely unmemorable episode centered around Drake's past as a black Canadian Jew and teen soap opera star. One enjoyable sketch was "Slumber Party," in which Aidy Bryant played a early-blooming teen with the hots for her friend's nerdy dad.

14. Lady Gaga (Nov. 16). When this episode worked, it was in spite of Lady Gaga, who over-delivered jokes and mugged at the camera at every turn. Nevertheless, the night gave us some of the season's finest moments, including the hilarious debut of Taran Killam's "Jebediah Atkinson," the beautiful short film "Blockbusters," and a melancholy scene depicting Gaga as a lonely old woman.

15. Bruce Willis (Oct. 12). The Die Hard star seemed serviceable as an overeager black ops soldier and a vodka-pushing centaur, but writers otherwise seemed unsure how to use him, with the best moments being non-Bruce Willis moments like the clever "NASA Shutdown" cold open and the "Beer Pong" video.

16. Edward Norton (Oct. 26). Edward Norton's finely tuned character work did little to punctuate this forgettable early-season episode, with its one saving grace being the excellent "Wes Anderson Horror Film."

17. Seth Rogen (April 12). The Neighbors funnyman gave a surprisingly rookie performance, stuck in flustered straight-man roles and clinging to A-lister cameos far too often, with the exception of his thrilling chemistry with Cecily Strong in "Blue River Dog Food."

18. Miley Cyrus (Oct. 5). Coming right in between her VMAs performance and "Wrecking Ball," Miley Cyrus' episode was tainted by the icky feeling that this was just another one of her promotional stunts. The entertaining parody "We Did Stop" and "Mornin' Miami" were gold, but they offered little relief during an overall headache of a night.

19. John Goodman (Dec. 14). John Goodman's legendary history as an SNL host made his episode the season's biggest disappointment when it gave us practically nothing to remember him by, other than the sadness of seeing a comedy titan huff and puff his way through underwritten material.

20. Andrew Garfield (May 3). Despite the Spider-man star's generally game attitude, Leslie Jones' racy routine, and a saving-grace "Beygency" video, this episode contained such lazy, uninspired material that it nearly turned me against the show completely.

21. Paul Rudd (Dec. 7). Paul Rudd's episode has become the episode I've loved to hate on this season, with nothing really memorable about the 90-minute promo for Anchorman 2 other than a reprise of "Bill Brasky" that really pissed off Tim Meadows.

Erik Voss is a writer and performer living in Los Angeles. He hosts the Evil Blond Kid podcast and performs on the house team Wheelhouse at the iO Theater.

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by Bradford Evans

HBO is developing a new show created by and starring Bill Hader, Deadline reports. There aren't any details on the show yet beyond Hader starring in/creating it. We don't yet know what the show's about or whether it will be a half-hour or an hour-long and the project is still pretty far away from getting series order, but it's exciting news nonetheless.

Since leaving SNL this time last year, Bill Hader has been keeping busy as both an actor and a writer. In the movie world, he'll next be seen in David Wain's They Came Together, starring with Kristen Wiig in the indie drama The Skeleton Twins, and playing a supporting role in the Amy Schumer/Judd Apatow movie Trainwreck. Writing-wise, he co-created the IFC comedy American Documentary with Fred Armisen and Seth Meyers, which premieres next year, and served as a full-time writer for the most recent season of South Park. Hader has been consulting on South Park for a few years now but this past one was the first season that he was on staff full-time.

He discussed developing his writing chops on South Park in an interview with us last year:

I learn so much by working there. You just learn how to break story, and I just think they're the best — at writing a story that is funny, they are the best in the business right now. And it's really hard. That's what I've learned. You're banging your head against the wall. They never just settle for something. They're always challenging their own ideas and saying, "Should we do this? Should we try that?" They're constantly challenging their own ideas. It really is Trey [Parker] throwing out ideas and Matt [Stone] challenges those ideas by saying, "Wait, what is the point of that? In the world, politically, socially, philisophically, this is what I think we should be kind of be about. And that's not about that; that's just, like, a dumb joke." He's kind of pushing Trey, and then, Vernon [Chatman] is really good at doing both those things. And I just sit there and laugh.

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Photos by Meredith Jenks

Editor's note: Please don't try any of this at home. You could get hurt, and anyway, it's a really complicated way to get hammered. Just sip on a martini or shotgun yourself a nice beer.

Last month the idea of powdered alcohol took the internet by storm when a website appeared for a product called Palcohol. "Sometimes liquid isn't convenient," read the site's original copy. "Because Palcohol is powder, you can take it just about anywhere to enjoy a cocktail! That's why we say: Take your Pal wherever you go!" 

The future of drinking was here—then, suddenly, it wasn't. After the initial flurry of "LOL powdered alcohol!" articles came the "Say NO to powdered alcohol!" articles, and the Alcohol and Tobacco Tax and Trade Bureau—which originally approved seven Palcohol flavors—rescinded its approval. (They said it had been approved in "error," which may be code for, "We didn't realize it would make people so upset.") And New York Senator Chuck Schumer is calling for the FDA to block Palcohol once and for all.

But Lipsmack, the company behind Palcohol, thinks the powder is revolutionary and appears ready to fight back, releasing a YouTube video titled "The Truth About Palcohol" and redesigning its website to emphasize the product's "many positive" uses, not just the getting-fucked-up-on-the-road aspect of it. 

Palcohol, the company says, will save space in your pack when you want to hike up a mountain and kick back, and it'll even shave some dollars off your next flight—since Palcohol weighs less than liquid booze, airlines can save fuel if they start stocking drink carts with the powdered stuff. Just add water, and your powdered martini is ready to drink. The future of America is drunken campers and cheap flights and powdered booze for all.

OK, sure. But I don't own an airline, and I won't be hiking up any fucking mountains anytime soon. When I hear that Schumer is worried about powdered alcohol being “sprinkled on food and even snorted,” I'm like, "Oh, good idea, Chuck!"

With Palcohol still a long way from the production line, I had to take matters into my own hands. Popular Science posted a recipe for powdered alcohol on its site, so I started gathering ingredients.

The two key components in powdered alcohol—powder and alcohol—were pretty easy to find. The recipe called for N-Zorbit M, a.k.a. maltodextrin, a powder that is great for absorbing oils. It seems like the kind of thing fancy chefs might use on a cooking show if they want to sprinkle a pinch of powdered watermelon juice onto a tart. But it can also apparently work with liquor—all I'd need to do, according to the recipe, was pour some booze into N-Zorbit M and stir it in.

Simple enough, but I didn't want to make wimpy powdered booze like Palcohol, which you need half a pouch of to make a single drink. I wanted something strong.

Everclear is legal in the State of New York (Chuck Schumer hasn't asked the FDA to ban it, yet), so I picked up a fifth of 192-proof Spirytus Wesoly grain alcohol. With 100 grams of N-Zorbit M under one arm and a fifth of hooch cradled in the other, I raided the VICE kitchen for everything else I'd need: a mixing bowl, a fine mesh sieve, a whisk, and a big Tupperware container so I could take the stuff on the road. Then I set up shop at VICE's newly installed wet bar and got to work.

The recipe called for 30 grams of alcohol, which is hardly anything. I kept pouring and stirring, and pretty soon I had half the fifth of everclear in the powder. It absorbed it all, leaving only a moist, flour-like powder. I knew I had the right mixture when my eyes started watering from the fumes.

Palcohol likely has a more complicated process (and it's probably much weaker), but I now had some powdered alcohol on my hands, which was great, since I love getting drunk but also enjoy awful hangovers and bloody noses. I'll get to that later.

I started shoving handfuls of the stuff into my mouth. It was around 8 PM, and the VICE office was still half-full of workers, diligently typing on their laptops. They didn't know what they were missing. Or maybe they did. I coughed and gagged whenever I choked down another fist of powder, but I didn't feel drunk.

People started putting their headphones on. I decided to leave. I shouldn't have been "drinking" on an empty stomach anyway—I needed pizza.

On my way there, I ran into my roommate, Charlie. I fed him a pinch of powder, and we set off together. The powder drunk creeps up on you, and sometime on the walk it kicked in. I went from mostly sober to buzzed to the kind of drunk where you already have a headache and can feel the hangover coming like a distant high-pitched whine.

Which is how I found myself staggering into the pizza place with a Tupperware full of white powder under one arm, and more powder smeared on my jeans and sleeves and stuck, like dandruff, to my hair. I'm a messy eater. I wandered up to the counter and set the tub down next to me.

"Do you have a parmesan shaker I can borrow? I want to fill one up with this stuff and sprinkle it onto a slice."

The kid at the register looked at me. I wiped my face and brushed powder from my cheek.

"Is that what I think it is?" he said.

"If you think it's powdered alcohol, then yeah."

He handed over an empty glass cheese shaker, and I sat down to dust my slice in booze.

I might just have been drunk and starving, but the powdered booze actually blended well on pizza. It melted into the grease and only added a few notes of poison to the flavor of the slice.

My Tupperware of powder started getting weird looks from other customers. They either wanted their own scoop of powdered booze or thought I was into some Scarface shit with a bowl full of cocaine.

Once upon a time, this part of Brooklyn was a working-class neighborhood with, presumably, some kind of value system in place—now you've got pale weirdos wandering around sprinkling powdered drugs on their pizza slices while someone else takes photos "for the internet." 

Anyway, Charlie and I headed down to the water, where we could munch on my powder in peace. Then we decided to set some on fire.

It turns out my homemade powdered alcohol burns like napalm. Given the way it tasted, it may be most useful as an incendiary. I tried to stomp out a burning pile of it and ended up spreading flaming powder all along the rocky bank of the East River. Charlie's shoe went up in flames.

A few high-school-aged kids were smoking cigarettes a few yards away from us. They wandered up as I was stomping the burning dust into the ground.

"What's that?"

"Powdered everclear I made," I said. "Have a scoop!"

I crammed another fistful into my mouth and struggled to get it down. The kids looked at my Tupperware of powder, then down at Charlie's flaming shoe, and slowly inched away.

The headache was getting worse. N-Zorbit M is made to absorb liquid—it had sucked up half a fifth of alcohol like it was nothing—and in my groggy, drunken state, I started to imagine N-Zorbit M soaking up all the water inside my body, drying me out from the inside.

But my job wasn't over.

See, when Schumer said he worried about people snorting powdered alcohol, Palcohol dismissed that fear as being ridiculous—someone would have to snort an ungodly amount of the company's stuff just to get buzzed. But this was powdered everclear, not their weak, wimpy powder. I had to give it a try.

We stumbled back to the VICE offices. I started racking lines.

Somehow, the powder turned straight into glue when it hit my sinuses. I was immediately plugged up. The fumes burned inside my nose, but only for the first minute or so. After that came an uneasy numbness. Maybe all the nerve endings were dead. There was no one left to sound an alarm.

The headache was still present—a throbbing pressure at my temples—but the powder drunk was giving me a weird, out-of-body feeling. If you like headaches and gummed-up sinuses and numb, dissociative drunks, you're going to go apeshit for powdered booze.

Charlie and I staggered home, I sucking air through my mouth because my nose was out of order and Charlie breathing easy because he had made the sane choice against inhaling grain alcohol in powder form.

We both slunk off to our respective bedrooms, hoping that unconsciousness might dull the throb inside our heads.

I woke up at 4 AM, with my face caked with blood from my nose. At least I could breathe again. The headache had dulled to a manageable form. I went out into the living room and found Charlie sitting on the couch, sucking on a beer. He handed me one. I slumped down next to him and took a drink. Delicious liquid beer. Cold, refreshing, non-powdered beer.

"How much is left?" Charlie said.

The Tupperware was across the room, on our dining room table.

"About a quarter container."

There was only one thing left to do. Light more stuff on fire.

River Donaghey grew up in a very loving home, so you can't blame his upbringing for these stupid, fifth-grade antics. Follow him on Twitter.

When the president of Charlie Day’s alma mater Merrimack College, outside of Boston, asked him to give this year’s commencement speech, Day says panic set in immediately after accepting: He watched graduation speeches by luminaries like Steve Jobs, Stephen Colbert and Conan O’Brien, and wondered how he’d compare. And then came to the epiphany that he’d pass on to the graduating class of 2014: “I don’t give a shit.”

Checking his ego at the quad, Day managed to give a speech with humility and hilarity as well as actual practical advice for those entering the work world: You’re probably better off making your own job than getting one that’s already out there, if at all possible. Much like the honorary PhD Merrimack is giving him in exchange for the speech (“I plan to start writing my own prescriptions immediately”), the actual degrees students “took classes to earn,” he said, “will also basically do nothing.” Which is why should just get rich and famous of your own accord. Got that? Good. Now get to work, seniors!

Image: YouTube

It’s hard to believe, but one of the biggest cinematic achievements in human history—Patrick Swayze’s 1989 film “Road House”—was released 25 years ago this week. And what better way to celebrate this fact than by watching a supercut of every single face punch in the entire movie? (Oh and also, spoiler alert, one guy gets his throat ripped out, which is NSFW, maybe?)

Watch below.

Spotify released some new stats on Tuesday—it’s now up to 10 million paying subscribers, up from 6 million last March. And it’s now earning $1 billion a year, though it’s still not profitable.

More interesting than the finances, however, were what the data said about the musical taste of you, the listening public. And basically… Your taste is terrible.

The most played song ever in Spotify’s history is “Wake Me Up”—not the Wham! jam, but the anthem of the cherub-faced Swede in the backward baseball hat, Avicii.

Subject of SNL’s recent “Davvincii” parody, Avicii has been widely criticized as a club DJ for being a “button-pusher,” a skill for which he earns seven million per year according to a new compilation of band booking fees released this week.

The most streamed artist overall is Emimem.

Still, Spotify has a ways to go before it becomes the dominant medium for music listening. Right now YouTube holds that title by a long shot. But with its crappy bit rate and accompanying videos it’s a terrible place to listen to music. Right now Spotify is still a place for actual music fans. Which means that as the masses pile on the tastes determining its most-streamed song will only get worse. YouTube’s most-streamed song, with 2 billion views, is still “Gangnam Style.”

On the plus side, at least Spotify hosts a mountain of obscure stuff that’s never been played. There’s a whole library of it there for exploring. Meanwhile, here’s what you’ve had on repeat:

La última entrega de El Bruto, la genial creación de Eric Powell, llega a las librerías españolas bajo el rimbombante título de Los de cuerpo deforme y los de mente retorcida, una muestra inequívoca de lo poco en serio que se toma el propio autor las aventuras de este entrañable matón. ¿Es esto una señal de agotamiento del concepto inicial? Por lo que podemos leer en este volumen, no lo parece en absoluto ya que nos vamos a encontrar, eso sí, todos los elementos que ha estado utilizando Powell desde el principio de la serie pero combinados con la habitual maestría y gracejo al que nos tiene acostumbrados proporcionando grandes cantidades de entretenimiento y risas.

Dejando a un lado las historias largas, este nuevo tomo editado por Norma recoge narraciones cortas, pequeños bocados de genialidad que no pasan de las 24 páginas, algunas incluso menos. Algo que podría hacer resentir la calidad de la serie se transforma en todo un acierto, una forma de ir introduciendo nuevos conceptos y personajes para hacer mucho más rico todo el trasfondo de la colección. Un grupo de “vampijos”, la llegada de una niña que parece ocultar algo al hogar para niños huérfanos, una feria repleta de horrorosas criaturas, la reina del cabaret, Roxi Dlite o las vacaciones de nuestros personajes favoritos son solo un ejemplo de lo que nos depara la lectura de estas nuevas aventuras.

Sin embargo, hay una que parece sobresalir del resto, esa en la que el autor nos cuenta el horrible episodio que tuvo lugar en la fábrica de fajas Pentagrama, dirigida por empresarios sin escrúpulos que parecen tener comprados a todo el mundo. Un relato en el que se mezcla magistralmente la crítica social, elementos sobrenaturales marca de la casa y un gorila demoniaco, que siempre viene bien para mejorar cualquier comic. Powell no solo demuestra lo buen guionista que es sino que es capaz de dejar con la boca abierta a cualquier aficionado gracias a sus ilustraciones, cada página se convierte en una pequeña obra de arte con la que deleitarse un buen rato. Un claro ejemplo de la buena salud que tiene la serie que, sin inventar nada nuevo, parece saber cómo ganarse la simpatía de todo aquel que se acerque al Callejón Solitario. [A-]

Such a brilliant idea for a compilation, it’s a wonder it hasn’t been done before, Ace’s 2014 set Come Spy with Us: The Secret Agent Handbook collects 25 secretive swingers from the ’60s, splitting the difference between pop tunes and cinematic espionage. Impressively, the entire affair avoids both James Bond and Johnny Rivers’ “Secret Agent Man” aside from covers (the signature Bond theme is handled by Johnny & the Hurricanes, while Al Caiola serves up an instrumental of the Rivers staple). Usually, compiler Tony Rounce — who does give thanks to Matthew Jones — prefers splashy arrangements built on bold brass and sweeping strings, but there are certainly a lot of echoing guitars and splashes of exotica, all suggesting danger and adventure. Naturally, novelties…

320 kbps | 143 MB | UL | MC ** FLAC

…take up a fair amount of space here — the best might be the Supremes’ go-go parody “Dr. Goldfoot and the Bikini Machine” — but most of this occupies a similar territory as Nancy Sinatra’s “The Last of the Secret Agents,” which is delivered with a straight face and a wink. Even during this secret agent peak, which ran roughly from 1965 to 1967, plenty of musicians were ready to good-naturedly send up spies and that mischievous humor keeps things lively, while the craft of the composers and songwriters give this music heft. John Barry, Henry Mancini, Jerry Goldsmith, and Lalo Schifrin are responsible for those grand cinematic peaks, providing the context for Scott Walker (“Deadlier Than The Male,” a classic Walker Brothers hit) and Smokey Robinson (“Come Spy with Me,” the theme to a lost 1967 flick) to play with on their tunes. It’s all fun but it’s not really campy: it’s a well-rounded portrait of a ’60s fad that turned into a pop culture touchstone, a touchstone that is splendidly heard here.

01. John Barry & His Orchestra – A Man Alone (Theme from The Ipcress File)
02. The Walker Brothers – Deadlier Than the Male
03. The Ventures – Arabesque
04. Dusty Springfield – The Look of Love (Theme from Casino Royale)
05. Red Price & His Combo – Danger Man
06. Vikki Carr – The Silencers
07. Al Caiola – Secret Agent Man
08. Astrud Gilberto – Who Needs Forever (Theme From The Deadly Affair)
09. The Challengers – Theme From The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
10. Nancy Sinatra – The Secret Agens
11. Lalo Schifrin & His Orchestra – Mission: Impossible
12. The Supremes – Dr. Goldfoot and the Bikini Machine
13. Billy Strange – Our Man Flint
14. Matt Monro – Wednesday’s Child (Theme From The Quiller Memorandum)
15. Bob Crane, His Drums & Orchestra – Theme From Get Smart
16. Cleo Laine & Ray Ellington – We Should’ve (Theme From Modesty Blaze)
17. Johnny & The Hurricanes – The James Bond Theme (Dr. No)
18. Wynton Kelly – Burke’s Law Theme
19. Susan Maughan – Where the Bullets Fly
20. Brian Fahey & His Orchestra – High Wire (Theme From Danger Man)
21. Sarah Vaughan – Bye Bye (Theme From Peter Gunn)
22. Jimmy Smith – Theme From Where the Spies Are
23. Shirley Bassey – The Liquidator
24. Roland Shaw & His Orchestra – I Spy
25. Smokey Robinson & The Miracles – Come Spy With Me

On Tuesday, Los Angeles Police arrested and charged actor Michael Jace for shooting and killing his wife, April Jace.

According to ABC News, the 48-year-old actor, known for his role Julien Lowe in “The Shield” (i.e. one of the good cops who spent several episodes tracking down a rat trap gloryhole culprit), now faces a homicide charge after his 40-year-old spouse was found dead in her Hyde Park home by LAPD around 8:30pm on Monday.

Detectives were alerted of situation when he called 911 and admitted, “I shot my wife.”

April Jace is survived by her two kids, both under the age of 10, who told police they witnessed Michael Jace shoot and kill their mother, reported TMZ. They are now in custody of Child Protective Services.

Jace’s credits include “Cradle 2 the Grave,” “NYPD Blue,” “Boogie Nights” and the number one contender Marvin Shabazz in “The Great White Hype.”

ABC News, TMZ/image via

Photo via Twitter user Si_Davies86

Last week, a Spanish couple got caught having sex in a bank booth between an ATM and a glass panel. By “caught” I mean pedestrians were walking by and couldn't help but see a naked body wearing black socks atop another naked body wearing black socks through very clear glass, and then ruining the fun by tweeting and calling the cops.

At first glance this seems uncomfortable and overly risky. On second thought though, something motivated this couple to have sex in the foyer of a bank for all the world to see. Maybe payday came early, or there wasn't a withdrawal fee even though they bank with someone else.

Even if you think bank sex is a horrible idea—and I wholeheartedly agree—it's just not as bad as some of the awful sex we have in our homes. We already told you how to have better sex this year, but that's not enough. Some of the things we associate with sex really ought not be, because frankly they're weighing sex down. If we put an end to some of these practices, maybe even the ATM couple will find a more sensible path to ecstasy.   

Sex in the Shower

Hey, you know what's better than sex on a comfortable bed? Sex in the cold, cramped corner of the room where you also poop. Sex in the shower is never fun. There are no comfortable positions, and it feels worse because water decreases lubrication. There's also a very good chance you'll slip and crack your head open and then get made fun of on endless blogs for dying during shower sex. Or, even worse, you'll live and TLC will reenact it. Even when shower sex is basically working, at some point you're going to notice that the water has been awkwardly blasting the same part of your body for too long, and it's getting red and sore. 

69ing

We’re all so used to chuckling every time we hear 69 that it’s easy to forget that the integer itself is connected to something, and not just two intrinsically hilarious digits. It's a sex number. A sex number that, for straight couples at least, signifies the absolute worst sex position of all time. When I’m getting eaten out I want to actually enjoy being eaten out. I don't want a dick in my face while it's happening. I can't focus on my own pleasure if I have to work on pleasing someone else while it's happening.

Calling it “69” never made sense either. I personally would have gone with “sad anchovies” or “tragic conjoined twins who won’t survive.”

Actually Eating Edible Underwear

Photo via Flickr user Big Blue Ocean

Edible underwear might have possibly started as a joke, but people took it seriously, not knowing that anything sex-related that you can buy at Spencer's isn’t meant to be used as anything other than a bachelorette party gift, or a frat prank. Edible underwear least of all. If you really must eat while getting hot and heavy just go with the more classic and cost efficient whipped cream. Or do what I do and hide a sandwich under your pillow.

All types of edible underwear are made of foods only children normally eat, creating associations with more innocent times, which is tons of fun because who doesn't want to think about their childhood while someone is licking sugar off their ass?

There are two basic kinds: The more popular kind is gummy and resembles Fruit Roll-Ups, harkening back to school lunch. Oh my God. Remember the 1990s? The other kind is a candy necklace, but an underwear-shaped necklace that tastes like chalk. The real disadvantage to the candy necklace kind is that if you don’t shave your pubes completely, any loose hairs will get tangled in the lattice of candy and elastic cord, and then be ripped off when you remove them, or just move at all.

Role-Playing

Roleplaying is this thing the lamestream media has made seem “fun” and “exciting” but that, outside the kink community, turns out to be something we all try once and then never again. You’ve seen the trope: the wacky friend on that family sitcom mentions the sexy maid uniform she wears to spice things up with her husband. But at its core, this is acting, and there’s so much wrong with acting while having sex. Namely, most people are not good actors. I can barely act like I'm having an orgasm! Am I right ladies? Ladies? 

Let’s all acknowledge that instead of being this fantastical thing that transforms you and your partner into completely different people, it usually ends up looking like a half-naked beginners' improv class. “Yes, officer, I am horny, and I'm also the president of the United States, and your mother.” Leave role-playing to the professionals. By professionals I mean Dungeon Masters.

Sex with a Friend

Good old “friends with benefits,” the 100 percent certain way to end a friendship. Sure it seems like there’s going to be a rom-com twist. One of you ends up asking, “Where is this going? What are we?” You go over the terms of your initial negotiation but suddenly things pop up like, “Well we’re already such good friends and are having sex, why not just be a couple?”

Oh, but we aren't all Justin Timberlake and Mila Kunis, and actually the friendship is ruined. Even if your sham of a relationship seems to take off, the friendship is still ruined when you break up in two months. And no, you won't get back together like Justin Timberlake and Mila Kunis. What was it all for? Some sex? Some sex you could have had on a Tinder date, or with an ex? Friends with benefits is a big old pile of bullshit.

A one night stand with one of your friends is a lot more doable. One slip-up can be handled, as long as you don't repeat the mistake. No matter how great it was, you want to keep that friendship in tact because, well, you never know when you're going to need a ride to the airport.

Using Warming Condoms

Review screen grabs via Condom Depot

Change in temperature makes sex fun? I don’t want my vagina to think it’s going through early menopause thank you very much. The best thing you can say about these is that they have a very high failure rate. The worst thing you can say is that a warm penis inside you feels like a penis that has just urinated, so never wear one as a surprise, because there’s not much sexy about pee. Unless, obviously, you’re into getting peed on/bladder porn.

Thumbnail image screencapped from Youtube user MrSm0kill

Follow Alison Stevenson on Twitter

Científicos de Vigo graban en Cíes sorprendentes comportamientos de cefalópodos tras casi tres años de investigaciones

El pulpo es caníbal en GCiencia.

¿Buscan moderneo del bueno? San Pedro. ¿Tradición? San Pedro. ¿Multiculturalidad? San Pedro. ¿Y fiesta? ¡Todos a San Pedro!

Foron os insultos que se escoitaron por parte dun grupo de persoas desta asociación contra as doce persoas xulgadas polos altercados nunha marcha en defensa do galego.

Las mujeres no miden jamás los sacrificios; ni los suyos, ni los de los demás”

Lo firma Germaine de Staël, autora de otra verdad enorme: “En la vida se debe elegir entre el aburrimiento y el sufrimiento”, vía Los Soprano —ni más ni menos— así que ahí las tenemos, a ellas, a to-das. Tan dadas a elegir el camino difícil (“El único”, diría ella; o sea, cualquiera) que no es otro que el del sacrificio y el sufrimiento. El all in como manual de instrucciones sentimental, la gresca porque sí —por sus narices, el cambalache emocional de cada domingo tontorrón, de cada nueva etapa en esta montaña rusa con el pelo tan liso que (sí, también esta vez) parecía un tranquilo embalse en aquel bar de Juan Bravo. Pues no, era una presa. Otra vez. Otra. Vez.

Al grano: nuestro vilipendiado Woman Translator arrancó con aquel inocente:

Nº1: “No sé que hacer con mi vida” –> Necesito un novio. Ya.

Así que por qué no, tienen ustedes un poco de razón. Que basta de mariconadas, que vale ya de tanto hablar de amor , de retoños y de Madriles, que vuelva la fusta, que no pare la fiesta:

Nº24: “¿Qué estás leyendo?” –> Préstame atención. Ahora.

Nº25: “Quiero tomar las riendas de mi futuro” –> Sin ti, capullo.

Nº26: “Muchas gracias, eres un cielo” –> Me caes muy bien pero no me acostaré contigo jamás. Nunca. Pase lo que pase.

Nº27: “Tengo mucho carácter” –> Estoy como un puto cencerro.

Nº28: “No sé qué decirte, Pablo; haz lo que creas conveniente” –> Pagarás por esto. Ya lo creo que lo harás.

Nº29: “En serio, no es necesario que me recojas en la puerta de la agencia ni que me lleves ni que esperes en segunda fila mientras devuelvo todas aquellas prendas que me trajiste al probador el sábado por la tarde, en hora punta del centro comercial” –> Es absolutamente necesario que me recojas, me lleves y esperes en segunda fila.

Nº30: “Pásalo bien con tus amigos” –> Más tarde de las tres y ya sabes lo que hay.

Nº31: “Noche de chicas, quizá vuelva un poco tarde y un poco borracha jijiji” –> Te violaré cuando vuelva.

Nº32: “No quiero hacerte daño” –> Sé que voy a hacerte daño. Es más: voy a hacerte daño.

Nº34: “He leído en Vogue que Lisboa es precioso, mágico” –> No viajamos nunca, joder.

Nº35: “Necesitamos…” –> Quiero.

Nº36: “Soy feminista, pero he de admitir que me gustan los caballeros que invitan a cenar en la primera cita y ceden el paso” –> Suelta la pasta, cabrón.

Nº37: “Deberías cuidar más tu alimentación, más verduras (ecológicas) más fruta y menos rebozados” –> Eres un gordo.

Nº38: “Necesito mi espacio” –> Vete a tomar por culo.

Nº39: “Nico es mi amigo, sin más. No todos los hombres son obsesos sexuales como tú, ¿sabes?” –> Nico me quiere follar.

Nº40: “Ya lo vemos” –> No.

Este artículo suicida irá creciendo con las aportaciones de mis abnegados lectores —y alguna lectora intrépida—aquí mismo, abajo, en el gallinero los comentarios.

OJO

por Raquel Prada

Esto es algo que han pedido mucho en los comentarios y por email. ¿Qué les traemos? La serie original de Prophet, del #1 al #8, y luego el relanzamiento del personaje, en el número #21. No hace falta leer los primeros, pueden solo empezar en el #21:

Con motivo de la celebración de su 20º aniversario Image decidió relanzar a algunos de los personajes con los que comenzó su andadura como editorial de la mano de Rob Liefeld. Uno de los elegidos fue John Prophet, en una nueva serie que solo toma como base elementos muy genéricos del personaje, aquellos más propios de la ciencia ficción, y abandona casi totalmente los relacionados con el género superheroico. Y aunque estoy seguro de que a ROB! le costaría reconocer a su creación en esta encarnación yo me congratulo de ello y espero que vosotros también lo disfruteis.

Al final tenemos entre manos un cómic que es más narración que relación entre personajes, con diversos dibujantes del entorno indie (menos comercial), mucha creatividad y diferentes historias y puntos de vista diversos sobre el mismo personaje (esto queda explicado al avanzar la serie).

La serie empieza con el número 21 porque han tenido en cuenta los volúmenes anteriores que explica Jiman en este mensaje pero por las diferencias ya mencionadas no hace falta haber leído nada para enterarse y lo cierto es que yo no lo he leído y aquí estoy, traduciendo la serie [sinopsis gracias al tradumaquetador Valefor de La Mansión del C.R.G.].

Idioma: Español.
Editorial: Image
Guion: Rob Liefeld, Robert Napton, Brandon Graham, Farel Dalrymple, Giannis Milonogiannis, Simon Roy
Dibujo: Dan Panosian, Stephen Platt, Pat Lee, Simon Roy, Farel Dalrymple, Giannis Milonogiannis, Brandon Graham
Escaneadores: Wild, Darkseid, Sergeus (CRG)
Tradumaquetador: Valefor (CRG)
Archivos: 21
Formato: CBR.
Tamaño: 536 Mb

Prophet #1 al #8


Prophet #21 al #33:


Descargar comics:

• Prophet

Don’t call it a cleaver…  Comments/banter here.