"I am Tagged in X number of Facebook photos..."

Lowbrow Answer: X > 500
Here's the funny thing about life. You're supposed to be living it, not documenting it. In all the time you've spent posing for pictures, you could have written a best-selling book or solved a physics equation or conquered some insignificant country like Azerbaijan or France. So the next time somebody whips out their iPhone to snap a hipstamatic photo, tell them to fuck off. You've got shit to do.

Now, I'm not going to start preaching Thoreau at you (because he was a spoiled bitch whose entire mantra is undermined by the fact that his parents funded his little cabin adventure) and I won't tell you to "Seize the Day" (because I refuse to take life advice from Robin Williams and a bunch of 1950s boarding school kids). But I will tell you to stop spending your whole life posing for photos. I promise you; you aren't worth taking pictures of anyway. Your arms are flabby and your eyes are too far apart.


Middlebrow Answer: X < 25
What are you, some kind of cave troll? Get out and see the world, man! Rent a paddle boat or join a hockey team or learn Nigerian Kung Fu. I don't care if you've got crippling agoraphobia; suck it up and get outside. The only people who are allowed to legitimately have fewer than facebook 25 photos of them are hermits, hobos, Uzbekistanis (they haven't even cured Polio over there yet), and 1820s prospectors. Otherwise, you gotta go make some friends.

It's not like it's difficult to get photos of you taken these days. Everything has a fucking camera in it. Phones, computers, MP3 players. I hear the ASPCA will even install a digital camera into whichever dog you choose to adopt. Photo technology has gone crazy. I mean, I'm taking a nude picture of you right now and you're still wearing your clothing.


Highbrow Answer: X = 163
Didn't see this one coming, did you? BLAM! King strikes again! While I don't advocate being a facebook junky, I understand that it's part of life these days. Like texting and iTunes and Justin Bieber. You can't avoid it. So it's okay to have a few photos of you. Just make sure they're cool. They should be of you winning the Stanley Cup or choking a walrus. They shouldn't be you drunk at a frat party or you eating hot wings at Applebee's.

And how fucking cool a number is 163? God damn. It's the largest value of d such that the number field Q (√−d) has class number 1 (meaning that its ring of integers is a unique factorization chain), it's the last instance of a quadratic field having unique factorization, and it's the first instance of a real cyclotomic field not having unique factorization. Awesome. I just got a math boner.

Best Marginal Genre of Music?

Lowbrow Answer: Popera
"Popera" is a strange musical No Man's Land that exists somewhere between Pop and Opera. It's not quite catchy enough to be on regular radio and it's not quite good enough to be called "classical." Never heard any of this shit before? Just look for large groups of white middle-class women; there's bound to be Popera nearby.

Josh Groban is the Czar of this travesty, and with good reason. He has the perfect mix of semi-talent and quasi-attractiveness that moistens the panties of every housewife in America. Just like Coldplay or Regis Philbin.


Middlebrow Answer: Horror-Core
I don't care what you say about the Insane Clown Posse; at least those guys put on a show. They've got jugglers and strippers and midgets in hobo outfits and pregnant manatees and all kinds of other crazy shit on stage when they perform. None of that haughty Radiohead ignore-the-audience bullshit here. You go to a Horror-Core show and you're getting an experience; a nightmarish, pulsating concert complete with soda cannons, horny hillbillies, and all the herpes you can take.

Of course, lyrically, Horror-Core falls a bit short. There are only so many ways you can talk about murdering a Bitch-Nutz with your Juggalo Hatchet. I'd like to see some of these groups branch out. I wonder what an ICP song about clouds or endless love would sound like. Probably something like, "I'm a murder that Cloud-Nutz with my Endless Love Hatchet."


Highbrow Answer: Post-Rock
Welcome to the User's Guide to Making Post Rock.
Step 1: Collect five non-Americans and put them in a band together. Make sure one of them is a girl. She should be shorter than 5'5" and be from Japan.
Step 2: Force the band to play their guitars with screwdrivers and wine glasses and anything else that isn't normally used to play a guitar.
Step 3: Every song must be longer than 10 minutes.
Step 4: No song is allowed to have lyrics.
Step 5: The band's name must be something obscure and strange like, "Godspeed You! Black Emperor" or "Thee Silver Mt. Zion Memorial Orchestra & Tra-La-La Band." (those are both real acts, by the way) Bonus points for misusing punctuation in the name of the group.
Step 6: All artwork must be grainy and shot in black and white.
Step 7: At least 80% of the group's music must be amelodic and unlistenable.

If the first thought in your head after reading that list isn't, "HIGH-FUCKING-BROW" then stop reading this blog.

Best Team in Major League Soccer?

Lowbrow Answer: The LA Galaxy
Nothing like watching soccer surrounded by an orgy of upper middle-class white people in David Beckham replica jerseys. Galaxy fans are all the same. They show up late, spend the entire first half in line to buy their bratty kids $28 worth of food, and then they leave 20 minutes early so they can beat the other soccer moms out of the parking lot and get home in time for CSI: Miami. I guess I shouldn't be surprised. These are people who think that Manchester United and Real Madrid are European mortgage companies.

Also: What the hell kind of sports name is "The Galaxy?" You're from LA, for Christ's sake. You can't even see any stars here. And what's your mascot? A big white cloud of mist? "The Galaxy" should have been about 978th on your list of possible names, right behind "The Rape Whistles."


Middlebrow Answer: Seattle Sounders FC
Alright, so your average attendance at home games is like 200,000 people. And sure, your team colors are pretty cool and you've got some good players. But Seattle? What a dump. It's always raining, it's the home of Microsoft, and it's full of aging hipsters with pixie haircuts and Amazon Kindles. Move the team to somewhere nice, like Montana or New Hampshire, and maybe I'll be interested. Until then, take your granola bars and your Chacos and shove it.

The face of this team is Drew Carey, who is a minority shareholder. Now, you might be thinking; "Drew Carey, the famous lion tamer and wine parachutist?" No, not that Drew Carey. We're talking about the Drew Carey who had his own show back in the day and now hosts "The Price is Right." The Drew Carey who was supposedly funny at one point in his life, but can produce no hard evidence thereof. Fat bastard.


Highbrow Answer: CD Chivas USA
A distinct absence of star players? Check. Wild and Crazy Mexican ownership group? Check. Defensive-minded, unattractive style of play? Check. This is what pro sports is about; worshiping a team that continually lets you down and causes you emotional drama. Fuck yeah! Sports! Despair! America!

Chivas is awesome because they have this little thing called personality. The fans are nuts, the mascot is a goat, and the team is the only one in the league without a city in its name. Why? Because fuck geography, that's why. Chivas USA cares not for your plebeian cities and states - this team lives by its own rules. And Rule #1 is Cartography Blows.

Best Male Underwear?

Lowbrow Answer: Boxer-Briefs
Look, I know the world is a complicated place, but pick a fucking side. You're either boxers or you're briefs; you don't get to be both. Flip-flopper. It's like how every new invention these days has to be 8-things-in-1. "This camera is also a phone and a knife and a nightlight and a respirator and a pistol and a nine-iron and a badger! All in one!" Fuck that. I want my camera to be a camera. I want my underpants to be underpants. End of story.

Even if you concede that these are comfy, we couldn't come up with a better name than "Boxer-Briefs?" Really? It's like those annoying people who hyphenate their last names. Get over yourselves. Pick one or make up something new. Imagine how dumb it would be if other shit was named this way. We'd be stuck writing all our emails on "Calculator-Typewriter-Camera-Phonograph-Telegraph-Televisions." (Get it? I'm talking about computers. Moron.)


Middlebrow Answer: Tighty-Whities
In this tumultuous era of falling stocks and armed Middle-Eastern conflict and Katy Perry music, the last thing I need is my Pocket Dolphin flopping around all nimbly-bimbly in the breeze. I want that shit tucked in tight, where he's protected from all the fear and the war and the Moammar Gadhafi. I mean, come on. My Wang is my third-most valuable physical attribute, right behind my tattoo of Elton John and my detachable kneecaps; I gotta protect it.

Of course, sometimes my Yogurt Slinger needs some space to roam. Sometimes he yearns to be out on his own, seeing the world. And I respect that. I don't want be one of those helicopter parents, hovering over their kids at every turn. I want my penis to be able to enjoy a steak dinner or a tennis lesson all by himself if he wants to. More power to him.


Highbrow Answer: Underwear?
Would you cage the regal Alaskan Elk? Would you close the gates to Yellowstone Park? Would you lock Michael Cera in a windowless basement? No. Of course you wouldn't. Because Alaskan Elk, Yellowstone Park, and Michael Cera are national treasures. They're supposed to be out in the open, encouraging the world to greatness with their very presence. Such is the nature of my Penis; its very existence inspires the advancement of modern civilization.

If you're asking yourself, "Did he just equate his Dong to a National Park?" The answer is yes. Yes, I did. Clearly you know nothing of my Peen and the wonders thereof. It once traveled back in time to stop the assassination of a human boy so that he could grow up and become the leader of mankind against an army of robotic overlords in the future. Yeah. Suck it. What has YOUR penis done lately?

Best Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle?

Lowbrow Answer: Michelangelo
Is it me, or is Michelangelo always stoned? Like, always. "Anchovies" is probably a euphemism for "massive bong rips." It's kind of impressive if you think about it. If he's that good with nun-chucks when he's baked, imagine how good he'd be sober. He could probably shit on Shredder's face with his eyes closed.

But what the hell is "Cowabunga?" What language is that? It sounds like the Latin term for bovine anus. Which is weird, because why would you shout that as you charge into battle? Why not something more like, "No Mercy!" or "Charge!" or "I'm-a-kill-yo-ass!"


Middlebrow Answer: Donatello
Donatello is smart, he's witty, and he can actually speak the English language without saying "whoa..." or "dude..." every thirty seconds. He's also named after a fucking badass. Donatello was a fourteenth-century painter and sculptor who basically invented bas-relief. He's way more highbrow than Michelangelo and his stupid ceiling. He's representin' Perspectival Illusionism, motherfucker.

On the downside, his weapon is a broomstick. I know that ninja geeks will call it a "bow" or a "staff," but that's total bullshit. It's a curtain rod, at best. Leonardo gets two swords and Donatello gets a shower dowel? What kind of shit is that?


Highbrow Answer: Raphael
Raphael bows to no man. You want him to help you save April O'Neil? Fuck you, he's busy. The Foot Clan is attacking Manhattan? Tough shit, he's reading Proust. Bebop and Rocksteady have captured Leonardo? Let that goody-two-shoes burn. Raphael doesn't need anybody. He's a surly one-man army.

Raphael carries two Sai, which only adds to his awesomenitude because it means he has to flight in close quarters. None of this arms-length bullshit for him - he gets right in your face before he rips your heart out and eats it.

You Have Three Kids. You Should...

Lowbrow Answer: ...Give them all names that start with the same letter.
The parents who typically pull this kind of shit are either super-wealthy white people or super-poor minorities. Either way, go fuck yourself. You have three beautiful daughters. You can't come up with more interesting names than Kelly, Kimberly, and Kelsey? Are you literally trying to make me hate you? If you are, it's working. Even if you aren't; it's still working.

I'm waiting for the day when people just quit trying and name all their kids "Dana." Male, female. It won't matter. We already spend all our time shopping at Wal-Mart and eating at McDonald's and watching "Transformers." We may as well go full-bore and just all have the same identities. At least you'd never forget somebody's name again.


Middlebrow Answer: ...Love them all equally and raise them well.
I hate kids in the first place, but if you're going to ruin my day by having one, at least be a good parent. Teach the thing to read and write and worship Adorno. Teach it to enjoy foreign arthouse poetry and listen to Chopin and sneer at Steven Spielberg movies. Teach it to be nice to everyone, except racists, homophobes, bigots, and lacrosse players. Fuck those people. They can swallow a rattlesnake.

On the other hand, there are few things worse than happy families. With their golden retrievers and white picket fences and Ford minivans and Saturdays at the park and Sundays at Episcopal church and smiling Christmas card photos from top of Mount Belmont. What is this, The Family Circus? Life is shit. Your son will get AIDS and your daughter will get hit by a comet. And The Family Circus blows. Worst comic ever.


Highbrow Answer: ...Kill two of them.
The world is overpopulated. There are like 147 billion people living in China. We're running out of space. We're running out of food and water. The last thing we need is idiots like you pumping out kid after kid after kid like your vagina is some kind of Pez dispenser. I don't care if you're Catholic. Or Evangelical. Or any other dumb religion that demands you have kids so that they can join the Pope's army or whatever. Use a condom. They're cheap, they're accessible, and the ones we have today are much better than the sheep's bladder you would have had to use back in the day.

I don't understand why some people are so intent on having 25 children. Doesn't it get old? Aren't you totally bored after the first two? Aren't you sick of potty training and diapers and whining and soccer practices and singing lessons and birthday parties and visits to the hospital and crying? No? You aren't? Man, your life is pathetic. Like, Eddie Murphy's post-1995 acting career pathetic.

Best Outfit for a Flight?

Lowbrow Answer: A Sweatsuit and a Neck Pillow
Maybe traveling from Boston to Albuquerque was a perilous adventure during the Civil War, but it's the 21st century for Christ's sake. The planes have heat. They serve you Pepsi in mid-air. It's pretty cushy. We're not sitting on wooden benches, helping to peddle the 747. Come on, the whole flight is only going to take like five hours. You're not crossing the country on a 9-month expedition with Lewis and Clark.

And don't get me started on this neck pillow shit. What the hell has happened to us? We used to kill bears with our hands and build houses with rocks and slaughter thousands of Native Americans for fun. Has it really come to this? We need a semi-circle cushion to help us sleep sitting up? If this continues, one day we'll be relying on some kind of Hello Kitty-themed robot from Japan to chew all our food for us and kiss us goodnight.


Middlebrow Answer: High Heels and a Tight Skirt
Hey sweetheart. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but this isn't a frat house. There aren't any drunk football players to feel you up by the pool table or hump you arrhythmically on a makeshift basement dance floor. This is an airplane. Nobody wants to chat with you about how great it is to be an English major. All the flight attendants are gay. Take off your Manolo Blahnik's and wipe all that makeup off your face. Trollop.

The guy version of this is even worse. Nothing like a douchebag in an Armani suit and CK One sitting next to you all the way to New York. Yes, I see you're on your way to a business meeting. Good for you. Let me guess. You work in consulting. You attended some yuppie white kid college like Williams or Princeton and now you spend your time moving other people's money around until you save enough of your own to buy a big house and a golden retriever and a wife whose first name is "Grier." I hope your plane crashes. Into Princeton.


Highbrow Answer: Jeans and a T-Shirt
Yes, flying somewhere was a huge deal in 1984. It's not anymore. Get over it. At this point, an airplane is just a big Toyota Camry with wings. Are you really going to get dressed up for a Toyota Camry with wings? Is that how pathetic your life has become? Have you no better occasion to make a big deal out of than a flight to Cleveland? That's sad. Like, Elmo dying of Syphilis sad.

The joy of wearing jeans and a T-shirt on an airplane is that nobody knows anything about you. If you're wearing a suit, we know you're some Wall Street asshole. If you're wearing sandals with socks, we know you're some yocal from Indiana who hasn't been in one of them there flying machines since 1991. Jeans and a T-shirt is understated. You could be anyone. You could be flying to a meeting with the president or a play rehearsal with Johnny Depp or a T-Shirt and Jeans convention. The possibilities are endless.