Best of the Original Pokemon?

Lowbrow Answer: Pikachu
Admit it. You only like Pikachu because you can't come up with the name of any other Pokemon. You uneducated swine. This is a serious piece of Japanese culture and you just ignore it like it's a Jury Duty letter or a positive test result for HPV. Well. I have news for you. Pikachu sucks balls. Who wants a pet that electrocutes you when you touch it? What the hell sense does that make? It's like renting a stripper who infects you with the Bubonic Plague if she takes her clothing off. Just makes no sense.

And can somebody put a gag into this thing's mouth? Jesus. All day with the "Pika! Pika!" Hey Pikachu. Blow me! Blow me! How about you stop running around in the forest and get yourself into a classroom. Maybe learn Portugese or Farsi or one of those other South American languages. Then maybe I'd understand what the hell you're trying to say.


Middlebrow Answer: Squirtle
This little guy is a menace. He bows to no man. Fuck you and your rules - he's going drinking. Squirtle is a water-based Pokemon who eventually evolves into Blastoise. (See him here.) I'm sorry, is that artillery in your turtle shell? Do you literally grow mortars out of your shoulders? Jesus, that's awesome. The only thing that I grow out of my shoulders are pimples and that weird rash I got in Slovakia last year.

I will say, however, that "Squirtle" is a bullshit name. It's not badass AT. ALL. It sounds like:
- A sexual maneuver involving three or more bodily fluids.
- Some kind of detergent-based liquid ecstasy.
- The annoying, wets-himself sidekick in a Nickelodeon cartoon.
- An Eddie Murphy movie.


Highbrow Answer: Wigglytuff
Look at that shit. It's the bastard offspring of a rabbit and a Bean Bag Chair. On Acid. I want one. I want three. I want as many as it takes to build a pink army of fluffy, adorable destruction. That's how they get you. You look down and think, "Awwww..." right as the thing leaps onto your face and chews through your neck. Awesome.

Pokemon scientists (Umm, what? How do I sign up to be one of THOSE?) think that the thin layer of permanent tears around Wigglytuff's eyes are to prevent moondust from blurring its vision. I'm sorry, "permanent tears?" That's the most highbrow thing I've ever heard. It sounds like the name of symphony by Penderecki or a ladies' underwear line designed by Bjork. Either way, I'm sold.

Best Part of a Wedding?

Lowbrow Answer: Removing the Garter Belt

Look, I know you're excited about getting married, but do I really need to see you reach your hands in your wife's crotch in front of everyone you know? I feel like I'm on the set of a Jenna Jameson movie. Your 93-year-old Grandma Ethel is watching, for Christ's sake. Keep your mitts out of the cookie jar until the honeymoon.

And I thought the point of marrying a girl was that you don't have to share her with anybody anymore. Why would I pull off her garter belt and then give it to some jackass at the wedding? I have plans for that garter belt. I'm going to wear it around my penis during sex or make my wife eat it or some other weird thing I can think of now that I'm married and she has to do what I say.

Middlebrow Answer: The Toasts

Wedding toasts are tricky business. The good ones will make you cry and laugh and hug people at your table that you've never even met. The bad ones will make you want to stab yourself in the chest with a ballpoint pen. Here are some quick tips to help you avoid making an ass of yourself:

DO: Be honest and speak from your heart.

DON'T: Be too gay, though.

DO: Make fun of the Bride's father.

DON'T: Make fun of the Bride's Autistic dead grandmother.

DO: Talk about the couple's first date.

DON'T: Talk about your traumatic relationship with and subsequent retraining order on Lars, that creepy guy you met at the gym.

Highbrow Answer: The After-After-After Party

You know that little gathering that happens after the reception? The one where all the old people have gone home and it's just the young people drinking and dancing in the hall? Okay, well you know the little party that happens after that gathering? The one where the lame young people have gone to bed and it's just the cool kids hanging out in some dive bar in town? Okay, well you know the super small chillout session that happens after that? The one where it's just you and a bridesmaid in a hotel room watching cable and making out? THAT party is fucking awesome.

Weddings are great because everybody you meet has been pre-approved by the bride or the groom. There are no rejects in the crowd like at every other bar/restaurant/party/club/bullfight that you go to. Meet a cute girl? Go for it. She's the bride's best friend - there's no way she has AIDS or Herpes or an axe-murdering Slavic ex-boyfriend. So take her to your own little after-after-after party and walk down her aisle.

Best Denomination of U.S. Currency?

Lowbrow Answer: The One Dollar Bill

I think the last time that anyone used one of these in an actual legal transaction was back in 1859 when James K. Polk bought the Oregon Territory from the Indians for like $3.89 or whatever. Since then, the dollar bill has become nothing more than a straw for snorting Cocaine or something to shove into the butthole of the stripper whose ass is in your face. Either way - decidedly lowbrow.

And can't we do any better than George Washington? I know he's the founder of the country and all that, but what a wuss. "I cannot tell a lie?" Why the fuck not? You're a politician, George. Sack up. The last thing that Americans want is a president who's honest all the time. We prefer gun-toting, bible-humping hicks from Texas who know how to jerk us around good and proper, thank you very much.

Middlebrow Answer: The $50 bill

Ulysses S. Grant is a badass. Any man who sees Robert E. Lee on the other side of a war and thinks, "Fuck that guy. Let's do this." is pretty hip in my book. He is also responsible for the 15th Amendment, which let freedmen vote. Any man who sees a bunch of KKK members and racists on the other side of congress and thinks, "Fuck those guys. Let's do this." is pretty hip in my book.

That being said, what the hell do you use a $50 bill for? It's too big to buy fish sandwiches at McDonald's with but too small to use to rent a Clydesdale horse for the weekend. It basically just sits in your wallet, taking up space and getting germs on that one condom that's been in there since 1997.

Highbrow Answer: The $10,000 bill

Bet you didn't see this one coming. The $10,000 bill was minted in 1945 and, even though it was discontinued in 1969, remains legal tender to this day. Bad ass. I'd love to walk into a Toyota dealership with three of these: "Yeah, I'll take the red Prius. No, thanks, I'll be paying with cash." They need to start printing these again; I could mug somebody at knifepoint and end up with the down payment for a Condo in Miami.

The guy on the $10,000 bill is Salmon P. Chase. Who's he? Oh, no big deal, he was just Treasury Secretary under Abraham Lincoln. He helped write this little document - you may have heard of it - The Motherfucking Emancipation Proclamation. I love historical dudes. They're always so much more impressive than we present-day folk. This guy helped free the slaves - my biggest claim to fame is that I won 3rd place in the 1991 North Andover Arbor Day Sack Race.

Best Figure in Diego Velázquez's "Las Meninas?"

Check out the full painting here.

Lowbrow Answer: The Little Blonde Chick
You smug little brat. I see you giving me the Stink Eye. I don't care how wealthy your parents are - I'll wipe that smile off your face with a Brillo pad. And you're like five years old; you should be playing with dolls and kissing boys behind the jungle gym, not getting your nails done for a state dinner by some Flemish wet nurse named Helga.

And what the fuck are you wearing? You look like you're about to go play bass for The Arcade Fire. I could set a whole picnic up on the top of your skirt. Do yourself a favor and get into something a little tighter - you'll never marry a marginally handsome inbred English prince in that getup.


Middlebrow Answer: The Dog
Normally, I'm pretty anti-dog. They poop everywhere, they drool everywhere, and they smell like the inside of an NHL locker room. But check this guy out. What a legend. He's actually sneering. I like to think that somebody just offered him tickets to an Edward Albee play and he refused: "Albee? Are you fucking serious? What do I look like, some jackass English major from a small liberal arts school? It's Beckett or nothing, thank you very much."

This dog also looks like he's wearing black warpaint on his face. Bad. Fucking. Ass. I can think of only a few other things that are as awesome as a dog wearing warpaint:

- A flying Panzer Tank
- Powdered Donut-flavored gum
- A Polar Bear in a bowler hat smoking a cigar
- Brad Pitt from "Fight Club" beating the shit out of Brad Pitt from "Meet Joe Black"


Highbrow Answer: The Crazy Dwarf Lady
This chick smiles for no man. You want her to look pretty for your painting? Fuck you and fuck painting. She has important dwarf stuff to do, like sing about the Yellow Brick Road or drown in a lake.

Dwarfs are epic. In Norse mythology, they're the metal workers of the Gods, which means if Lord Odin ever needs a new sword or a trowel or chrome rims for his Cadillac - he calls in the Dwarf squad. The most famous Dwarf is probably Alberich, a central character from Wagner's 28-hour opera "Die Ring des Niebelungen." In the story, he forges a ring that brings about the death of all of the Norse gods. Not too shabby for a guy who wouldn't even be allowed to ride on Space Mountain.

I Am Running Right Now Because...

Lowbrow Answer: It's Raining and I want to Get Inside.
Hey, sissy. It's just water. If it were raining chainsaws or wolverines with liver cancer, then I'd be okay with you running to get inside. But it's not. So grow a pair. You can take it, I promise. People in the 1800's used to kill buffalo using nothing but a homemade spoon and a wagon wheel. You can handle some water in your hair.

People get so crazy when it rains. It's like somebody flips the let's-drive-like-idiots-and-be-grumpy-all-day switch. Lighten up. It's only rain. Without it, we don't get any crops or any drinking water or any opportunity to get soaking wet while we do epic, hyper-romantic things for our girlfriends.


Middlebrow Answer: A Bear is Chasing Me.
Okay, while part of me thinks you should sack up, turn around, and kick the bear in the face, I understand why you're running. Bears are scary. Especially those big brown ones in Alaska that eat conservationist filmmakers. (Hiyo! "Grizzly Man" joke. Too soon?) You better be in good shape if you're running from a bear; some of them can get moving as fast as a Volkswagon Jetta or one of those other little pussy cars.

Instead of running from the bear, why not invite it over to your place for some green tea and lemon squares? Or maybe take it to a Twilight movie or something. That's the thing about bears, man. Nobody ever gives them a chance. We spend all our time running from them when, really, all they're looking for is a nice meal and some good conversation. Although maybe I'm wrong. I haven't taken any biology since 6th grade.


Highbrow Answer: The Boston Marathon is Coming Up.
Competitive running is sport in its purest form. No cheerleaders or foul shots or extra points here. Just men in tiny shorts running for two hours. (sidebar: can somebody explain to me the reason for the extra point? He's kicking the ball from like, ten yards away. They never miss. Just give the guy seven points for the touchdown and let's move on with our lives.)

Long distance running, particularly, is the sport of kings. You ever run a marathon? It blows. Your legs burn, your arms ache, and your nipples bleed. Yes. You heard me right. Your nipples bleed. Sounds fun, huh? It's not. It's horrifying. Which is exactly why it's so fucking highbrow.

Best Indians?

Lowbrow Answer: Indians from Cleveland
God, I hate baseball. Let's sit around for three-and-a-half hours and watch overweight rednecks spit chewing tobacco at each other. Awesome. Sign me up. And as if the game weren't already bad enough, the Cleveland Indians suck at it. They haven't won the World Series since 1948. I know that everyone loves "Major League," but come on; your franchise's claim to fame is a Charlie Sheen movie? Since when was that something to brag about?

And let me get this straight. You're choosing a mascot and you go with "Chief Wahoo?" Really? I would love to have been in the room when that decision was made.

Executive 1: How about a cartoon Indian Chief who looks like a meth-addicted pedophile?
Executive 2: I like it.
Executive 3: I love it.
Jeff: Are you on crack?


Middlebrow Answer: Indians from India
If you're from India, chances are you're Hindu. Which means you pray to epically awesome deities like Ganesha and Shiva and that one that looks like a drunken chimpanzee. If I have the choice between worshiping an angry, thirteen-armed Elephant man or a boring, lives-with-his-parents carpenter from Bethlehem, I think you know which way I'm going to go. Here's a hint: it's the angry, thirteen-armed Elephant man.

Although, to be fair, India needs to get its fucking act together. They've got way too many people, way too much flooding, and way too much not enough food. How about we put down those cricket bats and start problem-solving, eh India? Oh, and I'm sorry, but there's no way that cows are sacred. God is laughing at you, I promise. Now Platypuses - that's another story. Those things are awesome.


Highbrow Answer: Indians from North America
Good lord, it must be rad to be an Indian. Have you ever seen "Last of the Mohicans?" Killing deer with a bow-and-arrow from 400 yards away, tracking people through the woods using only footprints and the smell of local flora, shouting, "Stay alive - I will find you" to hot white chicks. The closest I ever get to being an Indian is when I shop for moccasins at LL Bean.

You'll find no group of people with more broken dreams than the Native Americans. Intentional smallpox infections, genetic alcoholism, the Trail of Tears, falsified treaties, and the Washington Redskins are all part of America's giant "Fuck Off" to Native Indians. Maybe someday they'll fight back and scalp half of congress in a massive horse-ridden attack on Washington DC. It'd be okay with me as long as Orrin Hatch was in the half they got.

It's Saturday Night. I'm Super Excited to...

Lowbrow Answer: Get Drunk at a Bar.
Can somebody please explain bars to me? I don't get it. You stand in a tiny room that smells like the inside of the machine they use to pump the stomachs of freshmen girls at Florida State so that you can overpay for shitty alcohol and yell into your friends' ears from seven inches away. Man, that sounds awesome. I can see why EVERYBODY loves it so much. Sign me up.

Who are you meeting at these places? Any girl who's even remotely attractive is surrounded by three fatties and a gay dude, anyway. At minimum, talking to her will cost you four Vodka-Sodas and a healthy groping from "Paul." Gag me. Instead, why not just drink the four Vodka-Sodas yourself and watch in amazement as the ugly girls you had previously ignored transform into Penelope Cruz.


Middlebrow Answer: Dance My Face Off.
Dancing rules. It's the only social interaction that allows you to ram your junk into some girl's crotch without being maced. Plus you're on your feet and getting some exercise. Good for you. Keep at it. Maybe someday you'll loose that Freshman Fifteen and people will like you again.

Hey. Legions of white dudes in button-downs and polo shirts. Learn how to dance or stay the fuck out of my way. I don't come to your stupid football games and try to jump in at Wide-Receiver; don't come to my club and jerk around arhythmically while you make "fag" jokes and drink Corona. Ladies - you're partly to blame for this. If you see a douchebag who can't dance; don't dance with him. You wouldn't get into a car with somebody who didn't know how to drive, would you?


Highbrow Answer: Stay Home and Read Proust
Can you say, "Clinically depressed existential French repressed homosexual?" Proust can! This dude is the man. He starts writing essays at the age of eleven, he founds a literary review while he's still in school, and and he literally becomes nocturnal in his later years. He's most famous for a seven-part epic novel called, "À la Recherche du Temps Perdu," which loosely translates to, "I'm Marcel-fucking-Proust, Who the Hell are You?"

Home is great. All your shit is there, you don't have to pay for anything, and you can do whatever you want. Feel like eating a peanut butter and pickles sandwich? Go for it! Need to watch Die Hard 2? All yours! Wanna dry hump your teddy bear while listening to Michael Bolton and crying about your ex-girlfriend? Be my guest! You're in charge! Huzzah!