Pictures

 Cat Scan

Cookie Moster Warlord 

Cool Dog vs. Cool Cat

Edgar Allan Bro

My Friend Kyle

Mathletics

So there's this thing called CrossFit.  It's a workout thingy that I do.  I'm not entirely proud of it, mostly because it is a thinly-veiled cult, but it is a good way to stay in shape.  And the Kool-aid is fantastic.


Anyway, this gym regularly profiles its members on the website.  As such, I was given the opportunity the answer some questions on what I like about CrossFit.  This is what happened:


http://www.crossfitintegrity.com/sunday-july-4-2010-athlete-profile-cullen-gallagher/

Yes, that is a picture of me.  Yes, I am pale and awkward looking.  No, those weights aren't fake.  It's only 135lbs, keep your panties on.

Hey Emma Stone, Sorry I Was So Awkward

Hey Emma Stone, sorry I was so awkward.

My stupid hair and I were sitting, minding our own business, waiting for a meeting at Imagine Entertainment on the afternoon of Friday, November 20th. I was quite nervous, as this was my first "Hollywood" meeting. Furthermore, I was in the offices of the guys behind "Arrested Development" which is probably my favorite thing ever made by anybody. Well, except boobies, but even though it only ran for three seasons, I've seen far more AD than boobies. Somebody's baking frownies :( :( :(

Anyway, I was playing with my iPhone when I heard someone check in for an appointment. I thought, "Wow, that girl sounds like Emma Stone." I realized a scant twenty seconds later that the one place that a girl who sounded like Emma Stone may in fact be Emma Stone is the reception area of a Hollywood production company. I pulled myself away from Cartoon Wars just in time to hear you--the real Emma Stone--chatting with your friend about chicken and waffles. So that's when the awkwardness began.

"I love chicken and waffles!" I blurted out. Wow. That was fucking retarded. My voice was at least three octaves higher than normal, probably the result of me trading my balls for that flop sweat pouring from my forehead. We had a quick discussion about the guy who invented chicken and waffles (seriously, I have plenty other more interesting things I could have talked about--Star Wars, Magic: The Gathering, my retainer, fantasy football--however I chose to discuss your lunch), which culminated in this exchange:

Emma - "It's so weird loving someone you don't even know."

Me - "I've got a little bit of that going on right now..."

OK, now I realize that this may have sounded stalker-ish, but honestly, I thought that was funny. You didn't really laugh though and I don't blame you. It's about as bad as me saying, "It's also weird that I cry in the shower." Yeah, it's true, but it doesn't make it appropriate.

You, to your credit, were very nice to me. I assume it was because I was meeting with a production company and I was neither immediately recognizable nor attractive enough to be an actor, so you must have assumed that I was a producer of some sort. Unfortunately I shattered that illusion rather quickly. You asked what I did and I mentioned that I was a pilot in the Air Force. Again, you seemed really interested and instead of playing it up (because honestly, how cool is it to be a goddamned pilot?), I responded with Debbie Downer shit about how much I hated the military. Later when you told me that the new city I was moving to was your favorite city ever, I just whined about how I missed Seattle. Seriously, I don't know what the hell I was thinking. Looking back, I even think that you were giving me an open to invite you out next time you were in town, but I totally missed that. So, um, awesome. Even after that, you kept talking to me and asked what I was doing at Imagine. I said I was, "working on a story or something." Then I was going to ask what you were doing, but halfway through the question I stopped myself and said, "never mind, I shouldn't ask about gossip." I know that was weird, but I figured you might think that I would ask too much about a project you were working on and then go back and write it on some website or talk to TMZ about it. I won't, don't worry. Unless you count this, in which case that was very clairvoyant of you. Anyway, the moral of that whole thing was that the worst part of over-thinking something is that it looks like you aren't thinking at all.

At this point, I feel pretty bored typing this, so I can’t imagine (Imagine—get it?—teehee lol!) how bored you are reading this. Watch this adorable video and please begine making associations with me:

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaannnnnnnd we’re back!

Really, though, where this thing went careening off the rails was when I started talking to your friend. I noticed that you and I were excluding her a bit, and since I was failing so miserably at flirting, I figured that I would include her (yes, that was flirting. I know...). I'm very inclusive; I've always said that about myself. Well, stupidly I did not introduce myself. I know we had been speaking for over fifteen minutes and introductions would be customary, but I was more concerned with the fact that I had sweat through my shirt which, to be honest, already looked and smelled like a homeless guy's grundle. Also, I knew who you were, and I figured you knew that I knew who you were, and I knew you knew I knew who you were, so I skipped you and asked your friend:

Me - "And what was your name?"

Her - *mumbles something incoherent*

Me - "Shuh?"

Her - No, Sug. Like Suge Knight. Short for Sugar."

OK, at this point I think I should mention that Sug seems like a cool enough name, but pardon me for not getting it on the first try. She seemed peeved. In retrospect, she was quite peevish. It was like she was Princess Leia and I was Han in Ep. 4. See, I told you I was cool. Anyway, at this point I felt the need to make an unfortunate joke about Suge Knight. It was a reference to this an incident in which he was shot in the leg at a party. I got it slightly confused with the time he got in a fight at the Vibe Awards. Despite the fact that my joke was topical humor from four years ago, I decided to say anyway, "Sug, huh? So did you also get shot at the Vibe Awards?" Um, so neither you nor Sug had any idea what I was talking about (Google it!), and you replied, "Wait—what? You want her to get shot in the leg?"

No, no, no no noooooooo, no. That was not what I meant. I was about to explain that when that lady came over to ask you what you wanted to drink. At that point I decided it was best to not talk for awhile, and you and Sug whispered secrets and giggled, most likely about me. So that went well. After that I went back to looking at my phone and working on my werewolf drawings. I texted five people to let them know I was talking to you. My friend Kyle wanted me to tell you, "It's SUPERBAD that you're making me as stiff as one of the zombies in ZOMBIELAND." I told him I would say that to you, but I never did. Does it count now? I would have said it because, honestly, how much worse could it have been? But instead, I sat sweating under that heat lamp I chose to place myself under. Also, I never saw Zombieland and I didn't want you to figure that out. As penance, may I present two pictures of Zombie Cats:

So you're probably wondering why I came on here to write all this. Well, I have a proposal. I want to prove that I'm not as awkward as I came off. I don't want to date or anything, you're much too young and you always wear your hair over that one eye, so I'm convinced that there must be something wrong with it (see attached photos).

Instead I want to meet under similar circumstances and take another stab at small talk. We can meet alone (no offense to Sug, but I really feel like she was the reason things went to poorly. She's a game-killer) on a neutral site to talk. I figure if you need to go to another production meeting somewhere or even if you need to go the ophthalmologist to get that wonkey eye checked out, I could just meet you in the reception area and we could take another shot at the small talk (should I have used the word 'shot'? I know what sort of flashbacks that must bring for Sug). I believe this to be the most equitable recourse to our situation. If you are unable, maybe you could talk to Michael Cera for me. He's an actor I'm sure you know, and I was thinking he could help me film a re-creation. I know Jonah Hill was your love interest in Superbad, but I feel Michael Cera would bring the right level of awkwardness to the role of me. You would be played by Isla Fisher. She's another redhead, but she's actually much higher on my list. Can you imagine awkward I would have been had you been her?

So Emma, if it is you please contact me (lanceuppercutt@gmail.com) with the name of the city I am moving to. You should probably remember since you said it was totally your favorite city ever. Let me know if you want to meet at some neutral reception site so I can have a second shot or if you just want to get me Michael Cera's contact information. Also, if you have any contact information for the following people, it would be much appreciated: Kate Beckinsale, Jessica Biel, Megan Fox, Angelina Jolie, Isla Fisher, twenty other hot Hollywood starlets, and lastly you. OK, well I think this has been productive. Thanks for indulging one guy's awkward attempt to become less awkward. Remember, you scratch my back and I'll scratch yours. Funny thing about my back, it's on my cock. Haha, see that's from Superbad. Do actors ever quote movies they were in? No? OK. But you should. It's a very funny movie. Well, good talk.

A Somewhat Less Than Comprehensive Plan To Save Our Sonics

I live in Seattle, and on top of crappy weather, awful traffic, ugly women (who are far less likely to sleep with you than you think. I mean what’s a nice guy who occasionally picks his nose while alone in the car and who has the sexual stamina of a skinny highschooler on prom night gotta do to be rewarded with some seriously top shelf kitty? Um, not me, but this guy I know…call me ladies!), we are about to lose our NBA franchise. For those of you who didn’t realize, the new owner of the Seattle Supersonics, Clay Bennett, wants to pack up and move the team from the Great Northwest to the near-retardation-inducing Okalahoma City.

Who cares, right? Screw you, I care. A city without a team representing each of three major sporting leagues (NFL, MLB, and the NBA) is about as useless as a drunk college girl who isn’t coming home with me (that would be all of them). Now most of you are probably saying things like, “but Portland doesn’t have any other teams but the Blazers!” or, “what about hockey—that’s a major sport, right?” or even, “what’s wrong with Oklahoma?” I’ll answer all three: fuck you hippee, your city sucks more dick than a coked-up Lindsay Lohan; hey Canadians, just because your dollar is worth more than ours doesn’t make your country relevant—go drink some maple syrup and fuck a moose; and lastly, Oklahoma sucks. Need proof? Go there and prepare to be underwhelmed by all the nothing. Farmers’ daughters sound good until you realize that each Oklahoman female is about 3 teeth short of a baker’s half dozen. Carrie Underwood, you are the exception, but even you had to go whoring south of the border with Tony Romo. Call me once you rid your mouth of the taste of over-hyped post-season fumble machine.

So why would Clay want to move the Sonics to that shitty, God-forsaken piece of rat crap known as OKC? Well for starters, he’s from there. But according to him, they didn’t plan on buying the team just to move it, they were really going to try to make it work in Seattle. Oh wait—

"We didn't buy the team to keep it in Seattle, we hoped to come here"; and, "We know it's a little more difficult financially here in Oklahoma City, but we think it's great for the community and if we could break even we'd be thrilled."

--Aubrey McClendon, Sonics part owner, full-time Bennett dong massager

http://saveoursonics.org/Default.aspx?tabid=346&mid=856&ctl=ViewEntry&EntryID=435

Obviously ol’ Aubrey here will only give happy endings in a land-locked state. Their latest gripe was that Key Arena, a facility that had undergone a serious renovation in 1995, was inadequate. Despite the fairly recent renovation and my hatred for the current Sonics ownership, I will admit that Key Arena fellates Milton Berle-sized manhood. Because of this, the Bennett’s ownership team wants out of their lease, and/or a new arena funded by the taxpayers. Most of the overly-literate, underly-(it’s a word, look it up—okay, wait, don’t.)-sexy, Seattleites are hesitant to pay. Don’t even get me started on how crappy this city is for a sports franchises. We’re too busy swimming through a sea of our sense of self-importance hopped up on caffeine to realize that part of being a city is cheering the home team to victory. Or cheering Shawn Kemp to illegitimate fatherhood. Whatevs.

What Seattle does have, though, is money. Lots of it. I believe Paul Allen owns nearly half the Western Seaboard and at least one, if not two underground volcano lairs. But he can’t buy the Sonics because he already owns the Blazers and the Seahawks. I guess he could dip into the kitty and fish out some cash for the Sonics, but then he wouldn’t have time to digest Johnny Depp.

Honestly, this guy is worth billions and he still can’t get those fangs filed down? Come on, brotha. Well, without Kraken-sized money Bennett will likely move the Sonics to the land of cattle and cowboys. But pirates won’t be there because there is no water. Butt pirates will be plentiful though, which is why I think Clay wants to move there in the first place.

So how can we fix this debacle? The Sonics deserve a new arena, but they don’t deserve to move to Oklahomo—not that there’s anything wrong with that (see how I used that old Seinfeld line to sidestep any controversy? It’s not my first gay rodeo.). Here’s my idea:

XBOX ARENA

Yes, that’s right. We attempt to woo the only guy in Seattle with more money and more nerd-juice (half the calories of jock-juice, drink up ladies—seriously, I need a date) than the Kraken. Right now he’s busy saving the world from AIDS or whatever, but why can’t he throw a couple of bucks at the city and get rid of the Key Arena eyesore? I think kids dying in Africa would be totally pumped if they knew such a thing as Xbox arena existed that they could look down on from heaven in two weeks when they die. And if not, maybe we could give some proceeds from the team revenue to AIDS research or something else far less brutal than what I wrote in the previous sentence. Here’s an artist rendering of what it could possibly look like.

Seattle now:

Not too shabby. But let’s get rid of the Key down there and inject some high-powered electronic cocaine.

Look at how awesome that shit is. Those green lines are just excess awesome coming off Xbox Arena. Look at how much ass-kickery it has to spare. I know it doesn’t say “Xbox Arena Motherfucker” in the sky right now, but I have to assume that the city will employ round-the-clock skywriting services to accomplish this feat in light of how fucking awesome that arena is. That sweetness is reaching almost all the way down to Tacoma—but not quite, Tacoma will always be the red-headed stepchild with fetal alcohol syndrome that we chained to the basement radiator years ago and refuse to talk about.

Look out!! The awesome made its’ way down to Mt. Rainier!

And now you’re probably wondering if I’ve ever heard of a little program called Photoshop. The answer is yes, but if it can’t be done in MS Paint it shouldn’t be done at all. Anyway—

All that awesome made Mt. Rainier blow its’ top. Even better, all the meth labs in Lakewood are catching fire and setting off secondary explosions! Woot! Tacoma will be gone by dawn. Perfect. God, I’m pinging more than a speed freak on the 15^th of the month. Look at that, Xbox Arena in one fell swoop has saved the Sonics AND improved the shit out of the already great Pacific Northwest.

Seriously, every picture of the city will be a huge advertisement for Microsoft’s gaming console. How can this be anything but a great move for Xbox? The tie-ins with games alone would be amazing, and you could have Kevin Durant challenging fans to games of Guitar Hero at the half. Kid Delicious (Daggers? The Durantula?) does partake in a little gaming after all.

So here it is: Bill (and Melinda) Gates, I appreciate all the work you guys are doing to cure FDR of his polio posthumously, to give a Prius to all the polar bears so that they can drive to cooler weather when we melt most of their icecaps, to end AIDS in Magic Johnson’s lifetime, and to finally feed all the hungry men and brave women fighting for our freedom from terror in Iranistan, but this is more important than all of that combined. Times a million. Before you think of all the starving children with scary diseases, think of me and the other 14 Sonics fans. Okay, maybe not before, but at least around the same time. That check to UNICEF or whatever could be a check for Xbox arena. And maybe a little could go to me. If not, I’ll just settle for a Sonics Dance team member. How about Kelsey? And keep in mind I’m settling here, so maybe you could throw in Talor for good measure.

Lance Wants To Fight The War

WarBlog 8

9 May 2007

Perspective. It kills me. I know I don’t have the right perspective on this war because I never seem to grasp anything about it other than what’s right in front of my face. You can run numbers about it all day, but as good as they are about expressing value, you just can’t count on numbers to express the magnitude of war. My $250,000,000 jet. $70,000 in jet fuel. $1,000,000 in training each for us 3 pilots. An $8,500,000 Chinook in the back. All heading to Iraq at the same time as countless other aircraft from countless other locations. It’s like me telling you that the Grand Canyon is 277 miles long, can be as wide as 15 miles, and as deep as 1.6 miles. So fucking what? It sounds huge, but you never get the idea of just how big that is until you actually stand on the edge of that enormous hole in the ground and realize, “Shit! This is a huge effing canyon!” The problem with war is that no one will ever get the chance to have that perspective—to stand at the edge of the canyon.

Since we can’t wrap our heads around it, we don’t even try. Our flights to and from combat are comprised of the type of detached, inane chatter reserved for most frat houses. A recent flight to combat started with all of us comparing the various currencies we had in our wallets in order to prevent the constant white noise in our headsets from dissolving into our brains and making us fall asleep. As aircrew we fly to all sorts of countries (mostly shitty ones, thanks Uncle Sam!) with all sorts of different types of money. It’s a waste of time to remember that Turkey has Lira, most of Europe has Euro—except Great Britain—and that Kyrgyzstan has… umm… Dinar? Rubles? Fuck if I know, but that’s the point. To make things simple we call all foreign money doobers. That way when you’re stuck in BFE and scrambling into a taxi following a fight at a night club all you have to ask each other is, “Do you have enough doobers to get us back to the hotel?” On this flight I had 3 different types of doobers. Someone else had some Turkish doobers and we noticed that the guy on their money looked like some sort of creepy Houdini substitute whose only trick was making his sausage disappear in a windowless van parked near local playgrounds. Our discussion continued like this until the changing pressure in the cabin made someone fart. No one claimed the Howdy, so I finally asked, “who the hell farted?” Rebb finally owned up, to which Sharp responded, “I thought it smelled like semen.” After that we started putting on our body armor and running our combat entry checklist, chuckling to ourselves the whole damned time. We’re not running away from the realities of combat, but we’re not exactly embracing them either.

I’ve been shot at a few times in my short Air Force career. You’d think it’d be either one of those things that I’d block out and never want to talk about again, or it’d be one of those things that I’d brag about at the bar to get free drinks. Knowing my extreme hatred for my liver, you’d think it’d be the latter, but it’s actually neither. I nothing it. I couldn’t care less about being shot at. I guess it’s both a by-product of the fact that I know it’s not an extremely exclusive group to be a part of and also that I’ve never really felt threatened by it. What’s most disappointing about being a target of opportunity is the lack of feelings it has generated in me. I thought that if I was being shot at that I would discover all these reasons that I wanted to live. Fuck you, Hollywood, that’s not the case. All I could think of the first time I got shot at was, “I hope that doesn’t hit us. I don’t want to have to spend the night here in Iraq until our plane gets fixed. It’ll probably only hit the engine anyway. We can fly out of here on 3 engines, right? I wonder how much each of our engines cost. They’ve gotta be expensive. Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck, I do not want to have to spend the night here in Iraq. Oh good, we’re landing.” Seriously, these were my life-affirming, character-defining thoughts in the heat of battle. There were no thoughts of getting back home to see some wife or kids or parents or anything. Granted, I don’t even have two of those aforementioned things (fingers crossed on that second one), but it would have been nice to at least have the thought of something cross my mind. My friends, my family, Guitar Hero 2, that hot girl I saw in the gym the other day--even the NBA. I would have realized that I really wanted to live to see LeBron bring a title to Cleveland. It’s pathetic, but at least it would have been something. Instead, all I’ve realized is that I’m dead inside. How’s that for perspective?

I’ll take this opportunity to remind myself that I could have it much, much worse. My whiny, self-centered, and self-loathing ego is once again slapped across the face with the fact that my life is much safer than that of the guys on the ground. They face real life-threatening dangers on a daily basis and it probably causes them to gain some real perspective on their lives and lets them know what’s important, be it God, their families, or their buddies right there in the shit with them. Maybe that’s the only real way to stand on the edge of the canyon. I feel like a fraud. However to those on the outside looking in, I’m a hero. Perspective makes all the difference in the world.