Official Home Of BIG Ben Kennedy

I think it’s safe to say that the boy bands are gone. Well, for now, anyway. I know they’ll just be back in about 7 years, but in the meantime, let’s try and enjoy the absence of a five guy fashion-friendly, dancing, singing, cliché for a while.

When my mother was young it was Jackson 5 and The Monkees, my older cousins endured New Edition, and when I was a kid, the big “boy band” was, that’s right, New Kids On The Block.

I know you remember those bad ass mother fuckers from Boston.

I remember when they would come through town, you would either find yourself beat the fuck down, or pregnant. And sometimes both if the night was right.

Actually, they would more than likely be naked and practicing falsetto in the hotel shower, because they “dig the wicked reverb”.

If you happen to listen to an old New Kids song, first off, tell your captor you’ll give up the secret formula, but if that doesn’t work, you’ll notice something about the New Kids: they couldn’t sing.

Not a note.

I’m not being mean, and I’m not speaking to you as a man with any real formal music training either. I’m speaking to you as a human being with a set of ears. Seriously, they were bad. Wow. They made N*Sync and the Backstreet Boys sound like the 3 Tenors.

The 3 Tenors, now THAT was a sexy ass boy band.

All vocally-challenged bashing aside, those assholes were everywhere. Over marketing? What’s that? You couldn’t walk 10 feet into a K-Mart without seeing those goofy looking bastards staring at you from a magazine cover, a HUGE button, or package of gum. Those faces would haunt my dreams. The one who had the vampire fangs, the one who wore the hat with no top, the one who looked like an ape, the one who looked like he was made of wax, and the one who apparently snagged his clothing on everything he ever walked past.

I mean, how did you get your sleeves ripped clean off if you always have your arms folded in front of you? He was torn to shit, yet the bangs, absolutely perfect.

I had the fortune of being alive when Massachusetts’ governor, Michael Dukakis, declared a “New Kids On The Block Day”. I had the sad fortune, however, of it being on my birthday. In hind sight, I guess it wasn’t all bad; it did snag me a ton of tail.

Ok, I think I was 11.

But I remember the girls would say, “You were born on New Kids On The Block Day?” and I would reply, “No. I was here first.” And I wished I would’ve thought to say, “And I’ll be here long after they’re gone.” But I wasn’t trying to hurt feelings; I just wanted to swap spit.

One thing I can’t hate on the New Kids fad for, the discovery of Donnie Wahlberg, and his little brother Mark. They may have made us laugh with the New Kids, and with the Funky Bunch, but I’ll be damned if they can’t act their little New England asses off. We all know that Mark is an actor and a half, but if you doubt Donnie’s abilities, watch the movie “Dreamcatcher” sometime.

And recently Donnie reunited with his NKOTB cohorts for a new album and tour. And you know what? I can forgive it. I’m not even going to make fun of it. Because those guys are approaching 40 years old now and all of those little girls who loved them “oh so much” back in the day are now not only legal, but they’re in their 20’s.

40 years old, and your groupies are 25 years old? That might be the only genius move of reuniting a boy band when you’re middle-aged.

I just hope the others don’t get the same idea. I really don’t want to see the original members of Menudo strutting their 50 year old Puerto Rican asses on stage anytime soon.

And I usually sum my writings up with some joke, or some insightful point, but as I read over this one, all I can think is, “I really just wrote a piece about boy bands?! I mentioned Menudo? What in the hell is wrong with me? There’s 15 minutes of my life I’ll never get back.”

Ironically, I wasted 15 minutes of my life talking about the 15 minutes of their life most of them wished they had back.

Well, I think that will do.

I was watching TV one day, when my son Benjamin walks into the room holding a fork. Immediately realizing the safety issue, I take the fork from him. As is the usual case, he relinquished it without any real problem. Probably because he hears the difference in the hurried, nervous tone of my voice, and knows that what I’m saying needs to happen now.

After Benjamin turns the fork over to the proper authority, he leaves the room to unearth his next forbidden treasure of the house. He finds things around the house like it’s his job. He can find a Sharpie marker that I swore I had tucked away in a briefcase in my bedroom closet, but somehow it’s my job to find that long lost chicken nugget or piece of Pop-Tart in the couch.

So after he leaves, I sit there with the fork in my hand, continuing to watch TV. Sure I could get up and put it in the sink, or place it in the dishwasher, but those things are all the way in the kitchen.

A few minutes pass, when I am startled by my wife Kerri saying, “Ben.”

I look over at her with a very confused look.

“You know, that was the fork he was eating waffles with this morning. There’s probably maple syrup all over it.” she continues.

It would appear that in my ADHD mind, or just plain boredom, I decided it would be a good idea to brush my goatee with the fork my son found.

Maybe I remembered Scuttle from The Little Mermaid and thought to myself, “It’s a dinglehopper. Humans use these little babies… to straighten their hair out.” Or maybe it’s that I’m the walking embodiment of the “The Devil finds work for idle hands” statement.

As for sticky syrup in my goatee, well that’s just a bonus. Not only did I get to save Benjamin from another possible peril, but I get to walk around all day with smell of syrup invading my nostrils, and the thought of wonderful pancakes swirling around in my head. It’s the same reason why I want Kerri to buy Vanilla Frosting Lip Smackers lip gloss. Not because I’d like her in lip gloss, or want to smell it on her, but because after she kisses me, I get to walk around smelling cake on my upper lip all day.

And any day that I can smell cake all day, is a good day.

My little brother Gabriel had a fear of me that never made sense to me, but was fun to have fun with from time to time. One of the things I would do was say the words, “That did it!”

That’s was all I had to say, “That did it!” and he would take off running and screaming for our father! He would run up and grab his leg, like little kids do. Only as Gabriel got older, the weight of him would take Dad’s leg out every now and again. I started thinking of it like bowling!

One time at a cookout, I could see Dad talking with some friends with a plate of food in hand. I size up the situation. Dad’s distracted, and Gabriel might just be able to take him down to the ground in front of an actual audience! This is gonna be great! I looked over at Gabriel and yelled, “That did it!” and he took off, full tilt, right into the back of Dad’s leg! Dad never saw it coming, but sadly, he didn’t fall down. I can’t remember if Gabriel got him to drop his plate, but I bet at the very least a hot dog was sacrificed to the Grass Gods.

For the first few years of this, Dad would yell at Gabriel, and I would get away with it. I always wondered if Dad believed that Gabriel had this compulsion to run into him at full speed for no reason. How do you get help for that?

“Doctor, I think there’s something wrong with my son. He keeps running full speed into my leg for no reason. I don’t know why, but he won’t stop. Do you think he’s going special?”

Then, when Gabriel got old enough to articulate why he was running, I was blamed for it every time, whether it was my “That did it!” that did it or not. So in a way, it all balanced out I guess.

After I started getting the blame, the situations would always end up with Dad yelling at me to “Knock that shit off!” or to “Fucking stop it!” or to “Fucking knock that shit off!”

If you couldn’t guess, Dad was without censor. He didn’t gradually lose it throughout my years, he just never had one.

For example, when I was four, I wanted to be the Incredible Hulk. Believe me when I say, “I wanted to be the Incredible Hulk”. I remember spending hours in our living room trying to “Hulk out”. If you can’t imagine what trying to hulk out looks like, then just picture a chubby, shirtless four year old standing on a coffee table, clenching his fists and breathing heavy.

After a while of this, and some near passing out due to hyperventilation, my father would take notice. And what was his response? He would show his support of my dreams by saying, “Holy shit he’s hulking out, fucking run for your lives!”

Gabriel, who lived with Dad and his mother, and then just with Dad after the separation of his parents, was a quick learner of the language of Dad.

This was clearly evident when he, at 4 years old, opened up his McDonald’s hamburger to find pickles, and then exclaimed, “What the hell? I ordered this shit plain!” Throughout his remaining years, sometimes after a “That did it” he would come back out of breath, and say, “Dammit Ben, you scared me to hell!”

I can’t remember if he ever got the phrase right.

As for scaring Gabriel all the time, I couldn’t help myself. It was funny to see him take off, nothing but a streak of blonde hair and feet. I guess it also felt neat to have that power over another person, even if he was only 5.

You see, in my everyday life, I was afraid of everyone and was teased and picked on by bullies half my size. But also I knew my teasing of Gabriel had no real lasting effect after he ran away screaming. Dad would yell and cuss and Gabriel would always come right back and continue what he was doing. I guess it was because it never led to any consequence. I never hit him, or threw him in a room and locked it, or tickled him until he peed himself. Gabriel wasn’t afraid of me any other second of the day, and he had no need to be. But if I said, “That did it!” that standalone phrase, that idol threat, it sent him running like he was late for a free ice cream giveaway two towns over.

Maybe it was the fact that I was 10 years older than him. Or it could have been that I was his only brother, and things like that are ingrained in DNA. If I had to guess, it might have been the fact that at 15 years old, I had been bigger than our father for about 2 years, making me the biggest person he knew.

Sometimes my intimidation served a dual purpose. For example, if I wanted to make out with or dry hump my girlfriend, a “That did it!” would free us of an audience in an instant.

My favorite “That did it!” moment happened early one Saturday morning when Gabriel was about 5 years old. I had spent the weekend over at Dad’s apartment, and was watching cartoons in the living room, when Gabriel comes walking in carefully carrying a bowl of Fruit Loops. Every step he takes has Fruit Loops rising up to the sides of the bowl, but not going over.

Gabriel is happy with himself, and proud of the job he is doing, and I’ll never forget the look on his face.

Then I thought to myself, “You know, if I said a “That did it!” right here, right now, I bet he’ll throw his bowl of cereal into the air and take off running. Sure I’ll get yelled at, and have to clean it up, but it’ll be worth it.

I know I’m a bad, bad brother. I don’t know why siblings do these things to each other, but we do.

I think to myself, if I do this, I can’t yell it. It was far too early for yelling, and I also thought I had heard my Dad walking around. But would a “That did it!” even work without the yelling? Gabriel might just look at me and say, “Shut up, asshole.” Well, he’s getting close to the coffee table, so it’s now or never. Screw it, let’s do this. It’s cereal time!

“Hey Gabe?”

“Yeah?” he replies while still concentrating on his task at hand.

“That did it.”

Gabriel freezes. He looks at me and back at the bowl. He is still a good five feet from the coffee table and he tries to move quickly while his little eyes shift back and forth from brother to bowl. Finally, he reaches the table and sits the bowl down, not spilling a drop.

“Damn, he made it. Oh well, I tried.” I thought.

That’s when Gabriel takes off!

All you could hear were the sounds of bare feet slapping on hardwood floors and his high pitched screams echoing in the hallway. Well, so much for the too early for yelling, huh?

That’s when I hear a crash and things falling, and my father yell, “God Dammit!”

I have no idea what just happened, I just know that I am afraid to move from the couch in the living room.

“Ben, I ought a beat the shit out of you!”

I’m trying not to laugh as I nervously ask, “What happened?”

“You made him run into me while I was taking a piss and he made me piss all over the fucking walls!”

I slowly walk down the hallway to the bathroom, and that’s when I find Gabriel on the floor against the open door, frozen in fear, the cup and toothbrushes knocked into the sink, and my father, all 5’ 8” of him, beet red, and angry, in only a pair of gray sweat pants cut off into shorts.

Apparently, my father was using the bathroom with the door open, when Gabriel had ran right into the back of his leg, causing him to urinate a line starting from the wall above the back of the toilet and extending over to his right and onto the tiled walls of the bathtub.

At this point I’m faking remorse, but inside, I’ve just about pissed myself, twice.

I remark, “Hey, at least you eventually made it into a drain.”

Dad’s fighting back laughter, his face now even more red, as he grabs me by my shirt, “Now, you’ll have to clean it up.”

Ten minutes later, Gabriel is eating his cereal in the living room, as Dad stands in the doorway of the bathroom, supervising my cleaning. Every time I laugh, I’m met with a smiling Dad kicking me in the ass.

As I’m applying Comet to the bathroom tiles, I think to myself, “And you thought you would only be cleaning up some Fruit Loops. Man, you didn’t see this one coming.”

You know what? It was still worth it.

One day I was watching “The Ellen DeGeneres Show”, and Ellen had featured kid inventors on her program. I specifically remember one pair of inventors. Why? Because they invented what the world has been waiting for: ‘wedgie-proof’ underwear.

With the power of Velcro, two twin 8 year old boys from Ohio were the proud inventors of the “Rip Away 1000″, and it would appear that the days of the painful embarrassing wedgie were long gone.

Now I ask this: If necessity is the mother of all invention, then just how many wedgies did these poor boys receive in their short 8 years on Earth?

I would think that the best part about the underwear is that after the bully gives you a wedgie that doesn’t work, you can still escape untouched. That’s because Mr. Knuckle Dragging Bully, who is mad at the world because he got the trifecta of no personality, no smarts and no dick, will be so distracted by playing with the Velcro you left behind that you won’t have to run for your life; you can just walk for it.

In the same principle as the Velcro distraction, I used to throw bubble wrap at the bullies in my school. And if you’ve ever disputed the fact that man is a descendant of apes, then watch a bully, or any person for that matter, with a sheet of bubble wrap. I personally can’t resist it either.

If they were passing out bubble wrap at the front door of the hospital, I’d of missed the birth of my child.

But what can we learn from ‘wedgie-proof’ underwear? The same thing we’ve learned from “Napoleon Dynamite”, the BlackBerry, the iPhone, video games, comic book movies, super hero themed shows on TV, CBS’ “The Big Bang Theory”, NBC’s “Chuck”, “Superbad”, “The World Of Warcraft”, and so on…

Geeks are taking over.

And Mr. Bully, you might want to stop breeding bullies. Well, I don’t mean stop breeding. Unless you’re an idiot, then please stop giving the world more idiots. And turn in your driver’s license.

Actually what I mean is, don’t let your kids be a bully like you were.

You see, now that geeks are “in”, we are getting laid more and more and breeding as well. One day, your kid will pick on one of our kids, and the wedgie won’t work, and they’ll try to think of something else. But no matter what the bully does, remember this: Their father might be a webmaster, or an IT guy, VP or CEO of his own company and chances are…

He knows both you and your little bully boy’s Social Security numbers.

Sleep tight.

Actually, you’re safe, because any geek knows that “with great power, comes great responsibility.”

Genitally speaking, people on the roads these days cannot drive. I know I said “genitally speaking”, and deliberately so. That’s because drivers these days drive like dicks, pussies, pricks and assholes.

And why is it that the people in traffic who have pulled too far out into an intersection, blocking traffic, or have just cut you off, always have some kind of body damage on their vehicle?

It always leaves you saying, “Well, it’s no wonder their car looks like that.”

Listen up, genital drivers of the world: If your vehicle is smashed in on the side, or you’re missing a bumper, and your car looks like something out of the post-Apocalyptic world of Mad Max, maybe you should be a more careful driver. Or at least fake it.

No thank you. You’d rather drive like you are the only person on the road. Well tell me, if you are the only person on the road, then who the hell are you honking at? How dare anybody get in the way of your next accident? Genital.

One day, I may get a wild hair up my ass and go into politics. And you better pray I never do, because my first act of business is IQ tests for drivers. But that’s not all! If you have any infractions that fall into the category of negligent or reckless driving, or an accident that is your fault, then you get a new “special” restriction.

No longer will you have restrictions listed on your license just for things like “needs to wear corrective lenses in order to operate vehicle”, now you’ll have a “special” restriction like, “Needs to wear a helmet in order to operate vehicle.”

And not a motorcycle helmet or a Nascar driver’s helmet either. Think more of a bicycle helmet. With a propeller on top.

That way, if you get a shiny new car, you can’t hide it. No matter what your car looks like, we’ll see that helmet, with the SpongeBob SquarePants stickers on it, and we’ll know to give you the right of way.

Plus, think of the helmet hair! Even when you are in Wal-Mart with 3 screaming brats buying Malt-O-Meal bag cereal by the truckload, we’ll see your helmet hair and know to give your cart wide birth.

Why would people treat you like this? People point and laugh at you. You’re a good person. Well maybe you should have paid more attention in Driver’s Ed, or better yet, you could be a really good person and take a driver safety course or get a chauffeur before you kill me and my family.

Nah, if I were a decision maker in government, I think I’d rather see you in a helmet.

Why? Because after you have been driving for years with everyone treating you like you’re “special”, it’ll drive you crazy and you’ll want to drive like a normal person so we’ll stop judging you by your helmet.

See how that works?

Genital drivers be warned, if you’re reading this, it’s time to straighten up.

Vote Kennedy in 2016!

I am thankful for my son Benjamin: He has only been around for a little under three years, and he has already taught me so much. Everything I thought I knew about life gets tested and rewritten every day. He is why I was put on this earth and he is my single greatest accomplishment.

I am thankful for my wife Kerri: All cat allergies, mood swings, and other things that piss me off aside, we have made it though a lot together in the past month, and I couldn’t have done that with anyone else.

I am thankful that I wake up every morning and that I get just one more day with my family.

I am thankful for my family back home in Maryland: I know you miss me, and believe me, I miss you too. And even though you must have felt so helpless in this past month with everything going on, you never let on, and you were there for us in every way you could be. We know it, and we are very thankful.

I am thankful for my in-laws here in South Carolina: You’ve been there for us in so many ways since our move, and of course, in the past month. We really couldn’t have done it without you.

I am thankful for Asian food: It is my one and only “comfort food”, and it can make me happy on my worst day. I love it so much I always joke that I was born on the wrong continent.

I am thankful for my job: Being a retail establishment, and with all of the talk of “the economy”, “the economy”, and “well, you know the economy…” you guys found a way to cut back my hours, piss me off, and drive me crazy. But here we are at the holidays and I still have a job, I have my hours back, and I even got a raise. You still piss me off though.

I am thankful for my friends: The move down here really shook the blanket and it’s great to see how many of you still hung on. And I’m also very thankful for the friendships that are starting to build down here.

I am thankful for the ritual of the Thanksgiving feast: It’s the one time of the year that no one minds that I have thirds… and sevenths.

I am thankful for beer: Because after a couple, I won’t be the least bit phased by jealous, obnoxious, shit-stirring 12 year olds disguised as 40-something sister-in-laws.

I am thankful for the “kid table”: You think it’s funny that I opt for the “kid table”, but I find it refreshing to have meaningful dinner conversations with such smart people.

And last, but not least, I am thankful for you, the person reading this: While it is true that most of these writings are for me, it is also true that many times I write with you in mind. I always imagine that in some way my words will make you take a look at your own life and help you learn to not take things so seriously, or to not be afraid to share your feelings. Please keep reading because I’ll keep writing.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

I wish I had the ability to levitate. Not only would it win me tons of money as a magic trick in bars, and also my game on the court would be pretty tight, but I would take my ability and go win on NBC’s “The Biggest Loser”.

And just how would levitating help me win a weight loss competition?

Well I would get on the show, eat every “temptation” they put in front of me, refuse any and all of the workouts, and then simply just levitate a little more at each weigh-in.

The producers would be baffled, America would be captivated, NBC would shit kittens over the incredible ratings, and Jillian Michaels, that trainer with a smoking body but the face of Lou Ferrigno, would probably quit!

I’d probably get an endorsement deal for my “Do Nothing Diet”, where we say, “Forget eating lighter. Just be lighter.” No one will know what it means, but they won’t care. Somebody on TV ate anything he wanted and lost weight, and now he’s telling them that they can do it too? That’s all they want to hear! I’ll be a ka-billionaire!

Then I would take all of my money, and get liposuction.

My 2 year old son Benjamin has been going to preschool for about 6 months. I remember when he first started, he didn’t always want to go so we would try and get him excited about it. We would get him excited to go by asking questions like, “Where are we driving to?” or “Where are you going tomorrow?”

To which he would always emphatically reply, “School!”

And then we would get all happy for him. Positive reinforcement at it’s finest! And his response was also really cute. Only now, it seems like whenever we ask anything of him, or any question at all for that matter, that is always his first response.

“Hey buddy! Who is that on your shirt?”

“School!”

“What are you eating?”

“School!”

He eventually arrives at the right answer, but most of the time it’s that first response that seems to serve to undermine how smart we talk him up to be.

“Just ask him yourself, he’ll tell you.” we brag to his grandparents.

So they go ahead and ask, “Benjamin, what did you eat for breakfast this morning?”

“School!”

“Did he say school?” they laugh.

Thanks buddy.

I’m sure he’ll grow out of it soon enough, but if he doesn’t, I’ve got to be prepared. And I think I found a way to put it to good use: I’ll take him back home to Baltimore, and make good on one of those, “Next time you’re in town, we should do lunch.” requests of an ex-girlfriend. Of course I’ll take Benjamin along with me on the lunch date. The three of us will have a bite to eat, and Benjamin will charm the hell out of her, and then she’ll say to me, “Wow, Benjamin is such a great kid! You’re a really good father.”

That’s when I reply with, “Yeah, it’s a good thing you saw the light and dumped me when you did. But hey, how were you to know that I would turn out to be a drug free, working class family man and “good father” as you put it, and the guy that you left me for would still be smoking pot everyday and jobless? I mean, we were kids! Isn’t that right Benjamin?”

“School!”

“That’s right Benjamin, she did just get schooled.”

Then I’ll pick him up and put him on my shoulder all Yoda and Chewbacca “Revenge of the Sith” style, and walk out of that McDonald’s feeling vindicated.

Or maybe I should just let some things go.

If I was ever so lucky to find a magic lamp, and then go through the embarrassment of rubbing it, there had better be a genie inside. Why would I be embarrassed? Think about the whole process. The “lamp” doesn’t look like something that lights your house, it looks more like a phallic teapot, and you stroke the side until a little man with a long tail pops out of the hole at the end of the spout.

It sounds kind of sexually metaphoric if you ask me: Rub the phallus until a little man with a squiggly tail pops out and you will get whatever you wish.

It also reminds me of a few dates that I had back in ’02.

And if I find that magic lamp, and there is a genie inside, he had better not pop out with stipulations. “First things first, I shall grant you three wishes! And at no point in the three wishes can you wish for unlimited wishes.”

“Really? Hmm. Well alright, I wish that I had the super abilities of any super hero character that I think about at the time. Like if I think about turning into the Incredible Hulk, I can. Or if I think I have all of the abilities of Superman, I do.”

“Done.”

“Right on! And I wish I had a million dollars.”

“Done… Wait, just a million dollars in this day and age with inflation and all? I figure that these days most people would ask for more money than that.”

“Well, I figure I can always ask for more money on my 4th wish.”

“Ah ha ha! You’ve forgotten already, I only grant three wishes!”

“Yeah, well something tells me in a few minutes, you’re going to change your mind.”

That’s when I pick up the lamp, think about Captain Planet, and fly for the recycling center.

Do you want people to obey speed limits in your neighborhood, so they won’t run over your children? Well here’s an idea: Keep your kids out of the street!

Enough with the speed humps!

They didn’t have speed humps in my neighborhoods as a kid, and neither I, nor anyone I knew got hit by a car. Well, except for Jamie, but he was kinda slow, and the car was parked. But the parents of today are trying to make the world so safe, so padded, that it’s enough to make you sick.

The kids are wearing helmets and pads to ride their bike down the street, past two of those glow-in-the-dark plastic kids with flags in their hands, past the “children at play” sign, all on a street with 4 speed humps on it.

These kids have their path so cleared out for them, that they don’t know their limits or boundaries. And it seems like the first thing that gets in their way, like a bully for example, runs the risk of getting shot by Dad’s gun or blown up with a homemade device.

They also threaten to call child protective services on their parents at the first sign of a spanking. How many of us would have even dared to call social services on our parents? Shit, my parents told me if I ever threatened it, they would dial the number for me, and then beat me with the phone. The only “time out” I ever heard was, “Time out, I’ve gotta take off my belt.”

And how many of us ever lit bottle rockets from our ass, or stapled our scrotum to our leg? These kids are living in such a padded world that they are hurting themselves for fun!

Let’s switch gears for a sec and look at an important issue about speed humps.

There’s an approximate delay of between 3 and 5 seconds per hump for fire trucks and up to 10 seconds for ambulance with patient. So you have 3 humps on your street? That’s 15-30 precious seconds that a heart attack victim, drowning victim, or your house in flames may not have. And that’s just getting down your street. Then you have to factor all of the other speed humps in your neighborhood.

But hey, when your kid recovers from his emergency, he’ll be able to play hopscotch in the middle of the street again.

Now here’s what I say: If someone is tearing ass through your residential neighborhood, chances are, they live in your neighborhood! Or maybe they’re visiting someone who lives in your neighborhood. Drive around, find that car, and let your Daisy Air Rifle do the talking.

Either they’re gonna get the hint, and stop, or they’re gonna move. And if it’s the visitors, well, they’ll stop coming by, because they can’t afford any more car windows and the hike in their insurance rates. Everyone wins!

But no, take the passive aggressive approach. Say nothing, and just add another speed hump.

And thankfully, your kids will be safe and sound, and Tasering each other in your basement for the YouTube audience.