Category: Funny Business

By Scott Adamson
Adamsonmedia.com

“Justice League,” which opened nationwide on Thursday, is first and foremost a study of justice.

And when justice is part of a league, there are bylaws and dues, as well as games against tough opponents.

This is the main plot of the major motion picture, but the men and woman who make up the organization have their own stories which you may or may not know.

Batman, of course, dresses like a bat because his parents were killed in an alley coming out the back of a theater. I think they were watching “Left Behind” starring Nicolas Cage, so they left early.

Their murderer, Joe Chill, hated the movie so much he acted out in a most unfortunate way.

This made Bruce Wayne, suddenly a rich orphan, sad and mad. So, instead of becoming an ass hat, like a lot of rich people do, he became a crime fighter. And also a bit of an ass hat, at least as played by Ben Affleck.

Wonder Woman is an Amazon, but since she’s the most powerful of her kind I would go so far as to say she is Amazon Prime. According to Wikipedia, Amazon Prime brought in $6.4 billion in earnings last year.

You go, girl!

Wonder Woman, by the way, is Gal Gadot, who you may remember from “Wonder Woman.”

Flash (played by that guy in Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them) is a very fast person who doesn’t have a lot of friends because he’s a goober. His dad (played by the big naked blue guy from “Watchman”) is in prison for killing his mother, even though “Fantastic Beasts” actor doesn’t think he did it.)

Aquaman lives in the water but, in this movie, does not ride a giant seahorse. That kinda pissed me off because I really wanted to see that.

I don’t think this role is played by an actor. Best I can tell, he really is Aquaman.

And Cyborg is a former football player who became basically just a head and some shoulders but was hooked up to a box that turned him into a machine.

Sounds a little far-fetched, but whatever.

Ray Fisher plays Cyborg. You don’t recall seeing him in “Star Wars: The Force Awakens,” because he lost out on the role that eventually went to John Boyega, who is also in “Pacific Rim: Uprising.”

I’m looking forward to that.

And finally there is Superman, who some people thought was dead at the end of “Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice,” but actually just didn’t feel good and needed some extended bed rest.

Returning for his third appearance as the Man of Steel is the guy who used to date Penny from “The Big Bang Theory.”

They must fight Steppenwolf, who had eight gold albums and 12 Billboard Hot 100 singles before turning into an absolute dick. He is played by Computer Generated Imagery, one of the busiest actors in blockbusters, and controls an army of giant mosquito-looking things (also played by CGI).

Anyway, that’s basically the spoiler-free, opinion-free review. There is plenty of dialogue and scenes involving the characters, and if you like this sort of thing, you’ll enjoy it.

If you don’t, you probably won’t. I mean, don’t go in expecting Schindler’s List because Liam Neeson is nowhere to be found, although I did see him in a trailer for an upcoming movie where he’s talking to a bad guy on the phone.

But isn’t he always?

Also, since I could not obtain image rights to stills from the film, I have provided my own original artwork which is embedded in this review.

Flatulence.

According to Merriam-Webster, the primary definition of flatulence is, “the quality or state of being flatulent.”

Frankly, that tells me nothing.

It’s like looking up petulance and seeing it defined as “the quality or state of being petul.”

The secondary definition, though, lays it all out there.

“Flatus expelled through the anus.”

Now we’re talking.

There are roughly 7.5 billion people on the planet, and the vast majority of them have anuses. And I’m going to venture a guess that every single one of them has to expel flatus several times a week.

Yes, I realize this topic makes some people uncomfortable.

It’s rarely discussed at the dinner table, unless of course the theme of dinner is gas and the main dish is 15-bean soup.

And I’ve never heard of an instance where it came up during a job interview, but I’d like to have been there if it did.

“So, Mr. Smith, I see you have a B.A. degree and several years’ experience in the field. One quick question though … where do you stand on flatulence?”

“You mean, expelling flatus through my anus?”

“Yes.”

“Personally, I’m all for it.”

“Great! I think you’ll fit in just fine here at Buttblaster Industries.”

Clearly, flatulence never finds its way into polite conversation. But really, it’s not the fault of flatus.

It’s the fault of you and me.

For starters, we’ve given it unappealing nicknames, like “farts” and “backdoor trumpets” and “butt cheek squeaks.” All are lowbrow – maybe even offensive.

They sound bad when you say them and even worse when you hear them.

Therefore, I think the first step in softening the reputation of flatulence is to give it a brighter, happier name.

My choice is “Chip.”

Once people are no longer afraid to talk about it (“Chip” is offensive to no one), then maybe we can take the next step and remove the shame.

I never admitted this to my co-workers over the years, but oftentimes I would get up from my chair and tell them I was going to step outside and “stretch my legs.”

I did this a lot during the course of the day, but I really wasn’t going outside to stretch my legs at all.

I just had to Chip, and Chip sometimes makes quite a racket.

The sounds vary, of course, from a creak to a plaintive wail to the unsettling noise sometimes associated with knocking over a filing cabinet.

For whatever reason, my Chips often have a sharp report.

One time, while standing outside the building at my last job, I unleashed a Chip that sounded very much like a firecracker. It was so loud birds nesting in nearby trees were startled and flew off in a panic. There might have even been a police report filed, although I can’t say for sure.

But if we weren’t ashamed of the noise, we wouldn’t have to lie to our friends.

It would’ve been nice if, while at work, I could’ve just jumped up, said, “I have to Chip,” and ran outside. And if anyone heard it, they could just shrug it off.

Because like I said, we all Chip.

Yet the biggest problem with Chip is that he often comes with some unwanted odor.

There are some that are mild and only slightly disagreeable, but there are others that carry the scent of week-old road kill dipped in balsamic vinaigrette. (And I’m not saying how I know this, but anyone who has consumed eggs and drank beer during the course of a day and feels a need to Chip must be quarantined, and his or her city of residence should be evacuated).

That being the case, even when we make Chip more accepted by society we have to recognize the fact that he is best released in wide-open spaces.

Because even if there comes a day when people have no qualms talking about expelling flatus through their anuses, there are limitations.

After all, if somebody Chips in an elevator, they need to have their asses kicked.

 

I have never, at any point in my life, “enjoyed” shopping.

All I’ve ever wanted to do is walk into a store, find what I need, buy it, and leave.
Today, however – after 57 years on the planet – I have reached a level of hatred for the ritual that I can’t put into words (although I’m gonna try).

Now, before I continue, I should probably clarify something.

Shopping online is fine. I have no issues with that method of commerce whatsoever. As long as I can find a mankini at a reasonable price, purchase it via PayPal and then have it delivered to my home in three to five business days, I’m cool with it.

But it’s the kind of shopping that involves interacting with other carbon-based life forms that I cannot abide.

Recently, I was tasked with buying sweatpants and vitamins, and the only place I’ve been able to find these particular vitamins is at the big box store near my house.

I won’t name it here, but you can probably figure it out.

(Here’s a hint: It’s not Target).

Every time I go into this particular store – for the purposes of this column, I’ll call it “Hellmart” – it’s jam-packed with people, many whom are barefoot and bereft of teeth.

I’m not trying to be a smart ass – there but by the grace of socks and a dental rider go I – but it just seems like “my” local Hellmart draws all the people who weren’t quite classy enough to join the cast of “Here Comes Honey Boo-Boo.”

And they tend to run in packs of three.

Just as I was entering the store, there were three mountain folk entering and three more exiting – and nary a one had been deprived of food.

Certainly, there’s nothing wrong with being plus-size. I’ve been playing tug-of-war with girth for years. However, when you’re plus-size and walking side-by-side with other plus-size people – and moving at the pace of a sloth dosed on Nyquil – that’s a problem for everyone of all shapes and sizes.

I call these people Meanderthals, because they are all over the damn aisle and completely unaware that maybe, just maybe, they’re impeding the progress of people like me who want to get the hell out of Hellmart as quickly as possible.

Fortunately, I had a game plan once I got there. I knew where the sweatpants were, found a pair in my size, then zipped over to the pharmacy and grabbed my vitamins.

In a perfect world, I could’ve gone to self-checkout and escaped with a minimum of emotional damage.

But the self-checkout line looked like a Duck Dynasty convention, and there was no way I was going to wait them out.

So … I scoped out all the checkout lines and found one that had only two customers besides me in it. Checking out first was a young woman who looked to be around 17, wearing blue jeans and a tee shirt that read, “Keep Calm and Fish.”

While she was being rung up she was talking on her cellphone and, while I don’t know who was on the other end of the call, I do know the person was “full of shit.”

Next in line was a 20-something barefoot woman with a toddler, who had a buggy with six to eight toddler-type items inside.

These items easily could’ve been scooped up and placed on the conveyer belt all at once.

Instead, Betty Barefoot was carefully picking up each one, gingerly removing it from the basket, and slowly placing it on the belt.

I was getting close to cursing out loud but I didn’t want her child to hear me because one, I love children and don’t want them to experience distress and two, this kid had gigantic ears and would’ve most certainly heard me even if I had uttered obscenities under my breath.

Finally, after eight hours or so Barefoot Betty and her elephant-eared kid were done so I was able to make my purchase and run screaming to the car.

Of course I couldn’t run unimpeded — there was a new pack of Meanderthals blocking my exit.