Mohd Abdullah wearing a pair of the offending shorts

Yoga instructor, Mohd Abdullah likes short shorts, but his students aren’t so thrilled. According to Clint Andersen, sport development supervisor with the City of Kamloops, British Columbia, there have been “a series of attire-related complaints” lodged against Abdullah’s brief briefs.

He has been warned twice by officials at the Tournament Capital Centre, the city’s largest recreational center, that the shorts are too short, but Abdullah has refused to give them up, claiming the warnings are sexist.  He defends himself by saying:

“I think it is discriminating and at the same time, I think it is a double standard. Here you have women that are wearing shorts that are half my size and with, excuse my lingo, the boobs half falling [out] — and that’s acceptable.”

I think it’s possible that never having come face to uh, face with the back end of his downward dog, Abdullah over-estimates its attractiveness. Of course, he is a yoga instructor, so he maybe he has seen things from everyone else’s perspective…

In English her name is Gluttonous Baby, or possibly–according to Google Language Tools–Baby Wolverine. Wait, what? Hold on a sec.  Google’s translation has really thrown me for a loop so I’m going to have to  consult our resident Spanish Language Expert. (We have an expert for everything here at Thundersquee!) OK, our expert has weighed in on the side of  the “gluttonous baby” translation, and given that and the absence of  X-Men or giant weasels on the product’s packaging, I am going with “Gluttonous Baby.” Now that that’s settled, let’s move forward.

Glutton Baby (True translation be damned, I like the name better that way) is a new toy from the Spanish toymaker Berjuan . Much like the Baby Alive of yore (which is nightmare fodder I had forgotten about until just now. “She poops clear, mommy!” *shudder*) her mouth moves in a semi-sucking way, except, well, she breastfeeds. That’s right, your daughter (or son) can now breastfeed, just like mommy–or daddy if he really works at it.

Glutton Baby’s purpose is to introduce the concept of breastfeeding early in life, and to promote it as a natural thing to do.  The kit contains a bra type thing with flowers instead of nipples that your toddler wears to use as sort of pretend breasts, and the way things seem to work is that Glutton Baby cries when she’s hungry, so your child picks her up, and Glutton Baby’s proximity to the flower-nipple thing activates the doll’s suckling action.  (It’s hard to explain, and little odd, so here’s a video. Note the baby kind of sounds like a cat in heat.)

Now, don’t get me wrong.  I am a proponent of breastfeeding whenever possible, but do you want your toddler suckling things? In my experience, toddlers lack judgement because they are…toddlers, and that fact could lead to some strange scenarios in which you have a lot of splaining to do.  I’m far from a puritan, and the idea seems weird to me. Is it just the application of the idea that’s weird?  Am I the one who is weird? (Don’t answer that.) What do you think?

Eddie Izzard is a charitably minded man (one of the many reasons he’s been a Bale), and he enjoys setting challenges for himself to raise awareness and money for charity, but this time he may have gone too far–about 1,100 miles too far. This time Eddie came up with an idea called “Eddie Iz Running” that involves him attempting to run 1,100 miles in seven weeks for the charity Sport Relief UK. So now he’s off and will be running through England, Wales, Ireland and Scotland, carrying the flag of each respective country as he travels through it.

The problem is, he isn’t a runner, which means he is possibly insane. He only began training for this a month ago, and 1,100 miles in seven weeks requires him to run 30 miles a day–more than a marathon. Granted, the last time I ran I was being chased by dogs, so I may be jumping to conclusions. In order to avoid making any false assumptions about Eddie’s mental health,  I decided to get the opinion of our resident marathon finisher, Bedbugs and Ballyhoo (which I did), and her “virtually a professional” opinion confirms my suspicions that he is, in fact, crazy.

Ms. Ballyhoo also brought forth the whole testicular angle of this subject. It never occurred to me that running 1,000+ miles in 49 days would be hellacious torture for the old bean bag, but this is why we consult our experts. Of course, as an expert she stated things more delicately, and only said he was going to chafe and possibly end up celibate for months, but I’m assuming that’s cautious understatement, and that his two veg will drop completely off by mile 427.

Insanity aside (or possibly included), we still love Eddie, so here’s wishing him all the best.  May he fulfill his goal without frappéing his berries.

If you want to donate to support Eddie’s efforts, you can do so through the Comic Relief-Sport Relief site. If you want to track his journey he’ll be tweeting as he goes, so you can follow Eddie on Twitter. If you want to bet on what mile his fruit will fall from the tree, British bookmakers will give you odds on most anything.

During a debate yesterday on “Pay-As-You-Go” rules, Tennessee’s 7th District Congresswoman, Rep. Marsha Blackburn (R) was urging Congress to agree that PAYGO enforcement was necessary when this gem popped out of her mouth: “Let’s agree that we’re going to have PAYGO enforcement. That we’re not going to cry ‘emergency’ every time we have a Katrina…”

Maybe you can borrow Chris Brown’s “OOPS!” necklace, Marsha, because last time I checked, you represent Memphis, a city that is 65% black, and while I can say on behalf of all Tennesseans that you, Madame Congresswoman, are an idiot,  I can’t speak for the entire black population. However, I can consult our resident Angry Black Lady, and I bet she’ll agree that most black people would find this “boy who cried wolf” analogy insultingly ridiculous, if not outright demeaning.  Hell, most people would, regardless of color! But hold on, while I ask Angry Black Lady.

Angry Black Lady says, “You are no longer allowed to call yourself BLACKburn. Now please go burn in a fire.”

Yeah, I’d say you’ve pissed off Angry Black Lady, and given Cait and NFL Guy live in New Orleans, I’m betting you’re a little less welcome there now, too.

Under the guidance of her dad Mitch, Amy Winehouse is set to become the latest celebrity to launch her own perfume range. According to the Daily Star:

“Mitch is keen to license Amy’s name to a perfume house. He has been in talks with manufacturers and contacted PR firms for advice. They want it to reflect her style with a classic smoky 1950s look and smell. Amy is keen to expand her brand and wants to latch on to the celeb perfumes bandwagon while she can.”

WHAT.THE.HELL?  Come on, Mitch. Wake the fuck up.  The only “brand” Amy has right now is Marlboro Reds. Don’t you think that maybe you should work on the whole image thing a little more before you start trying to milk your cash cow? When I think of Amy right now, I don’t think of the hugely talented young woman with a quirky, kitschy retro style.  I think of a half-dressed, unwashed skank wandering the streets of Chelsea at 3AM looking for a light for her crack pipe, and that Amy doesn’t evoke associations of pleasant smells.

Work on taking Amy:

From this, back to this

We’ll thank you.  She’ll thank you, and ultimately her talents will bring you the millions of pounds you seem to care most about.

After the jump, a reminder of the talent she’s squandered.

Amy ca. 2003 on Jools Holland.

Look, Australia, we know you’ve had it rough. It can’t be easy having New Zealand hanging out in the wings, taunting you with its awe inspiring landscape, relatively mild climate, 16 species of penguins, laid back citizenry and a rugby team that has a history of stomping your asses (Tip: The name Wallabies probably doesn’t intimidate a team called the All Blacks). But seriously, you’re on the brink of causing an all out “We Love Our Penguins More” war.

Yes, yes, we know the Kiwis don’t fight fair.  You started knitting tiny sweaters for your little Fairy Penguins (I swear that’s their actual name, but I don’t know if they’re really magic or not), and New Zealand smacked you upside the head by training theirs to compete in an Olympic Penguathalon. But, now–now you’re upping the ante too much.  No good can come of setting up snipers to protect your penguins.  Have you considered that if dingos are eating your baby penguins, then maybe you could try less drastic measures first, like, oh, let’s see…scaring them away? Trying to protect your penguins is an admirable gesture, but how is New Zealand going to respond?  Given their overzealous response to your sweater knitting, our guess would be by training their penguins in the use of nuclear weaponry, and when that day comes, when the penguins have nuclear capabilities, we are all done for. So please, Australia, reconsider, and remember, you’ll always have koalas.

Madoff attempts to answer the question "How much do you suck?" before realizing he doesn't have the arms for it.

He’s going to prison, the big house, the pokey, the pen, the can, jail, up the river, the hoosegow! Applause broke out in the crowded Manhattan courtroom after U.S. District Judge Denny Chin issued the maximum sentence to Bernard Madoff, thief of billions and fleecer of masses.  Madoff was sentenced to 150 years in prison today after pleading guilty in March to securities fraud, mail fraud, wire fraud, investment adviser fraud, three counts of money laundering, false statements, perjury, false filings with the SEC and theft from an employee benefit plan–the  haul from which totaled an estimated $65 billion dollars and harmed or destroyed the lives of at least 8,000 people (there are an estimated additional 1,300 victims who have yet to be identified).

For those thinking this seems like a harsh penalty for a white collar crime, consider this.  That’s a mere 1 year per each $433,333,333 stolen and 53.33 people swindled. Furthermore,  at least 2 suicides and one fatal heart attack have been attributed to his acts.  The widow of the man who died of a heart attack wrote the judge, asking for a fitting sentence.  That letter exemplifies the type of man Madoff is.

It told the story of a Madoff investor who had died of a heart attack. Madoff, presumably at the man’s funeral, put his arm around the the widow and said, “Your money is safe.” The widow then gave Madoff more money, all of which is gone.

She was not alone in writing the judge to ask for a stiff sentence; many of his 8,000 victims wanted to testify against him during the pre-sentencing hearing, but they had to select a handful. Tellingly, absolutely no one–not friends nor family–spoke on his behalf or asked for leniency. The only person to ask for leniency was his lawyer, who asked for a laughable 12 year sentence.

When issuing the sentence, Judge Chin stated:

“Here the message must be sent that Mr. Madoff’s crimes were extraordinarily evil and that this kind of manipulation of the system is not just a bloodless crime that takes place on paper, but one instead that takes a staggering toll.”

Madoff and his wife have been forced to forfeit $171 billion in assets, and hopefully some of his victims will see repayment.

Is there anything left that doesn’t want to feast on the facial flesh of our children?  Last night I was working away on a dog-proof suit when an IM containing a link came my way.  Imagine my surprise when I clicked the link and found that computers want to eat babies, too.  I wanted to read the entire article, but my neighbor has small children and I was concerned the danger would leak out of my computer and tear their faces off before I could stop it.  Then I remembered that they have a Miniature Pinscher which means their kids probably don’t have faces anyway, so I kept on reading.

According to BBC News, “Home computer-related injuries have increased more than sevenfold, with children hurt most often.”  If you’re like me, you’re probably wondering what kind of parent allows their toddler to type so long they develop Carpal Tunnel Syndrome, but the computer injuries to which they refer are far more sinister than Repetitive Stress Injuries and reveal the spiteful nature of  these seemingly benign machines.

These injuries involve cables tripping children, monitors bashing them on the head, and in one particularly heartless and cruel instance, bursting into flames and burning an innocent 6 year-old child who was merely trying to give the family computer a drink of water.  In all, 78,000 children have been attacked by computers in the last 13 years.  In the U.S.–alone.  I believe I’ve mentioned before that statistics scare me.

I read further to assuage my fears–hoping an expert could tell me how to save the children. But their experts, Dr. Self-Serving and Captain Obvious only told me that “further research is needed” and “the number of accidents have increased as the number of people who own computers increased,” respectively.  So, having come away from all of this with no real assurance that the machines won’t rise up and bite the heads off all babies, I decided to calm myself a bit then compose a list of helpful hints for you, dear Squeers!.

Thundersquee!’s Guide to Ensuring Your Child is Not Killed by a Computer

• Do not drop your computer on your child’s head.
• Do not drop your monitor on your child’s head.
• In fact, as a general rule, avoid dropping things on your child’s head, regardless of whether or not they are computer related.
• Do not lay cords across your child’s path then coax him to run to you (especially if there is a dog after him).
• Computers contain no edible parts.
• A 3 year-old cannot repair a power supply unit with a butter knife.
• Never run down a flight of steps with your pants around your ankles while carrying your baby and a 24″ monitor.
• Do not allow your child to hone his Spidey skills using cables hanging from your desk.
• Electrical cords are not teething aids.
• A computer is not a tub toy.

I hope this helps, otherwise I’m afraid all hope is lost.  I also hope dogs never learn to use computers, because if they do we’re doomed.  Thoroughly, thoroughly doomed.

We normally don’t post on weekends, but yesterday was the 25th anniversary of the release of Tetris and I couldn’t let a friend’s birthday go by without recognition, especially one with whom I’ve been friends since they were born.

I’ve spent a significant portion of the last 25 years creating rows out of falling tetrominoes–so much so that at times I’ve seen the damn things falling as I drifted off to sleep, yet I’ve never grown sick of the game.   I still play it to this day. Granted the fervor with which I play is nowhere near what it was 25 years ago, but I have it on all my gadgets, so it pretty much goes with me wherever I go.

This would feel like a rather geeky admission if it weren’t for the fact that it has become so deeply ingrained in our pop culture.  Its theme music has been played by orchestras the world over, there have been human based replications, Tetris apartments, Tetris jewelry, and there’s more Tetris themed art than you can shake several sticks at. There’s even been psychological studies to determine why people dream of those infernal blocks falling as they fall asleep.

There’s no doubt that Tetris has touched a lot of lives and wasted a lot of hours, but it’s also sparked a lot of creativity and been a lot of fun. So happy birthday, old friend, and thanks, Alexey Pajitnov and everyone else who ever ported the game to a new platform and kept the game alive and going strong.

McG earning extra douche point for his facial hair

Director Joseph McGinty Nichol, or as he refers to himself, McG, is a notoriously stressful director to work for.  After all, our own Mr. Squee lost his shit on the set Terminator Salvation over something the director should have taken care of long before it got to melting point for President Bale.  He’s also  hated by fanboys and well, most people in the industry, in general.  He knows what the general opinion of him is.

“It’s partly the name,” says McG, relaxing on a sofa in the offices of his production company Wonderland Sound & Vision. “I mean what kind of asshole goes around calling himself McG? It’s real fun to hate that guy.”

Of course, it never would occur to a guy who calls himself McG that if he is ill-received, in part, because he has a dooshy nickname, that maybe he should call himself something else, like, oooh, I don’t know, “Joseph Nichol”? Of course, that removes your excuse, but that’s another article all together.

Let's show this prehistoric doosh how we do things downtown

He seems to be trying to keep his doosh rep alive and well, and now he’s pissed off Dr. Peter Venkman–pissed him off badly.  I mean, so badly that Murray planted his head into McG’s smug mug. Realistically, people should be shaming Bill Murray, but you know you’re an asshat when the world applauds your public nutting.  Murray declined comment, but McG had this to say:

McG declines to comment any further than he already has, but points out that movie sound stages can be stressful places where creative battles sometimes become heated. Particularly, it seems, on his sound-stages. “I’m reintroducing the fist-fight to movie sets,” he smiles. “I don’t think there’s been a film I’ve made where there hasn’t been some kind of physical fight. I mean, I’ve been headbutted by an A-list star. Square in the head. An inch later and my nose would have been obliterated.” Will he be revealing any names? “Nah, I probably shouldn’t,” he smiles. “But it was Bill Murray. Y’know, it’s a passionate industry.”

In other words, he had nothing left to say except, “It was Bill Murray!”  Go, go McG.  You’ve done so much to repair your public image.