Mean-Spirited: MrPrime259

June 7, 2012 § Leave a comment


“We Know Nothing About Making Cookies”

No strangers to cheap content hereabouts, Kaylen and Dom sit down to watch and thoroughly put down the following, the latest YouTube video from MrPrime259. To provide a healthy dab of context: Mr. Prime makes hand-held videos wherein he “reviews” Transformers figures, transforming them and then un-transforming them, only removing the figures from the package if he has two in his possession. Interested in Transformers lore? The mythos of Megatron? The cultural movement surrounding the Hasbro monoliths?

Tough shit.

Once again, thanks to Friend of DMD Phil Nelson, who was originally searching for vintage cassette tape sounds and instead came upon Mr. Prime un-transforming that one Transformer who turns into a cassette tape. Whatever his fucking name is. Spooly or something.

By the way, as of this conversation, Kaylen is making cookies.

Kaylen: COOKIES.

Dom: Heeyyyyy.
So, maybe we should just watch his latest video?
One thing I hope happens: he drops the toy he’s talking about.
He always drops it.
Because of his big sausage fingers.
And he’s ALWAYS sniffling. Like he has a perma-cold. Or terrible allergies.

Kaylen: I thought his sniffs were scholarly. Dissertation-like sniffs.

Dom: He calls his knife “trusty-dusty.”

Kaylen: …why does he own that knife?
It frightens me that he has that knife.

Dom: Ten to one odds he’s an Eagle Scout.

Kaylen: You could butterfly an elephant with that knife.
That knife is JUST for opening packages to Canada.

Dom: Yikes…I mean, I suppose those Transformers packages ARE rough to get through.

Did he just say “Justin Beaver”?

He did! He said it again!
So, this video raises more questions than not:
1. The knife?
2. Why does MightMouse7 have such an attachment to Justin Beaver?

Kaylen: I like how he opens this box like he’s on a chlidren’s show.

Dom: “Canadian post just dropped this off… eh”
Mr. Prime is a liaison to the many cultures of the world.

Kaylen: Why is he giving the Canadian an Alabama accent?

Dom: I wonder if all of Mr. Prime’s long-distance friends are 12 and younger. Hehe: “That’s just one of the things, you know, I’m thinking of keeping a trend on.”

Kaylen: I HAD HIM SIGN ALL OF THEM…with a nonsense online log-in name.

Dom: I could SO EASILY forge MightMouse’s signature.

Kaylen: I bet that fucking made MightMouse’s year, signing all those. And he wrote a personal letter. Fuck. MightMouse actually writes, in pen, “LMAO!”

Dom: Why didn’t he just sign “Ron” on the packages?

Kaylen: Would you want this guy to know your real name?

Dom: Well, he does know his real name, it’s Ron.

Kaylen: Though I am weighing which of these guys is potentially creepier. Like MightMouse is an unknown. He could very well be signing them with his dicktip dipped in ink.

Dom: …and meanwhile he’s using his tiny hands to flip through his Justin Bieber stickers.

Kaylen: His opossum paws.
Creepy lil opossum hands.

Dom: MightMouse is hanging from a tree by his wiener.
Writing love letters to Mr. Prime.

Kaylen: On which note, the camera is so close to the box/toys, it’s actually hard to see anything. Like those penis-mounted porn cams.
…Mr. Clifford is an even worse name for transformers than “Star Scream.”
Or “Jazz.”
Actually nevermind, all Transformers have just retarded names.

Dom: But I think “Clifford” is Mr. Prime’s name for CliffJumper. Which he calls both “Mr. Clifford” and “the Jumpster.”

Kaylen: Right.

Dom: Sorry, I wasn’t sure if that was made clear.

Kaylen: Ew, when his chubby finger penetrates the box, pushes the button at the end. There is so much about this that is like really low budget porn. And the bookends of “yet another un-boxing” don’t help that.

Dom: Get your head out of the gutter.

Kaylen: He has a real urgency to be on buddy terms with just about everything.

How much you wanna bet Mr. Prime’s actually

Dom: Truly a Renaissance man.

His big fat fucking fingers just consuming the camera.

I would really like to see the room where he displays all his Transformers
If they’re just standing there or if he has them set up in elaborate battles…

Kaylen: …/tea parties
“One lump or two, Mr. Clifford?”
He acts out Downton Abbey.

Dom: So, Costco has exclusive Transformer toys?

Kaylen: By “exclusive” they mean “we have flats and flats of them.”

Dom: And he still continues to mispronounce Ron’s stupid YouTube handle even up to the end of the video.

On the humbler side, he gets about as many views as we do daily page hits.
Oh, but that’s over two weeks.
I feel better now.

Kaylen: “Now all you guys might think it’s weird but…” and what follows could be anything about this really.

Dom: Apparently he has enough of a following that folks just send him toys in the mail.
Maybe they all work at Toys R Us?
Is it possible to type out a backwards “R”?

Kaylen: Ugh, that chipmunky giggle he issues after pressing the Transformer button, I can’t get it out of my head…
With his mammoth, unbaked bread dough fingers.

Dom: Let’s make fun of his fingers some more.

Kaylen: There’s a striking resemblance between his fingers and fat Tom Hanks by the way.

Dom: When was Tom Hanks fat?
Like in the DaVinci Code?
All I remember is that mulletty hair of his.

Kaylen: Check it.

Dom: Yup! That’s the hair. His urbane intellectual hair.

Kaylen: News flash: fat Tom Hanks was really just a face drawn on Mr. Prime’s finger.

Dom: And Colin Hanks is his penis?

Kaylen: OMG giggle.

Dom: That is a nice sweaty and bloated Hanks picture.
Hanx and His Hunks.
A.k.a. Mr. Prime’s fist.

Kaylen: Who’s someone that’s gotten really skinny in unnatural ways recently…maybe we could make some portrait of Dorian Gray joke.

Dom: Hmmmmm…


Dom: Whoa.
Holy whoa.
Hanx! He looks like John Candy!

Kaylen: Which one do you suppose is Ron…?

Dom: The guy in the middle.
Just totally overwhelmed.

Kaylen: Mr. Prime finger lookalikes:

Dom: I’m sad he didn’t take any of those toys out of the packaging. Watching those fingers fumble with the tiny thingamajigs and whatchamacallits woulda been classic.



Post-script: Kaylen’s cookies were terrible. That is not a euphemism.

There’s No “I” In Meme — 4/29/12

April 29, 2012 § Leave a comment

Last night, based on an idea Phil pitched me while we were drinking at Dig A Pony (which, apparently, is where all attractive bartenders go to listen to the Black Keys while racking up tips), Phil and I walked across the Burnside Bridge to get this picture. It felt like a mildly prescient and vaguely symbolic experience. And this is only the first of what could be so many. I mean, obviously.

Joey Greco Looks Like… 4th Edition

April 12, 2012 § Leave a comment

(With special thanks, yet again, from Phil Nelson.)

…Michael Douglas, famous ornithologist, secretly lactose intolerant.

…white Montel Williams.

…white Yoko Ono.

…Kevin Costner’s side bitch.

…whomever Mariah Carey’s talking to in “Obsessed.”

…Cirque du Soleil Moon Frye.

…Gucci Mane’s publicist/hairdresser.

…the Phantom of Steve’s Basement (where $1 gets you unlimited PBRs and a night’s worth of local, underage bands).

…PBR tastes.

…Skrillex’s canker sore, which isn’t responding to medication.

…Harry Potter in tube socks and a worn-out cardigan at the end of the series addressing his son with his son’s full name, and then explaining what the kid’s name means, even though the kid undoubtedly knows his own fucking name and where it came from.

…Crispin Glover’s mom.

…both his favorite band and favorite liqueur are called “Puddle of Mudd.”

…his dry cleaner fucking hates him.

…his chin really misses that soul patch.

…how Hoobastank sounds.

…Encyclopedia Mauve.

…he can only cum if he’s choking you…with your household cat’s entrails.

…a forehead doing an impression of a real human man.

…a real human man doing an impression of a forehead.

…Invisalign: Before.

…he pronounces it “soo-doo-koh.”

…a box turtle working nights as a Tom Hanks impersonator. Whatever pays the bills, right? Hollywood’s rough.

…he’d be an OK guy to spend time with if he would just shut the fuck up about his kids for a minute.

…Miss Piggy’s understudy.

…an incomplete crossword puzzle.

…he’s explaining, “…so I posed as an underage frog on Craigslist and invited him to my house. My parents were out of town.”

…he wears the bathing suit pictured below in the gym showers.

Yep, that's John Mayer. We're not surprised either.

…he takes dating tips from John Mayer.

…erotica makes him cry.

…a colonoscopy addict (his friends tell him “everything in moderation,” and he just scoffs, all the while bleeding from his anus).

…he says “acrosst” and looks at you funny when you point that out.

…the inventor and only owner of the “Dick-hole Bidet.”

There’s No “I” In “Meme — 4/11/12

April 11, 2012 § Leave a comment

Thanks again to Phil Nelson, who actually takes some pretty wonderful Instagram photos, though they’re mostly of his guitars and feet…rarely together. Find him at philnelsonphilnelson.

Ya feel me? Holla.

There’s No “I” In “Meme”

March 1, 2012 § Leave a comment

Hey folks, Dom here.

Due to the unparalleled success of Josh Rivers’s “571-MEME” memes***, we are now officially encouraging all Dear Matt Damon readers to submit their meme ideas for a (we hope) weekly segment in which we advertise our favorite(s).

Our first is from Phil Nelson. It requires a quick bit of backstory; its picture was taken of my bowl of phở only moments after I gave up. It, in one glancing blow, illustrates:

  1. My utter lack of skill with chopsticks;
  2. Why people absolutely hate to watch me eat;
  3. That I have the motor skills of a fingerless infant;
  4. That, as Kaylen later pointed out after viewing the noodle genocide that was my lunch (after a well-placed “just, wow. so fucking embarrassing”), the chopstick is a miracle in itself: “I was actually just having a conversation about the mind that would look at the chopstick and see no room for innovation/improvement…”;
  5. Oversized spoons are HILARIOUS; and
  6. Soup is just like a different kind of spaghetti, so there’s no doubt I’ll spill it everywhere.


So true.

***Quick Josh Rivers story: When Phil and I first met him, he gave us his phone number, which was 571-JOSH. He was mighty proud. So for about the first seven months of our friendship with Josh Rivers, we simply called him “571.” Behind his back. Or not. Not that it mattered; he was calling us “dad” after all, so there were varying degrees of unnerving shame always at play.


December 28, 2011 § Leave a comment

This brand new feature here at Dear Matt Damon is named after a Portland rental chain which, upon my first night in the city with roommate Phil Nelson, nearly denied us membership. All we wanted was to finally watch Harold and Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay in the comfort of our barely furnished hovel! Yet the store’s reasoning was along the lines of, since we had out-of-state IDs, preventing the willy-nilly granting of memberships to one-time customers. Oh, Portland and your transients; so many hobos waltzing through town for one night to rent shitty movies from an otherwise characterless local chain.

Of course, when we were clever enough to convince the clerk to give us an application and the DVD, we never returned to the store again. Out of spite.

Thus, to further sustain my bitterness, I have wholesale stolen the store’s name for my own use.


Between Bud Lite commercials starring Pitbull (who looks like a giant hip replacement…like the actual device installed in a geriatric person’s pelvis to ensure a few more years of mobility, only three times larger and painted orange) where he transforms regular ladies into pretty, dancing ladies, and the endless, vomitous stream of Geico gecko discharge, I found this commercial on Hulu.

It asks a very important question.

Seriously: what about feces??

This lady is so obviously comfortable with talking to the nation about cat shit, I wonder what else she should sponsor. Adult diapers? (“Pee is easy to wipe from your dad’s leg…but what about feces?”) Fertilizer? (“Everyone knows sunshine helps plants grow…but what about feces?”) Cinema etiquette? (“It’s common to sometimes squeal out in terror during a scary movie…but what about feces??”)

Like Caitlyn, who has probably seen this commercial as many times as I have, said: Let’s just be thankful we can finally talk about poop freely in this era of so much conservative backlash.

I’d also be remiss, given our current topic, to not share a rap Phil and our friend Joseph Campbell wrote:

Poopy doopy
Drip drip droopy
I get it on my hands while i’m feelin’ on your booty
P.U., little cutie, your dookie’s smellin’ spooky

I tried to think of a pun to follow that, and all I could come up with was “Walt Shitman.” Enh.


A meme I’ve fallen in love with, introduced to me by Josh Rivers mind you, involves the wonderful ubiquity of the Street Fighter Guile theme. Best you Google it (try: “Guile theme fits everything”) and then witness what Phil helped me make here as he gave me a crash course in iMovie.

The video’s description summarily describes the quality of our creation.



To cap off this first installment of Vide-o-Rama, below find two new gems from the slowly burgeoning Portland blog-thing called Milktone. Both are bumper videos or advertisements or…something, but as the art collective grows and figures out what it is exactly, we can probably expect more frightening YouTube clips to surface.

“Michelle Tanner encourages her family to claim the ever-elusive ‘it,’ but ignores using gender appropriate nicknames.”

“Breckin Meyer’s ponytail.


Sigh. PLUG:

Josh Rivers Plays World of Warcraft While I Do Something Else — 9/16/2011

September 17, 2011 § Leave a comment

In February I moved into a new apartment and therefore away from the apartment that characterized me as Josh Rivers’ next door neighbor. Which meant no longer would Josh be able to come over to simply be in the same room as me while I did something else and he played World of Warcraft hopelessly trying to get my attention.

I attribute this to his inevitably canceling his World of Warcraft account.

I see him a lot less living across the river, so its much harder to get an idea of his daily routine, at least compared to how often he showed me it when we cohabited a little corner of our apartment complex. And then yesterday he sent me this video, and it felt like a pretty clean synopsis of what he’d been up to since I left.

As he explains: “Originally recorded in 2010, I was super stoked on some new gear that I had got. I was flying on cloud 9 and the world was my oyster.

“If you are actually looking for a tutorial on the MPC and MIDI, this is misinformation and just confusing. Everything I say is either wrong or in reverse. Besides making completely inaccurate statements and not demonstrating any proficiency with electronic music whatsoever, I pretty much am just talking to myself and acting like king shit of knowledge mountain.”

Methinks the actual king of Knowledge Mountain would keep King Shit in the underground dungeons. I also wouldn’t let Josh anywhere near the cockpit of Cloud 9.

Anyway, though he made it long before I left, he’d only unearthed it now, and to me that was a sign.

I’m sharing this because I find it really funny how confident he is, how serious even when he’s so tired and wasted and wrong about everything—how he’s clearly the worst MPC teacher that’s ever existed. I don’t know if I’d call him the world’s worst teacher… but I wouldn’t let him near my kids’ brains anytime soon, I’ll say that.

“Four minutes of awkward silence. Literally I was about to cry on stage.” It’s true, it was awkward, I was there, but what’s better is how he describes that awkwardness, lamenting his lack of jokes. To this day I have yet to hear him come up with any jokes—you know, just in case—let alone hear him tell one.

And yet, neither “That Rescue Rangers” nor the dragging middle section (where he’s playing a catchy ditty and bopping in his chair and you quickly realize very little planning went into this thing) nor the suddenly bitter end defending the legitimacy of the MPC as an engaging live instrument, none of these moments compare to 4:46 in when in the upper-left corner of the screen Josh’s mouth appears, he tilts his chin toward the camera, and he gives a slight-half grin. It’s like a pony pleased with its performance. “Everybody fucks up,” he says seconds before—but the grin brags otherwise.

What’s my second favorite part is probably when he asks the viewer if he or she likes the sizzling drum noise he’s making. It’s so oddly ignorant of context and devoid of interest in the other side of the exchange it reminds me of the lyrics in “Echo” when R. Kelly tells his marathon sex partner, “I left your next clue by the sink. It should be a box with your name, open it up, see what’s inside, whatever it is, put it on.”

It should be? Whatever it is? R.’s not making a convincing argument for the lucidity of his plan, especially if he’s gonna spend 24 hours plowing you. “Whatever my assistant picked out, I’m sure it’s fine.” And then briefly he acknowledges the need to rest, telling whoever he just banged to get up, get a sandwich, clean your face, replenish those electrolytes, there’s some Gatorade in the mini-fridge, or maybe it’s Vitamin Water, he doesn’t know he doesn’t stock it, get a stretch in, take a shit, whatever, and then come back for continued hitting of it. I imagine him, the whole time, laying naked and motionless on the bed, not necessitating such baseness as “food” or “water,” instead just a joyless humanoid shell with a pneumatic cock gone into dormant mode while the other person in the song falls half asleep on the toilet.

Below is the song that eventually came from what Josh was playing with in the video above (guest vocals by Phil Nelson), probably available for download somewhere. I dunno. It’s got some samples from The Fountain, so yeah, I can’t help but dig it.

I’ve also caved and finally written about music on Dear Matt Damon. I’m such a softie.


Filler: Baby Legs; 24; Prison Slang

February 28, 2011 § Leave a comment

In yet another example of finding at least one minute worth enduring in Seth MacFarlane’s cavalcade of otherwise mean-spirited cartoons, the most recently aired episode of American Dad!, entitled “You Debt Your Life,” included one segment that won me over based solely (Pun! Get it??) on main character Stan Smith growing comically disproportionate gams.

Since 20th Century Fox hates your fucking guts, go to this link, suffer through that Adrien Brody abomination, and then if you haven’t slit your wrists yet, skip to 19 minutes in:

Hee hee. Wheelbarrow Tim.

Does this remind you of John Travolta too?

What’s consistently funnier is how popular MacFarlane’s ubiquitous, uber-liberal humor has become in direct proportion to the amount of guff Ricky Gervais got for the Golden Globes, effectively neutering any chance for a laugh at last night’s Oscars.

Let me know when Anne Hathaway’s and Mark Ruffalo’s teeth try to eat each other and then I’ll tune in and try to give a flying fuck about Aaron Sorkin’s kid’s guinea pig or whatever it was he rehearsed in front of his mirror so that it seemed like he had genuine emotion behind all that Oompa-Loompa foundation.


Got through the third season of 24, in which yet again Jack Bauer’s mettle is tested over exactly 24 hours. This time he was struggling with a heroin addiction acquired during some undercover work, an addiction given up during the 24 hours but seemingly bearing withdrawal symptoms not much worse than a cold sweat and heavy sighing. Just like the season before, in which Jack literally died for a few minutes and then struggled through the last hours of his day with his heart begging to stop, the whole season basically went like this:

Jack Bauer: There’s no time!!

Jack Bauer’s Pencil-pushing Superior Who Will Probably End Up Dead: There’s always time for the law, Jack.

Jack Bauer: [heavy sigh] Can’t we deal with this later?

Jack Bauer’s Pencil-pushing Superior Who Will Probably End Up Dead: Will you be capable of dealing with this later, Jack?

Jack Bauer: You have no idea what I’m capable of.

It’s true; they don’t. So even though Jack will without reluctance murder anyone, will save the United States while going through heroin withdrawal, will endure horrific torture and then beat up a room full of armed guards, while naked, and will hack off his daughter’s boyfriend’s hand with a fireman’s axe, his capability and judgment are still called into question at almost every turn.

Moral of the story is that Jack Bauer is capable of anything. This he proves hourly. Need a baby skinned alive and the skin delivered to al-Qaeda? Jack Bauer will be halfway to Afghanistan with a bloody sack of infant dermis in his lap before anyone even thinks to ask him. Dude’s life is like a Saw movie written by Glenn Beck.

Though 24 popularly posited throughout pretty much all of George W. Bush’s presidency that the American public can have no idea what it takes to daily decide the fate of the world’s foremost democratic superpower, I’m starting to sense something a tad more subversive under its patriotic shell.

What kind of man is Jack Bauer after all? Do we want a man capable of anything steering the course of our country? When Tony Almeida, head of the CTU (Counter-Terrorist Unit) is imprisoned at the end of the season for secretly negotiating with the main bad guy in order to save his wife from execution, nothing is questioned: Tony will go to jail for treason even though all he wanted was to save his wife. The same non-question is posed to Jack: would he betray his country to save his daughter? The answer, the government insists, is obviously “yes,” but I’m not sure what Jack Bauer would do, and looking ahead to future seasons it seems like the government will continue to question what Jack is capable of as he slips ever further into the sociopathic void, deciding whether to lose his humanity altogether or continue suffering for a country that takes his humanity for granted.


Best friend and petty criminal Phil Nelson stole a copy of a book called Prison Slang from his college library. Written by William K. Bentley and James M. Corbett and published in 1992, the book attempts to lay out a dictionary of prison terms to better help the reader, who they presume has never been incarcerated, “see into a way of life not normally seen by ‘outsiders.'” Questionable diction aside, Prison Slang goes pretty far to encapsulate every semantic facet of “that life”…sometimes to the point of mistaking general slang for those words and phrases originating in prison. Pretty sure “Johnson”—which means “penis” i case you were unsure—wasn’t popularized by inmates.

Anyway, the book is packed to the rim (pun?) with anecdotal hilarity, but especially when the authors can’t help but inject some subjectivity into their definitions.

Tat Man also Tat Artist — Someone who applies tattoos on people. Tattooing is a delicate art.

Brown Trout also Slingin’ Trout — Throwing body waste on the guards passing the cells. The excrement is referred to as brown trout. The actual throwing of the feces is called slingin’ trout. Usually, slingin’ trout occurs during times of unrest or isolated incidents involving one or two inmates. It is not a frequent occurrence.

And sometimes that subjectivity translates as advice.

Keyster — Literally, keyster refers to a person’s buttocks. This is the name given to smuggling or placing something in a person’s anus. To smuggle drugs in one’s anus would be to keyster them. Weapons and other things can also be hidden in a person’s anus.

In other cases, the authors come off like your best friend in third grade trying to explain homosexuality to you and saying it’s when two Dads hold hands.

Nut on Someone — To verbally abuse, intimidate, physically challenge or attack a person.

Poop Butt — A distrusted or disreputable person.

Someone better tell Ashton Kutcher…

Punk — …Punk is also used as a verb. To punk someone is to sexually penetrate him.

Sometimes the authors offer contextual, explanatory sentences for terms that require none.

Hershey Highway — The anus. “Bob took a ride on the hershey highway.”

Smoke One — Smoking a marijuana cigarette. “Hey, let’s go smoke one.”

Packin’ Mud — An expression for anal intercourse. “Phil has been packin’ mud all weekend.”

And then there are just pages and pages of seemingly made-up euphemisms for the genitals. There’s a simple kind of joy derived from seeing “The vagina,” “The penis,” and “The anus” repeated over and over down the written page.

Bone Phone — The penis.

Hinie Hideout — The anus.

Monkey — The vagina.

The Safe — The anus

The Tomb — The anus.

…and my favorite…

Trouser Trout — The penis. “How about some trouser trout smothered in shorts?”

Apparently anything can be classified as a sexual act, too, as long as it rhymes.

Put Some Slobber on the Knobber — The act of oral sex.

Just try and guess what a Semen Demon is.

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