Alan Thicke is getting married.

So? Why? Who cares?

Actually, I don't. The news is true, but I don't care. Never liked "Growing Pains." It just reminds me of a story...

About Alan Thicke, oddly enough. A terrible story, with no real point. So I decided I'd spice it up by sharing a funny picture of Mr. Seaver. Unfortunately, according to Google, those don't exist:



Google's overabundance of irony calms my soul.

But come on. The guy cracks a joke in a press statement. "I'll be on my third honeymoon, so I'm more of an authority than I care to be," he said... in a press statement. To tell the world he's getting married. For the third time. As if anyone cares.

And no one does. But that doesn't mean I hate Thicke. Nobody should. I see no reason to. He seemed to be an alright guy, and a loving TV father to Kirk Cameron. I just have a "meh" feeling about Thicke. So why? Why do you hate him oh so much? Seriously, if anyone out there has an agenda against Thicke, please explain.

Back in 1999, the NHL All Star Game came to the Ice Palace in Tampa. My family snagged two tickets tickets to the night before's events at the arena, which includes the legends game, the celebrity game, and the skills competition. So I went to check it out. Our emcee for the night?

You guessed it: Alan Thicke.

It was really all pretty uneventful leading up to his introduction for the narration of the legends game. All the Orrs and the rest of the hockey grandfathers came out to much applause. "AND NOW..." the PA announcer exclaimed, "YOUR HOST, ALAN THICKE!"

Jesus Christ. You'd think this was a Philadelphia Eagles game and Santa Claus was on the field. 20,000 hockey fans went goddamn apeshit, throwing objects on the ice, yelling vulgar obscenities, and ringing in a chorus of boos. All because of Alan Thicke.

It was so random and unexpected. I felt like there was a secret anti-Thicke club I wasn't invited to. Maybe they had convened before the festivities kicked off and decided to bring a night of pain for Mr. Thicke in front of millions of people watching around the world. I don't know.

He ended up joining in on the celebrity game with the likes of Keifer Sutherland and - now wait for it - Cuba Gooding Jr.

Now come on. Alan Thicke? You hate him? And you applaud Cuba Gooding Jr.? I mean, I guess this was 1999 and "Snow Dogs" had not yet been unleashed on the world, but come on.

Thousands of drunk hockey fans booed and screamed with all their might every time Thicke touched the puck. I seriously felt like they'd murder this guy if they were given the chance. It was a bloodthirsty affair that haunts me to this day.

Thicke, being the classy guy he is, played it all off in style. "I love you, too," he told the crowd at one point during the night. I started to feel a hint of sympathy for him.

I'm sure some drunk, disgruntled hockey fan somewhere still remembers that night like I did, but probably for different reasons.

"Man, that Alan Thicke is a fucking shithead," he probably says to himself. "Remember that night he showed up at the All-Star Weekend?" he asks an imaginary friend. "Should have killed him then," he grunts, as he throws another dart into the cutout of Thicke's face.

The next night was the All Star game itself. Didn't have tickets to that one. But there, on TV, were the Backstreet Boys, belting out the national anthem. Maybe it was just because it was over the TV, but the crowd didn't seem nearly as riotous. Somewhere, deep down inside, that felt incredibly wrong to me. It felt like it went against everything I stood for as a human being.

So Thicke, wherever you are... you're okay by me.

Domestic violence is not a laughing matter.

... or is it?

The band "Anal Cunt" (which has got me in trouble before, as you may have read) once sang a magical tune called "Domestic Violence is Really Really Really Funny." I'm led to believe that the people over at HomeFrontCalgary.com couldn't disagree more.

Really. The first time I saw this, I thought "this has to be a joke." So I investigated.

Folks, I couldn't have been more wrong. No joke here. This is supposed to be serious. Check out their Web site.

Guess I'm going to hell for laughing. Maybe I'm alone in this category? Let me know. Either way, thanks Home Front Calgary!

The Best Domestic Violence Video Ever

Totally awesome. They should do a PSA on AIDS.

Here's a recent story that seems to fascinate people. In a moment of random necessity, we purchased a tent to put in the living room of our apartment. You see, we used to have a pretty cool foosball table, and despite the fact that we rarely used it, it looked pretty damn cool.

Unfortunately, the table moved on to greener pastures and we were left with a giant vacant spot behind our couch. It was quite the eyesore. Ideas ran through our head as to what could take its place: Sacrificial altar? Yoga mat? Trash pile? God?

Lightning struck. The Wal Mart Library just so happened to have a deluxe children's tent for a grand total of fifteen dollars. The investment was made, and if we were not satisfied with our purchase, it was our American right to return it and get our money back. You know, checking it out from the library.

At first, the possibilities were endless while the eventual purpose was a great mystery. What role would the tent play? Would it be a quiet place to read? Would we do illicit drugs in it? Would it ironically become that sacrificial altar... or God himself?

Well, the end result isn't quite that exciting. This has become, after all, the "fart tent." And here's how.

Soon after the tent was erected, a few buddies made the trip to Gainesville for a weekend of regrettable activities. The noteworthy are the usual suspects: Troy, Fraser, John, and, of course, the good old, Dr. Jarae Sacman.

"I call the tent," Sacman said a good week in advance of his arrival, much to the dismay of everyone else when they arrived in town. As soon as the others showed up, the bitching began.

"Wait," Fray said, "he's not even here in town yet, yet he's called the tent? This is bullshit. Where is he? Probably screwing some ugly girl."

Our valedictorian, it turns out, was not far from the truth. But that's neither here nor there.

Sacman eventually did show up and a night of fun was had before he passed out in his rightfully claimed tent. The next day, he was all too happy to gloat about the great sleeping accommodations within the tent.

"I love it," he said of the housing. "Seriously. I fucking love it."

Now I cannot personally vouch that the following events took place verbatim, since I was not present for them, but I will recall what I suspect happened while I lay in slumber that fateful Saturday morning.

It seemed that Sacman had made previous plans to play a tennis match Saturday afternoon against a friend after an obligatory trip to Grandy's. This left Troy, John and Fray to sit on the couch and allow the food of Grandy's to declare jihad on their aching bodies as their intestinal system tried to fight off the grease.

As they sat and watched Tivo'd episodes of "Cheap Seats," the bitching, of course, commenced. As did the farting.

"Fuck Sacman," Fray said. "He loves that fucking tent so much, he called it before he got here. What a prick. I'm gonna make that tent smell like shit."

And so a precisely constructed assembly line began on that fateful afternoon. The door to the tent was carefully sealed and Fray left enough open to get his ass cheeks in.

That's bare ass cheeks, just so you know.

And after letting it rip, Fraser quickly sealed up the tent to hold in the "freshness," so to speak.

And so this process continued for a great deal of time. And here's where I come in to find, to my amazement, what these future leaders of America, the supposed best and brightest we have to offer, have managed to conjure up on a Saturday afternoon. I awake around my usual time of 3 p.m. and venture downstairs. It's a sight to behold, so I've done my best to attempt to horribly photoshop the event that lay before my eyes.



And oh yeah, there's Fray, with his God damn pants around his ankles, tearing farts out with all his might. They sound like they're literally ripping his flesh as the hot air shoots out of his deepest depths. Red-faced, squeezing and grunting like he's giving birth, bent over and standing up. Right into my brand new tent.

And there goes John. And Troy. They take turns, farting into this tent for hours.

I can't help but wonder of all of this... how does Fray know he's not shitting himself while spreading his bare ass cheeks, squeezing the life out of himself just to get that last bit of methane into Sacman's sleeping quarters?

I imagine the wet speckles of shit spraying all over inside my brand new tent.

I picture the unexpected loss of bowel control as a fresh-squeezed turd drops onto Sacman's pillow.

Luckily for everyone involved, Fray's bare ass managed to hold in all the shit it contained. There would be no violent Grandy's dookie in my living room on this day.

That night, just like the night before, Sacman retired to his tent for an evening of peaceful slumber. It was, unbeknownst to him, already dubbed the "fart tent."

The next day, it's a big joke with everyone. "How'd that tent treat ya last night? Pretty good?"

"Oh yeah," he said with a giant grin across his face. "I love it. I fucking love it."

This one's been kept under wraps for a long time, so here's your advance, semi-exclusive look at the upcoming PS2-exclusive 24: The Game.

Preview looks pretty good. If anything, it'll probably be worth buying for the story and the atmosphere, which seems to be captured pretty well. At worst, that'll be all it'll have going for it, and if Enter the Matrix is any indication, that means it will be worth playing through, even if it disappoints.

24: The Game

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