You can't sweat out . . .

Archive for February, 2009|Monthly archive page

I want to ride on a garbage truck like it’s my job

In Winner Winner Chicken Dinner! on February 25, 2009 at 11:47 pm

Last night was an apartment cooling for the ages.

I’ve been to plenty of housewarming parties- people move, people party.  Everyone wants to show off their new apartment after spending a day or two enduring the dreaded moving and setting up process.  This was my first housecooling, on the other hand, an event that lets your friends see the way the apartment looked before you made it oh so homey.  (Sidenote- I thought I just invented the term housecooling, but a quick search of the word on google turned it up in the infamous and spectacular urban dictionary.  Bollocks.)

In the wonderfully clean, freshly spackled apartment, we sat on the floor drinking beers as a lovely couple I happen to know celebrated the end to a year in Manhattan.  At the end of the night they would head to their new home in a fantastic land where a tree grows and the Dodgers once reigned supreme.  But first, one last batch of good times was to be had by all.

Anyway, it started with somewhat awkward small talk before progressing to a five man Either/Or game involving a former German exchange student who went from Munich to Iowa to New York before coming into my life like a brilliant shooting star and posing one of my favorite Either/Or questions to date.  After we explained the rules, der mann came out with the instant classic “garbage man or janitor.”  The first three respondants were mixed, but for me the answer has always been, and always will be, garbage man.

Fact: My first dream job was being a garbage man

Fact: I suggested we name our new puppy Garbage Man

Fact: I was about three years old during the above incidents, but I will always remember how badass the garbage man looked to me, standing on the outside of the truck as he rode to his next pickup

Fact: Sometimes it’s okay to fall short of your dreams

The amiable German, on the other hand, answered janitor, rationalizing that janitors “get to hang out in high schools.”  To which I lost it laughing.  While I appreciated that spin on the question, hanging out with high school girls has never really been that much fun.  I mean, Zack Morris clearly proved that when he and the gang went to talk to cool college girls at The Attic.  And you really don’t get to ride anything cool like if you’re a garbage man, so I gladly took a swig for being in opposition of the originator.

Around this time, three pizzas arrived and for the first time in my life, I was made to feel guilty by a pizza box.  Instead of a jolly Italian man tossing a pizza or the name of a restaurant, the top of each box was an advertisement for the Ab Rocket.  I did not realize when you order one topping, you get guilt on top at no extra charge.  The Ab Rocket, by the way, is only rated 2.5 out of 5 stars and the first customer comment on the review is Don’t Buy This Product.  I don’t know what’s more sad, the fact that the marketers of the Ab Rocket thought pizza boxes would be a profitable venture or that 25 people actually bought one for almost a hundred bucks and then reviewed it.

As Fat Tuesday ended, so did the party, and gathering up every last bit of trash, the apartment was left for a final time.  I’m guessing it will host its next party, a housewarming, in a couple weeks.  It will undoubtedly be a lamer, though perhaps slightly more comfortable, affair.


I’m not sure I follow your logic, Pablo Torre

In The Sporting Life on February 22, 2009 at 11:03 pm

The Kid is a Mariner again, and I couldn’t be happier.  I love a story with a good ending, and a player like Ken Griffey, Jr. re-signing with the team he broke into the majors with fits the bill perfectly.  During my adolescence I distinctly remember drawing (quite poorly) only two major league baseball players:  Griffey and Cal Ripken, Jr. (apparently I had a thing for Juniors playing the American League).   While neither played for my beloved Red Sox, they were two players I idolized.  Having never missed a game due to injury or sickness during my entire Little League career, I had a profound understanding of what it meant to play through pain year after year like Ripken.  And Griffey’s swing was just so gaddamn sexy.  The flick of the wrists, slight uppercut of a swing with its classic follow through.  Woooooow.  I mean, that thing was good.

The smoothest swing is back in Seattle

The majors' smoothest swing is back in Seattle

If not for suffering through a wide range of injuries, he would most likely be ahead of Barry Bonds right now for most home runs in the history of the game.  Unlike Bonds and the newly crowned cheater who will eventually supplant Bonds, Alex Rodriguez, Griffey (most likely) never used performance enhancing drugs.  Sadly, until a couple weeks ago, people would have said the same thing about A-Rod.

As I was reading about why Griffey chose the Mariners over the Braves, one particular quote stuck out.  The author of the article, one Pablo Torre (if I had read this article two months ago, this blog may be named La Fiebre de Pablo Torre), describes how talented Griffey’s 13 year old daughter, Taryn, is at basketball with the following gem of a quote: “(How good is Taryn? Her father alleges that she recently beat Nationals third baseman Ryan Zimmerman in a game of “Around the World” at their house.)”

I’m still curious how good Taryn is, because that example did not scream future WNBAer.  I’m not even sure how to take this- does it mean that all major league third basemen are great at basketball shooting games?  Could a junior high version of me beat Mike Lowell at a game of Around the World? (The answer is absolutely.)

Unlike Torre’s indicator of how good Taryn is at basketball, however, there are inarguable examples of how nasty Griffey was in a Seattle uniform.  Namely, this one:

Ninjas in baseball, example 424

Ninjas in baseball, example 424

Larry Legend, Baby Shaq and MJ: youtube comes through

In The Sporting Life on February 20, 2009 at 8:04 am

Last night on youtube (it was a glamorous Thursday night) I decided to take a break from watching Charlie Bit My Finger, and instead pay homage to Basketball Jesus, Larry Bird.  After watching numerous videos showing the Hick from French Lick throwing passes through the legs of opposing defenders and swishing shots that other players would have no business taking, I delved further into classic NBA clips.

I dare you to find one thing wrong with his form

I dare you to find one thing wrong with his shooting form. Or his mustache.

The following is by no means a top five list of NBA youtube videos, but they are five NBA clips that I watched last night and I think you should check out:

5.  Vince Carter dunks on a 7’2” Frenchman

This is perhaps the most flat out athletic play you will ever see.  It reminds me of the time that I dunked on the 7′ Sean Corrigan.  Except that didn’t happen.  You’ll notice if you watch the rest of the videos below, Carter is the only one who appears to get angry after completing his dunk.  This is what the late 90’s and early 00’s brought unfortunately, when the only way to celebrate a fantastic play is to look pissed off.  Of course, I have never dunked on anyone, let alone jump over them.  Maybe it makes you mad.

4.  Shaquille O’Neal at LSU

This highlight reel from when Shaq was in college reminds me of a simpler time.  A time when TGIF was king.  I first laid eyes on Shaq in the 1989 NCAA tournament, and became completely enamored with him for the remainder of the tournament.  It even led me to eventually purchase an original Shaq Orlando Magic jersey, which I wore proudly until I realized that every other no talent ass clown in Maine also had it.

3. Top 10 Michael Jordan Dunks

There is not much that needs to be said about these dunks.  Jordan was just on a whole different level.  The way he jumps, makes contact with an opposing player, and then elevates even higher, is unfathomable.  #7 is perhaps the greatest open court play I have ever seen.  He just completely decimates the entire Heat defense before dunking on them.  #1 is mine, and everyone else’s, all time favorite Michael Jordan dunk, when he fakes John Starks out of his shorts and then hammers on the sweatiest man in the history of basketball, Patrick Ewing.

But the greatest dunk on this list?  It has to be #2.  Not only is it a fantastic dunk, it is also a ridiculous showcase of short shorts and spandex.  Kelly Tripucka gets absolutely worked over.  It is almost as embarrassing as his outfit.

2.  Larry Bird, #1 NCAA Shooter of All-Time

Sure, this isn’t one of the best Larry Bird videos out there, but the fact that it has commentary from the most entertaining announcer in the history of Western civilization, Bill Walton, along with music from Van Morrison, pushes this to near the top.  At the 1:00 mark, Walton makes the comment about Bird, “He couldn’t run at his peak faster than I could walk today.”  Never before has a tall white man with horrible knees made a reference to how he can walk faster than another tall white man can run.  This comment ranks up there with when I was watching a Spurs game a few years ago and heard Bill Walton call Robert Horry the “best inbounds passer in the history of basketball.”

Also, it must be commented on that the producers of this video chose to use Filter’s song “Hey Man, Nice Shot” in the background.  It’s always appropriate to include a song about suicide in a basketball video.

1. Larry Bird Montage

Not many words need to be written about 3:46 of Basketball Jesus highlights with a classic John Cougar Mellencamp song in the background.  But be sure to watch Larry Legend make a ridiculous left handed runner at at the 1:26 mark, if only to witness the fan wearing short white shorts and a tie dyed button down go nuts in the stands.

A Tale of Two TVs

In Great Television Destruction 2009 on February 17, 2009 at 11:25 pm

At the beginning of our sophomore year in college, my roommates and I bought a 19” Panasonic TV, the first major purchase we had made as a group besides 30 racks of Keystone Light.  As this was 2002, the TV came with a VCR, a pair for which we paid the princely sum of $95 at a Pawn Shop across the street from Burger King.

We always felt that the TV never accepted us as his new owners and fell into a fit of depression.  This theory was supported by the fact that he tried to kill himself no less than twice in the first year we owned him.  Once, he jumped off the table, landing screen down.  The jump was completely unsuccessful, as he didn’t suffer a scratch, even after a four foot fall.  Later that year he really went for it with gusto, setting fire to a pile of papers on top of him, causing his plastic frame to melt into itself.  True, it didn’t help that we had left him on for three consecutive days under a stack of loose papers, but I stand by the fact that he wanted to die from the start.

Over time, he became like an old friend, and when it was time to make my initial foray into the world of high definition, I couldn’t bear to kill him, not when he had overcome so much and served us so honorably.  Instead, I posted a note for a free TV on craigslist and then left him outside our apartment.  Ten minutes later he was gone, presumably to try to end his life somewhere else.

The moral of the story?  He cost approximately $75 and survived falling on his face, setting himself on fire, and then living in my parents garage for four years.  Our fancy schmancy $1,200 HD TV?  Couldn’t even take a little Wii remote to the dome piece (ok, the comparison is like throwing a rock at a sportscar vs. at a tank, but whatever).

Anyway, now that he’s broken, it is time to continue with the Great Television Destruction of 2009.  We don’t know how it will end, but it has already begun.  Yesterday, before heading to watch State Radio play a sold out show at Bowery Ballroom, Jack and I started it in earnest, with a single warning dart lodged into the TV’s LCD screen:

It starts with a dart . . .

It starts with a dart . . .

Oh this is what Great Television Destruction 2009 is all about?  One little dart, barely more than a flesh wound?  To the contrary.  Today I had to watch Jack Bauer kick ass on a laptop screen.  While he still dominated, killing several poorly pixelated people, it was not the same.  There’s something about a Beauer Beatdown in HD that just makes you want to go to battle.  And while Mouse Hunt 2009 is ongoing, my current focus is on destructing my former friend.

I hear your doubts:  One dart? You call that destruction?

Oh, I’m sorry.  That first picture was just to show the dart- His screen was off.  Here’s one with the screen on (*Warning* The picture you’re about to see is graphic in nature):

. . . Then there was a FIRRRREEEEEEEEFIGHT!

. . . Then there was a FIRRRREEEEEEEEFIGHT!

When Wii bowling goes horribly, horribly wrong

In Come on!, Great Television Destruction 2009 on February 16, 2009 at 1:26 pm

Saturday night was a roller coaster ride through the highs and lows of life, accented by tequila, life imitating art, utter dispair, and good people.  Jack triumphantly arrived back at the homestead after a successful Manhattan brunch where numerous screwdrivers were imbibed and cute birds were chatted up (today I kind of feel like sprinkling in cockney British slang) with two college buddies, Sully and Cyrus.  Cyrus sits on the couch all day with such ease and frequency that Jack and Sully, the co-frontmen of Sweet Wizard Band (a band so classy that they took their promotional pictures on our building’s roof), recorded their only song about this (lack of) action.

Soon, beers magically appeared (did I mention they are sweet wizards?), and then tequila shots joined the party (poured from the handle we have been gradually killing with calculated attacks since our two day New Year’s event).  Needless to say, the good times were rolling, and the only way we could think to make it sweeter was to add the element of competition to the mix.  Firing up the Wii, bowling seemed like the best group option for the four of us.  And it was, particularly for me.

Even in real life, bowling and booze are fantastic combination for me.  Thursday night bowling league in college and $2 drafts at the alley? One game I got a 222.  First company outing at my first job out of college with pitchers of brews?  One video ipod won for high score of the night, a 187.  Saturday night?  Headed down that proverbial lane.

Six frames in and I had two spares and four strikes.  I had just rolled a spare on my last turn, missing out on whatever comes after a Turkey.  Tossing the controller over to Jack, I sat back to let Sully go.  As I was bowling the Wii game of my life, I felt a more distinguised seating position suited me, so I lifted my right foot and rested it on my left thigh, creating a perpendicular angle with my knee.

This decision would soon prove fatal for a most beloved appliance as we decided to re-enact the annoying Southwest Airline commercial you have undoubtedly seen, when the guy throws a Wii remote into his friend’s wall mounted flatscreen TV, only to have the TV fall down and smash through the table below.  Yes, Sully channeled that guy on his next roll when the remote shot out of his hand after striking the right toe of my sneaker.  But the guy who installed our TV was apparently more skilled than the technician responsible for allowing the force created by one pound remote being thrown at it from ten feet away that knock a TV off its moorings in the commercial.  So our table is safe.  And believe me, I was pissed at this point (but not really that angry.  Come on, I warned you about the cockney slang).

Oh, the humanity!

Oh, the humanity!

It’s not a pretty picture (although those are some pretty awesome colors that resulted).  Sully, being a stand up wizard, has offered to pay for the same TV if I want it, but to give me that amount if I instead want to upgrade.  So far, in the year and a half we have lived here, we have evolved from a 32” Samsung to the corpse of the 42” Sharp that you see above.

In an effort to support the economy and continue watching sports (or Lifetime movies) on a quality set, I have no choice but to upgrade to a 46” Samsung.  My mouth is watering just thinking of the picture quality, the crispness of color, and the boner inducing clarity of contrast.

But for now, it’s all about the colors.  By the way, from the audio, I was able to determine that the picture above was taken during a segment where Martha Stewart was interviewing Bill Clinton.  The subject they were discussing at the exact moment I clicked my camera?  The saxophone.  Somewhere, Joe Sargent and MaineCoast12 are smiling.

*Update*: Of mice and men (subtitled: Score one for the good guys)

In Just absolutely dominating people, They have the Fever on February 14, 2009 at 12:03 pm

Casualties are inevitable in any armed conflict, and I believe it is completely justifiable to take lives when faced with enemy forces invading one’s home territory.  Especially when I am on the only side with access to weapons.  Including a brain larger than a peanut.  That’s my type of battle.

After a week of frustration and near misses, we finally eliminated a member of the opposition’s army.  It wasn’t clean, and it wasn’t pretty.  And it wasn’t without pain: for him acutely physical; for us, definitively psychological.

The date?  Thursday, February 12, 2008.

The time?  Between the hours of 7-8 am.

The location?  Our kitchen in Brooklyn.

The opposing forces who met?  Mighty Mouse and Mighty Mosher.  What followed was an act of brutal necessity, described by the mercenary himself, in what is surely the most powerful email you will read today (or ever):

Subject: Good morning

Time: 7:42 am


“Little did I know when I woke up this morning that I would be forced to dig deep into the darkest corners of my psyche and summons the courage to brutally take the life of another of Earth’s creatures for the good of our apartment.  But that is exactly what this morning had in store for me.

I walked  into the kitchen, still wiping sleep from my eyes, and stopped dead in my tracks.  On the floor I could clearly see a gray mass hanging out of one end of our spring traps.  My first thought was that it looked like a dust ball.  Seriously.  Given the proven stealthiness and agility of these supermice, this new chapter just seemed to fit perfectly into this ongoing tragicomedic saga: a dust ball blowing harmlessly across our kitchen floor had applied enough pressure to the trap to set it off, even though the mice have been feasting off the trap with no results.  But as I turned on the light to get a better look, I realized I was wrong.  So wrong.

The mouse was still alive, and struggling.  His rear quarters had been clamped down by the spring trap, but his front half was most certainly alive.  It brought to mind the hiker in Colorado whose arm had been pinned down by a boulder.   A helpless feeling, I am sure.  Not only was the mouse alive, but he still had the strength in his anterior to drag his crippled hind legs and the entire weight of the trap across our kitchen floor.  Honestly, this mouse was clearing some ground.  I don’t know what his plan was, or where he thought he was going.  Maybe there was some rodent surgeon waiting for him in the walls of our apartment — it wouldn’t surprise me.  These mice have seemed to evolve the equivalent of 400,000 years in the last three weeks.  The shock, awe, excitement, curiosity, and amazement that had so pleasantly been stroking my emotional canvas were quickly dissolving.  A new, more powerful feeling was taking hold, and it was eclipsing all else.  It was an urgent, Jack Baueresque sense of responsibility.    I knew what had to be done.

I walked into our coat closet and found the heaviest object I could.  It happened to be Financial Peace Revisited by Dave Ramsey.  I grabbed the book and stormed back into the kitchen, not stopping for a second to consider how I would approach the task at hand.  The rest is a blur, but I have snapshots of the book laying on the ground, feet coming down on the book, eyes closing… Screaming! Gasping! Mayhem! Confusion! pain!


Oh such powerful words.  Luckily, Mosher was able to take a self portrait after this initial kill in Mouse Wars 2009:

Of mice and men

In Come on! on February 12, 2009 at 12:42 am

Unless you are extremely lucky, you have dealt with bad roommates.  Right now, I have at least two of the worst roommates I have ever had.  They steal my food, take dumps everywhere, and just generally cause a ruckus around the apartment.  Yes, I have tried talking to them, but it is hard to get the words out when I feel the urge to shriek like a little girl whenever I see them.  You see, the unwanted roommates are mice.

Something about our apartment breeds mice that are, sadly, smarter than us.  In the past year, we have caught three.  Two were released alive: one after being caught in a live trap, and I caught one by somehow outsmarting it and closing the pasta box it was in, then holding it shut while I walked outside saying “oh my god oh my god oh my god,” trying not to freak out.  Regrettably, the third died, apparently of starvation when he was caught in the live trap.  Our bad.

But our current tormentors have taken it to a whole new level.  Until a week or so ago, there seemed to be only one: the smallest mouse imaginable, about the size of your thumb.  Of course, we lovingly nicknamed him Fievel.  He became the honorary fourth roommate, and we were prepared to live and let live, at least for a while.  But then Fievel crossed the line and invited another friend into the apartment, and the two of them have been raging ever since.  When I saw both of them together in the kitchen a few days ago, it became clear that the battlelines were being drawn: it was either them or us.  And since we signed the lease, it kind of has to be them.

Our kitchen is now a veritable minefield, unfit for any mouse.  There are four snap traps and two sticky traps, all baited with peanut butter.  Fievel and his friend are somewhere in the apartment right now, laughing at us, because they have licked the peanut butter off two of the snap traps.  The sticky traps have been just as wildly ineffective with the mice, but we did manage to catch a Mosher twice.  That’s right, twice.  Apparently, you should not be surprised that the mice can outsmart us.

While we have never seen either of them in uniform, the following sketches are who we are up against.  All we can ask for are your prayers.

The fact that this picture exists still makes me happy

In Uncle Jesse's Favorites on February 11, 2009 at 1:07 am

The official John Stamos Fever 5 step method for finding love:

1) Log onto internet (you are reading this, so you’re already ahead of the game)

2) Go to google

3) Type in “black bear”

4) Go to second page of results

5) Find the following picture:

That's how big the bear cub was.  It's science.

That's how big the bear cub was. It's science.

I can think of so many things to say, but sometimes the best things are those left unsaid.  Anyway, that’s love.

A-Rod’s pink lips do not deserve to be on any of these delicious bottles of beer

In Uncle Jesse's Favorites on February 10, 2009 at 1:30 am

Watching Alex Rodriguez on Sportscenter talk about how the pressure of a $252 million contract led him to take performance enhancing drugs reminds me of the time I took performance enhancing drugs after reaching $7.25 an hour for my work study job back in college.  His was the richest contract in sports history.  Mine, the maximum amount students could make per hour.  Yes, we were both living the dream.  Perhaps the only difference, besides a few hundred million dollars, is the fact that, without a shadow of a doubt, A-Rod wears lip gloss.  His lips are WAY too pink for a normal human, and it almost makes me want to not have HD TV.

Also, he claims not to know what his performance enhancing drug was.   I know exactly what mine was, and is: beer.  It enhances my performance in every way.  When I drink, I become funnier, better looking, smarter, and more popular.  I also become delusional.

Don't drink the beer!  The beer has gone bad!

Don't drink the beer! The beer has gone bad!

I doubt A-Rod has ever even had a beer, besides the time when he spit it out, captured on film above (the caption is a shout out to the Los Man and MaineCoast12 who both pointed out my regrettable exclusion of Can’t Hardly Wait from the post on Chick Flicks).  But if he ever wants to try it, I recommend he follow the JSF endorsement of the best beers to drink straight from the bottle.  Everyone knows the ultimate canned beer is PBR (Bud Heavy is the runner up), and out of a keg, well, Natty Ice always starts the party with a bang, and then ends it just as quickly when people start blacking out accidentally.

In first place, without question, is the High Life.  The beer itself rules.  The girl in the moon on the logo rules.  The shape and feel of the bottle in your hand rules.  The fact that it truly is the champagne of beers rules.  Everything about High Life out of a bottle rules.

Just living the dream . . .

Just living the dream . . .

The second best beer to drink straight out of the bottle is the classic Sierra Nevada.  Sure, the beer is delicious: a classic IPA from NoCal.  It goes down smooth and leaves a somewhat bitter, but satisfying aftertaste.  The bodega around the corner from my apartment sells Sierra Nevada 22 oz.  This counts as both a bottle and an awesome deal.  But even more important is how fantastically artistic and sexy you will feel while you hold the bottle.  I mean, this thing is a work of art.  It makes me want to drop everything and head for the California hills, where life is tinted in a glorious shade of green with yellow and orange accents.

If I ever meet a girl who looks like you, beautiful Sierra Nevada bottle, I will marry her

If I ever meet a girl who looks like you, beautiful Sierra Nevada bottle, I will marry her

A close third place, especially in warm weather, is the classic Corona with a lime.  There is perhaps nothing better than sitting next to a lake with a cold Corona in your hand.  Besides, of course, watching A-Rod self-destruct.

Without a lime, Heineken would be in this picture

Without a lime, Heineken would be in this picture

Jack Bauer, Barney Stinson and Bob Barker: True American Heroes

In Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood on February 8, 2009 at 2:05 pm

Whenever you find a random roommate on craigslist, there are always risks for all parties involved.  Like maybe they don’t clean up after themselves or don’t do the dishes.  Or maybe they have a super annoying habit they somehow suppressed during the initial meeting and lease signing.  Of course, you could end up with someone whose idea of a wild night is having the boys over to the apartment for a rousing game of Magic: The Gathering.  Or worse, they could kill you in your sleep.

So far, after almost 6 months, I can report that random craigslist Jack has worked out well to quite well.  He’s introduced me to new things that have become mass media staples in my life.  Girl Talk dance parties.   Blu-ray movies on his PS3.  American Idol (ok, that one’s not so much a staple in my life.  Although the new judge is pretty cute).  The Sweet Wizard Band (his band with college friends that only have concerts in our apartment between the hours of midnight and 5am).

But the most important contribution he has made, without a doubt, is getting me addicted to 24.  Yes, I realize this is the 7th season of the show, and the critics, not to mention countless friends, have loved it from the start.  I missed the boat when the show first came out while I was in college, and have found various excuses not to watch it since.  But because Jack is a fan, my Monday nights have improved dramatically.  First, from 8:30-9, the best sitcom on TV right now, How I Met Your Mother, transports me to a version of New York where everyone is gorgeous, well dressed and ridiculously funny.  Wait, I just described my apartment.

We're so classy.  And hilarious.

We're so classy. And hilarious.

This is a great prelude to watching Jack Bauer absolutely dominate and attempt to save the free world.  Right now, he is single-handedly protecting both America and Sangala.  While I don’t have any previous seasons to compare it to (though Jack does have all previous seasons on dvd, so I anticipate a hardcore 24 binge in my future), the action is pretty fast and furious.  And extremely satisfying.

During an episode a few weeks ago, however, I was hit with a deep depression while watching Bauer save approximately 100,000 Sangalians between the hours of 11am and 12 noon.  The feeling of despair did not come from comparing what I would ideally be doing during that timeframe to what the great Jack Bauer did.   Obviously, I would want to be watching The Price is Right.  What got me depressed is the fact that this will never happen again.

Jack Bauer may be able to save the world, and he may be able to do it outside the law, but he cannot force me to watch Drew Carey host The Price is Right. Watching Carey host the show is kind of like witnessing the ridiculously socially awkward kid try to ask a girl to dance back in 7th grade.  I used to be a hardcore Price is Right fan, but Carey has killed the show for me.  I once saw a women guess the exact price of a car, and his reaction was about as enthusiastic as if he had just found a $1 bill in his jacket pocket.

Bob Barker, on the other hand, would have not only celebrated with the woman, he would have let her kiss him on the cheek (arguably a better prize than a new car).

The Price is WRONG, bitch

Man, I'm sweet