I think I just wet myself.

RYAN: Making this world a better place is hard work. Doesn’t bother me though. Cause I know that you can’t make a difference without breaking a sweat. Sweat is the grease that keeps the gears of the world moving smoothly. But our lazy, TV-watching society has gone soft. The closest they get to sweat is putting on a well-worn pair of sweat paints. Not me though. I love a good sweat. In my opinion, it’s single-handedly the greatest thing that can come from your body. It’s your body’s way of saying, “Hey, you’re doing good work. Keep it up.” Whether I’m breaking down walls with my sledgehammer or typing up notes on the latest sales conference call, I’m always working hard to build up a good sweat. That’s just the way I do things. Work. Play. Sleep. I go hard whenever I do anything.

SHAWN: You know what’s more fun that sweat? Not sweating. You know, doing things like eating and watching movies. Aww, yeah, that’s a good time. Why are you working so hard? I go to the office from 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. every day, not a minute longer, so I can relax the rest of my life—not spend it sweating. And in this crazy life of ours, sometimes we feel raw emotion, and sometimes that leads to tears. Tears say so much about the human condition, like “look at me, I’m crying,” and “this is sadness.” Maybe not everyone associates tears with good things, but they’re what make us human. Don’t you feel even better after a good cry? Why work so hard on a sweat, when you could just watch The Notebook and get the same rush, the same high, the same massive amount of liquid awkwardly streaming out of your head?

They're covered in tears.

RYAN: Not all of us enjoy sleeping on a tear-soaked pillow every night, Shawn. I know that’s your own little way of washing away all of life’s problems, but some of us have found a far better outlet. Through sweat. I know, I know. That requires either physical activity or turning up the thermostat, the two things you seem to avoid at all costs. But it’s worth it. When your heart starts pumping and those endorphins start kicking in, man, you feel like you can conquer the world. After working up a good sweat, you naturally hold your head high, as if bragging to the world that you feel great. Because sweat is a sign of strength. It lets people know that you’re not afraid of a little hard work. Tears, meanwhile, are a sign of weakness. It may be part of the human condition, but it’s most definitely the lame part that nobody really wants. It can hardly be considered a rush, unless of course you get a rush out of losing your composure and completely embarrassing yourself. People only feel better after a good cry because the act of crying is so damn pathetic, they have nowhere to go but up.

SHAWN: Whoa, whoa, whoa—the tear-soaked pillow adds to the effect of my waterbed, first of all. And, secondly, not all tears are for sadness. Ever see something so beautiful, like the sunset or Helen Mirren in a bathing suit, that you just started to cry and thank the Heavens for the gift of life? Ever have something so happy happen to you, like finding the love of your life or seeing Helen Mirren in a bathing suit, that you just couldn’t control the emotion and the tears? No? Well, that’s a sad life you lead then—a sad life that could only lead to the awesome emotional manifestation of tears. See—even a Grinch like yourself, who has never loved or been loved, can use tears. They’re so universal and delicious. And holding your head up high because of endorphins is like being “the funny guy” only because you’re stoned. It’s just a chemical reaction that has nothing to do with your actual accomplishments—making that a fake confidence you’re feeling, like the kind Taylor Swift inexplicably has regarding her terrible, terrible voice. Sweat is a sign of trickery, not strength. Tears are the true sign of strength. It takes a real man to show emotion and let the tears flow. And, hell, it can be a sign of just as much hard work, pushing your limits to painful tears. Man, show me a construction worker sweating and I’d say he’s doing his job; show me one that’s crying and I’ll say, “That man—nay, beast—has no fucking limits!”

Someone's been working hard!

RYAN: It worries me that you just described your tears as “delicious.” To get to the point of describing their taste means you’ve shed far more tears than what could be considered reasonable. I don’t care if they’re because you’re happy, sad, or shot, you need to get your emotions in check. How can anyone have even the slightest iota of respect for you if the smallest things put you on the verge of tears? If you spent just half the time you waste away crying actually doing something productive and sweating, then you might be strong enough to keep the ole’ water works in check. And you’re wrong; sweat has everything to do with accomplishments. We sweat because we’re working hard and making ourselves into a better people. Running a marathon. Pumping some iron. Helping a casual acquaintance move. Those, not crying, are what push us to our limits and help us grow. Can you get past the wall on mile 16? Can you finish off that last power set of squat thrusts? Can you successfully fit that couch through the doorway? It’s only through sweat that we can become better, faster, stronger people. Sweat drives the action of the world. Tears slow everything down. Instead of moving and doing, we’re left patting someone on the back and saying “There, there.”

SHAWN: Just because you think emotions are the worst things to happen to people since the Furby, it doesn’t mean I need to get mine “in check.” Emotions are the root of humanity, and you clearly only care about hiding them deep down inside, until it all comes out of the end of a sniper rifle above the D.C. Interstate. I can’t believe you’re condoning that! Feds, alert! And these aren’t small things putting me on the verge of tears—these are deaths, and natural beauty, and Helen Mirren. You must lead a sad, secluded life to think the only thing in the world worth crying over is being shot. One day you’ll experience the world—and not via a treadmill with a scrolling picture of a suburban sidewalk in front of you—and you’ll know. Quit being so shallow, you gym rat, and learn that you can get a rush, a thrill and a pure joy from God’s majesty. When all is said and done, when we’re both in our mid-40s and ready to die, you’ll be the one looking back and realizing how much time you spent doing squats. I may weigh 15 pounds more, but I’ll think back of all the joy and sadness and rapture I felt—you know, memorable things. If sweat really made you a better, faster, stronger person, where’s your Olympic Gold medal? Or, at the very least, the one marathon you’ve finished? Wait, what’s that? You haven’t finished any? I’d cry for you, but I don’t want to waste my tears. They’re too precious.

Next on Danger Queue: Seven Wonders of the World vs This Rash I’ve Had Since Sunday—So Much Documentary-Worthy Material

Coming to you commercial free!

SHAWN: Burt Reynolds. Aretha Franklin. Myself. The world is filled with beautiful, noble creatures, but even they take a backseat to the most beautiful and noble of them all—the colt. Young, nubile and stunning, the adolescent male horse is an animal to behold. With his gorgeous hoofs, trotting ability and the fact that his kind was actually the advent of all modern transportation, the colt is an unstoppable force. Today, colts still plow fields and carry Persian princes into battle, but they are also fine ingredients in food, milk and glue—a triumvirate of the world’s most important necessities. And talk about athleticism! They can jump steeples in a single bound and do so with their chests outstretched, their manes flowing in the wind, and their gigantic white teeth glistening in the morning sun. Sure, Burt Reynolds can do the same, but you can’t melt him down into a fine adhesive.

RYAN: There’s nothing beautiful or noble about a colt, no matter how nubile it may be. True beauty and true nobility come not from flowing manes and trotting ability. They come from selflessness and generousity, like that of the world-famous givers of the world—the saint. From the early days of our civilization to as recently as last Friday, saints have tirelessly worked to make our world a better place by teaching, helping, and providing. Saints are so unquestionably awesome, they’re the one thing that most religions agree on. Catholicism, Lutherism, Hinduism, Hasselhoffism—they all use the title “saint” to recognize these special individuals for their efforts. Even Judaism has something similar to a saint. Makes sense, since “saint” is a kickass permanent title that’s kept long after the individual has passed on. But colt is just a temporary label used to describe a stage in a horse’s life. Oh, you’re a colt now. That’s like bragging about being a preteen. Please. Talk to me when you’re a stallion, cause those things rock. Oh, what? You’re going to be a gelding? Too bad.

Look to St. Cassian for all your shorthand writing needs. But no long-hand. He's only one man.

SHAWN: Just because you know that if you were a colt you’d be primped for the role of gelding before you were one doesn’t mean we need to rule out all colts because they have the potential to grow into some sexless beast. Colts, unlike geldings, are still untouched and beautiful. And they have so much potential! The world’s their oyster. They could be racing horses, riding horses, grazing horses, horse horses, astronauts—the sky’s the limit! You know who the sky isn’t the limit for? Saints. Because they’re practically all dead. Sure, maybe some are now up in the sky, looking down and judging us, but the fact remains that many saints only became saints by fucking up. Getting a million arrows shot at you makes you a saint. Congrats? And many saints also end up becoming patron saints of God-knows-what. Hey, Saint Albinus of Algers, patron saint of pirate attacks, get ready for an eternity of people praying to you whenever they get raped and pillaged by Johnny Depp. He must field, what, zero prayers a day? Maybe one a year from Winona Ryder? Sounds fun! Plus, saints take the focus away from the Lord God Almighty, who can do way more than comfort you about your rheumatism (Saint Ursus of Aosta), your dysentery (Saint Polycarp) or your life as a shorthand-writer (Saint Cassian of Imola)—and His name’s way easier to spell.

RYAN: You sound like Mel Kiper Jr. talking all about the potential of the colt. It’s too bad we all know that potential doesn’t count for shit anymore. Every new movie, CD, song, television show, politician, actor, or athelete that comes along, all we hear about is all of the potential. Could be the next big thing, they all say. But all that “potential”, if it was even there in the first place, inevitibly goes unfulfilled. Talking about all the great things a colt could do is like talking about all the money you could win with the lottery ticket you just bought. Yeah, it could happen. But it won’t, and just like my wife, you’ll be left thoroughly disappointed. There’s no disappointment with the saints, seeing as how they’re already proven winners. They spent their life doing good and were rewarded with sainthood, which is why they should be looked to in times of need. And yes, that includes pirate attacks. Seeing as how your internet activity is limited to porn and porn-themed sudokus, I don’t expect you to know all about the recent surge in pirate attacks. Maybe those wouldn’t be happening if people prayed to Saint Albinus of Angers a little more often. If you really want that colt of yours to become an astronaut, you better start praying to Saint Hippolytus of Rome, the patron saint against sick horses. I’d hate to see a severe case of horse flu rob it of all that potential.

Nothing can tame that wild mane.

SHAWN: See! There’s a freaking patron saint of sick horses! Colts are so damn important that even the religious sector has to admit that they provide a much-needed benefit for society. Colts are pretty much the most vital thing humans could ever have. Saints aren’t real and just supply false hope, as you pointed out yourself when I tricked you into pointing out that there has been a recent surge of pirate attacks! Where’s your Saint Albinus of Algers now? Clearly not stopping the attacks! That’s right—he’s useless, just like all your saints. But you know what’s not useless? A wonderful colt that can provide everything from transportation to meat. Without colts, we wouldn’t have horses, and subsequently wouldn’t have cars, gambling, saddles and every other one of man’s greatest inventions. And, sure, some actors with potential don’t become famous, but you know what actor did? George Clooney. And colts are the George Clooney of the animal kingdom. They not only fulfill their potential, but they have enough money to commit only to the most important projects and only take back-end fees for The Men Who Stare at Goats. Obviously, the saints provide way more disappointment, as people across the globe pray to Saint Uncle Pennybags or whatever to find $20 and don’t. You can rely on colts: when you find one, it’s going to nay, gallop and be overall awesome. Speaking of overall awesome, porn-themed Sudokus are now a registered trademark of Danger Queue, so back off, entrepreneurs!

RYAN: Ha! I saw right through your pirate attack trap, which is why I specifically said that people haven’t been praying to Saint Albinus of Angers. If they had been, then clearly we wouldn’t be hearing about all those pirate attacks. Seems odd to me that someone like you, who foolishly believes that all colts turn into something amazing, doesn’t believe in something as simple as a saint. Not real? False hope? Try telling that to the men imprisoned in the Tower of Angers who were freed by Albinus. Funny how you think he, along with all saints, is useless when he actually proved himself to be quite the opposite. I guess we just can’t trust you as a judge of anything right now, especially after this sad, pathetic love affair you have with colts, which you dubbed the “George Clooney of the animal kingdom”. Does that mean colts are severely overrated and pretentious with a career built solely on good looks? Cause that sounds about right. I guess you can rely on colts to trot, nay, gallop, and taste delicious, but how can that make them special when that applies to every single kind of horse? Foals. Yearlings. Fillys. Mares. Stallions. Geldings. So your entire argument boils down to colts are awesome because they are reliable and act like horses? Wow. Circular logic at its finest, everybody. Though you forgot to mention how pretty colts are too. Oh, wait. You did.

Next On Danger Queue: Sweat vs Tears—Sorry, Blood, You Can Sit This One Out

Doth thou have no pride, football-head?

RYAN: Greeks are known for two things, and only two things: big, fat weddings and gods. For all the gods they had, and they most certainly had enough to go around, there was only one true king of gods: Zeus. Sitting atop his throne on Mt. Olympus, stroking his full, manly beard, Zeus ruled the land as the god of the sky and thunder. He wasn’t into the coddling bullshit like other gods (cough…cough…Ra…). If Zeus felt wronged, he didn’t hesitate in handing out punishments. He blinded men. Turned them to stone. Condemned them to eternal torture. Killed them with thunderbolts. He may have been vengeful, but it was never without reason. Because of that, people respected him. And loved him. And he loved them all back. Oh, how he loved them. Gods, mortals, it didn’t matter. He sired so many children, he could have starred in his own reality TV show on TLC.

SHAWN: It seems Zeus has found one way to earn respect—horrible, horrible murder and putting his tool in more holes than a shovel—but there’s another way to earn respect. It’s through helping your fellow children, being a kind face in your neighborhood, helping the elderly who live in your grandparents’ boarding home-type thing, sitting on your stoop, and being just nosey enough to get into everyone else’s business for 12 minutes before letting them fly. And Zeus is not the man to do that. Not when you have Hey, Arnold! (exclamation point is a registered trademark of Nickelodeon Studios). Arnold—and the whole show really—taught kids in urban centers that they can still have fun and come together to break world records like the world’s largest calzone without the added nuisance of gangs and other things that actually exist in urban centers. But it’s no wonder a gun-clinging menopause-lover like yourself would prefer Zeus, because he’s just wretched. And I believe you forgot one other thing Greeks are known for: Criss Angel. Guess they can’t all be winners.

Fear the wrath of the almighty Zeus!

RYAN: Zeus was respected long before he started murdering and sexing people willy nilly, which for the record was a right he had earned as king of all gods. Even before that, he had other’s respect because of his inspirational life. Born in secrecy and raised in a cave so his father wouldn’t swallow him whole (obviously), Zeus defeated his father, saved his siblings, and then shared the world with them. It’s an epic tale that’s been told for countless generations. So, the exact opposite of Hey, Arnold! That horribly slapped-together cartoon show made no sense whatsoever. Why was his head shaped like a football? Why was he wearing such a tiny hat? And what’s the deal with him wearing a skirt? Those questions plagued the show for its entire 8-year run, which in my opinion was eight years too long. The fact it even lasted that long just proves Nickelodeon can literally put anything on TV and enjoy moderate success. If they truly want to bring in the ratings, they should create a show about Zeus. For the comedic element, they could make his sidekick a talking thunderbolt. Now THAT sounds like a great show!

SHAWN: It was shaped like a football because he’s Jewish, he wears a tiny hat because it’s the only one that could fit on his oddly shaped head between his hair, and that’s not a skirt but a plaid jacket tied around his waist like all kids in the 90s who lived in the 90210 zip code. There—I solved every problem that supposedly “plagued” the show. Not only were you apparently not smart enough to figure out a TV show designed for inner city 10-year-olds (equivalent of suburban six-year-olds), but you clearly never understood the message of Hey, Arnold!: to help one another, no matter your race, color, or ethnic group. I guess you’d prefer to be in the clouds, mercilessly striking down random children with lightning bolts. And Hey, Arnold! succeeded for eight seasons on its own merit, no matter what you say. Nickelodeon can’t put just anything on TV and get success, or have you never heard of Space Cases, My Dad the Rock Star, or the quietly brilliant but short-lived early-90s show U2U? Oh, that’s right—nobody’s heard of those. But Hey, Arnold! transcended all of those into brilliance. Meanwhile, Zeus transcended the world into evil. Being a god doesn’t excuse you from hanging your wife upside-down from the sky, sinking ships just for shits, and condemning people to having their livers eaten by a bird for all eternity. Arnold wouldn’t stand for that.

Proof that raw brilliance isn't enough to save a Nickelodeon show.

RYAN: Arnold was Jewish? Well, there’s another problem with the show. And that most certainly was not a plaid jacket tied around his waist. I don’t see any sleeves and I definitely don’t see anything knotted. Nope, that was a skirt. A slutty, high-rising skirt that would have been quite revealing if not for the leggings he wore underneath. Maybe instead of solving everyone else’s problems, Arnold should have been tackling his own gender issues. Everyone knows Nickelodeon shows are best when kids can relate to them and nobody relates to a cross-dressing nerd with a football for a head. Look at U2U. We all loved that show and idolized the kids who were on it. Like the one where some chubby kid named Shawn made his own video game, The Adventures of Bouncy Boy in Skull City. That was incredible! Youngsters like you and I grew up wanting to meet that kid, just for the chance to shake his hand. That kind of stuff never happened with Hey, Arnold! because it was such a joke from the very beginning. There’s no joking about Zeus though. In fact, you should be careful about calling Zeus “evil”. He’s not the typical 5-year-old at the park you’re used to picking on. Zeus is strong, mighty, and easily angered. He could easily smite you like you’ve never been smote in your whole life. Maybe instead of focusing on all the bad, yet warranted, things Zeus has done, you should focus on the good things: rewarding some with long life, saving his siblings, pleasuring countless women. It shouldn’t be hard. You’re doing the exact same thing with Hey Arnold!, ignoring every sign that it was a travesty of a cartoon show.

SHAWN: Arnold wore jeans under his plaid jacket kilt thing and you know it! Nobody’s buying your libel! And how can you say nobody related to someone who starred on a hit show, with a hit movie, for eight freakin’ seasons? And, hell, even if they didn’t “relate” to him, he clearly entertained audiences. You don’t relate to Lost much, but seem to enjoy that. On another note, how’s that imaginary polar bear treating you these days? Arnold taught children fine values in a delicious and hilarious way. Remember that time Helga thought she would die from monkeynucleosis from contact with a monkey? Ho ho! It taught us how to laugh and love monkeys simultaneously. Plus, you can’t possibly compare any show to the brilliance of U2U—that’s just not fair. That’s like comparing Zeus to George Clooney. Nobody can touch that man! And I’m not going to worry about Zeus because (a) I don’t live in Greece, and (b) I don’t believe in gods who distribute ironic punishments, unless you’re one of those delightful judges who like to get in national news. Zeus is just a mythical presence who didn’t do shit to inspire his people to do good, but to fear him. Arnold taught what to do, Zeus taught not to breathe annoyingly or get sentenced to a lifetime of nasal drip. In other words, Zeus is a cult—the scientology of ancient times. Hey, Arnold! was clearly nothing close to the kind of travesty Zeus is, despite the fact that no one—not any Nickelodeon character or European myth—can compare to the gentle beauty of the chubby video game kid on U2U.

Fun for kids of all ages! Especially the young, impressionable ones.

SHAWN: Slam! That’s the sound of fun! And that’s because you’re playing with the greatest combination toy-collectible-art that ever floated by—pogs. With just a few hundred of those little guys (5 cents a piece) and one hell of an awe-inspiring slammer, you’ve got yourself the ultimate collectible game. Kids loved it more than other collectible card games like Pokemon, Magic, and Bridge, for good reason. The sky was the limit with pogs. They had Ninja Turtle pogs, Backstreet Boys pogs, baby kitten pogs, Casper the Movie pogs, G.I. Joe pogs, baseball pogs, Goosebumps pogs, Christian pogs, Batman pogs, pog pogs—every pog you could dream of, you could have. Hell, with the advent of the pog maker, the only limitation was your own imagination, explaining why Ryan only had 12 pogs.

RYAN: Real fun doesn’t sound come from a slam. It comes from a bam. A big, loud, ear-splitting, make-the-bad-man-go-away BAM! Like the sound of me firing this here Desert Eagle pistol. This baby’s the real deal. It’s got more girth than that puny pistol you’re used to carrying around in your pants, which obviously means I’m a way bigger man than you. The bigger size also means it’s heavier than the normal pistol, but in a good way. Empowering even. Like, nothing bad could possibly happen to me when I’m holding this little doozy in my hands. And that’s a feeling that will never go away. Unlike pogs. I’d say pogs were nothing more than a fad, but usually fads have some sort of staying power, if only for a week. Pogs disappeared almost immediately after they appeared. The only people who still talk about them are the same losers who still play with them. So still getting much use out of that pog maker of yours? You don’t have to answer. I can already see you are by the look of that Jonas Brothers wedding picture pog you’re caressing ever so gently.

Oh, snap, yo! I just landed myself the black AND blue Power Ranger pog!

SHAWN: Someone’s overcompensating (it’s you). Way to carry around a massive gun to make women think you’re well-endowed (fun fact: they don’t think that). Do you also still stuff bell peppers down your pants? Haven’t you learned that those just make women think you have a horribly disfiguring dick cancer? Maybe you feel comfortable holding the long metal shaft of that Desert Eagle gun because you’re so used to wrapping your hand around smooth shafts. Did you nickname your gun “little boy” yet? No matter your reasons for liking it, it’s still a gun—a wretched killing machine—and it should be for military, and political, use only. Pogs, however, were for everyone. Teens collected pogs. Preteens collected pogs. Grownups collected pogs. Dogs collected pogs (adorable!). Not only that, but they were infused with your own personality, unlike mass-produced heaps of metal. Your slammer was you—whether it be a skull and crossbones (my sister’s) or a unicorn sniffing a dandelion (mine). And, yes, they were a “fad” if you will, just like everything else people in the world like including television, leggings and music. It doesn’t make them any less of a gentle reminder of fun, accepting days. I’ll take that over guns anytime.

RYAN: I suppose you’d like the long, smooth shaft of my Desert Eagle more if you could wrap your mouth around it. Yeah, that’s right. A suicide and gay joke rolled into one. I hope you enjoyed that as much as I’m enjoying the unbridled power of my Desert Eagle. Overcompensating? Hardly. If anything, I’d say I’m undercompensating with this gun, hoping the bulge from this gun will distract from the larger one in my pants. And no, I don’t stuff my pants with a bell pepper… anymore. I prefer ears of corn now. Shucked of course. Yes, my Desert Eagle may be mass produced, but its serial number means its still quite unique. Or, it would if I hadn’t long ago filed it down. Be that as it may, pogs and slammers are just as mass produced as Desert Eagles. It’s not like stores in the early 90s were meticulously hand-crafting all those pogs and slammers themselves. Nope. They were all produced in mass quantities just like my Desert Eagle. The main difference is my Desert Eagle is still useful. For killing strangers, intimidating children, showing off to friends, pistol whipping family, and oh so much more. Pogs, on the other hand, serve absolutely no purpose anymore. I suppose you could use them as coasters for shot glasses, but even that doesn’t make a whole lot of sense.

Just relax your throat a bit.

SHAWN: Way to alienate all our suicidal and gay readers simultaneously. This is exactly why our profits are way down. Damage control: Miley Cyrus, the Jonas Brothers, Sarah Palin naked, Heidi Montag, Google, David After Dentist plays basketball with Mariah Carey. Phew—that should get some readers tricked back over here. Of course, these new readers may be horrified by your love of violent weaponry. You really think filing down serial numbers on your guns isn’t wrong? Um, more importantly, should I be frightened to question your murderous tendencies? Granted, pogs were mass produced—on account of how desirable they were—but there were still numerous varieties. There’s one type of Desert Eagle pistol and you can’t personalize it with a New Kids on the Block sticker, no matter how many you put on there yourself, Ryan. Slammers and pogs are still useful—albeit not as much as before—but as long as you have both, you have a brilliant game on your hands. Again, though, at the very least they are not evil. Using your gun to scare kids, murder strangers and abuse families? For shame. This is a new low for you. Yet maybe this new side will earn you your very own pog in the new collectible series—Horrible People.

RYAN: I’m not too worried about alienating the suicidal readers since they can’t be counted on for our long-term growth. The readers who haven’t given up on life know I’ve always had an affinity for violence. Just look at all the things I’ve vehemently defended: swords, Russian roulette, parades. A track record like that should make my defense of the Desert Eagle seem normal. And, yes, I filed down the serial numbers. It’s not because I don’t think it’s wrong. It’s because I had to cover my ass a little bit because of how a certain “disagreement” played out. For the record, guns themselves are not evil. They may occasionally be used for killing and things of that evil nature, but a pog or slammer would be just as bad in the hands of an evil person. Thankfully we don’t have to worry about that since no one has pogs or slammers anymore. But guns can be good too. A gun in the hands of a good person is an instrument of justice, used to free people from tyranny. Plus, everyone looks so badass when they carry a gun. Especially if they hold it sideways. Oh, man, it looks so cool. But if it makes you happy, I’ll gladly turn in my Desert Eagle at the next Toys for Guns program. Just promise me I’ll get a really cool toy, and not stuck with some lowly set of Power Rangers pogs.

Next On Danger Queue: Zeus vs Hey, Arnold!—There’s Gonna Be So Much Wrath

I vant to suck your stock options.

RYAN: Some people like to think vampires are the hip, new thing, what with all the recent success of Twilight, True Blood, and How I Met Your Mother. But really, vampires never went away in the first place. From the original Dracula movie all those years ago to Interview with a Vampire to the Leslie Nielson version of Dracula, vampires have always been a staple of our popular culture. It’s easy to see why. These (supposedly) mythical creatures are far superior to humans in every regard. Depending on what you believe, they not only live forever, but they also have super strength, the ability to fly, wicked awesome fangs, and beautiful ivory skin. And if it weren’t for vampires, our nation’s youth might not know the simple pleasure of receiving a hickey. What? You didn’t actually think people started sucking each other’s necks for no reason, did you?

SHAWN: Oh, if you’re looking for beautiful ivory skin—and for something that actually exists—look no further, my friend, than the grandiose hermits we know as actuaries. Girls fall in love with vampires like Whitey McTwilight because of the risk and the danger. Well, nobody understands risk more than an actuary! With his deep understanding of financial security systems, and ability to crunch numbers and extricate risk and uncertainty percentages from them, the actuary is just as wicked awesome as vampires, but makes way more money and is a better father (research pending). Vampires are just a flash in the pan—yeah, they’ve been popular before, but only in short bursts. Even you don’t remember the name of Leslie Nielson’s shitty vampire movie. Maybe actuaries don’t get the same media attention—and don’t emit the same raw sexiness—but there’s something sexy about a stable family man who can crunch numbers like it’s his job, because it is. Try making out with a vampire and you’ll have to buy life insurance first. Try making out with an actuary and you’ll also have to buy life insurance first, but because it’s responsible and you care about your family’s financial future.

Crunch those sexy numbers.

RYAN: Absolutely nothing you said right there about actuaries could be described as “wicked awesome”. Crunching numbers, extricating risk, financial security systems. Those are all boring things that make me want to swallow a handful of sleeping pills but then later, after a well-publicized visit to the emergency room, claim I was confused by the label. If this were high school, vampires would be the cool, misunderstood kid who only shows up to class if he feels like it. Actuaries would be the pimply faced nerd who spends his weekends participating in mathletics. Actuaries don’t get any media attention because they’re not worthy of anyone’s attention. They do nothing of value, unless you consider making sure insurance companies don’t lose too much money something that’s valuable. If you do, then you’re probably an actuary. The problem with actuaries is they’re conformists, blindly following every rule and formula. But vampires are so amazing because they laugh in the face of all those rules. Flying, drinking people’s blood, staying up all hours of the night. By an actuary’s logic, vampires are at high risk for an early death. Well, too bad actuary, because vampires live for-fucking-ever.

SHAWN: Vampires may say they live forever, but throw garlic salt on one, drag him into the sunlight, shove a cross in his face, and then stab him in the heart with a wooden stake, and you’ll be singing a different tune. Sure, actuaries also die in sunlight, but that’s only because their pale skin burns quickly—it’s not an all-destructive kryptonite. And just because you think an actuary’s job is boring doesn’t mean everyone else does. Maybe you should talk to one before you take those sleeping pills and he’ll tell you that (a) it’s not a good idea without the proper coverage, and (b) he’s pretty damn cool. Did you know the actuary Maurice Princet actually had a critical influence on Pablo Picasso and the entire cubist movement? Now who’s cool? And saying actuaries do nothing of value ignores the fact that they do everything of value—it’s one of the best and highest paid jobs in the country, according to several dying newspapers. How much do vampires get paid? Oh, wait, nothing—because they’re evil and suck the blood from humans. Actuaries merely suck out stupidity and replace it with proper financial assessment.

Books prey on virgins too.

RYAN: Oh, now come on. Everyone knows Maurice Princet was a mathematician first, actuary second. He only influenced the cubist movement because of his work in the field of math. Not because of what he did, if anything, as an actuary. That’s like saying Michael Jordan influenced the world of sports because of his career as a baseball player. Nobody would ever believe something as ludicrous as that. Not even Ludicris himself. And for the record, just because actuaries are paid well doesn’t mean they have the best jobs. Garbage men are paid well too. Because nobody wants to do it. So to create a demand for the field, the jobs are high-paying. That hardly makes the job any less boring. And really, not all vampires are evil. That’s just a stereotype that’s unfortunately still prevalent because of ignorant people like you who believe anything you see on the picture radio. Vampires are simply misunderstood. There’s no need to form an angry mob and march up to their homes while waving torches and pitchforks, all so you can run them out of town. Vampires want nothing more than to live a peaceful, secluded existence in their large, gothic castles. And maybe occassionally feast on the necks of some naive women who fall victim to the vampires’ unrivaled powers of seduction. Who are you to say that makes them “evil”? If vampires truly are “evil”, then how do you explain all the unheralded charity work they do for the Red Cross?

SHAWN: Whether or not Princet influenced cubism via actuarial work is out of the question, as he did influence cubism and he was an actuary, thus proving that actuaries can rock as hard as the next vampire. And I’m not sure what diamond-wearing, mansion-living, millionaire garbage men you know, because even though they get paid well, they’re not one of the best paid jobs in the country. Actuaries have challenging jobs that take a ton of work and testing to get into, and they get paid accordingly. Don’t be jealous of their superior intelligence, grit, stamina and agility. And, yeah, they have agility. They’re like math ninjas with the way they can work around percentages without ever touching the floor. They’re the real misunderstood species, silently solving mathematical problems everyone else is scared to tackle. As for vampires, it’s pretty easy to understand that sucking human blood is evil. Maybe they attract angry mobs because of all the murder? Have you considered that? If they wanted solitary existence, they wouldn’t seek out virgin blood to suck. And get out of your naïve little world, my friend, as they don’t actually donate any of that blood to the Red Cross, like they say they do! They keep it for themselves! As for actuaries, the only thing they keep is a deep comprehension of your finances and they use those powers to help others. People generally don’t form mobs to stop that.

It's even better if you sit in the front row.

SHAWN: Weeeeeeeeeeeee! Wee! Wee! Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!! That’s the sound of me, on a roller coaster, having some of the most fun of my life. Where else can humans experience the excitement and thrill of soaring up and then down, and sometimes even motherfucking upside-down? It’s crazy. Just remembering the adventure of your first roller coaster experience makes you want to go back. Remember the anticipation as your metal car creaks up its first wooden hill and the emptiness of your stomach as it rapidly descended like Shia LaBeouf’s balls will one day? And then there’s the realization that you’re flying and soaring and laughing and screaming all at once. It’s like encountering the most honest and emotional parts of life in only three minutes. Plus, dude, roller coasters are really fucking sweet.

RYAN: Roller coasters are hardly worth talking about. I’d say they’re nothing more than a cheap thrill, but frankly they’re not even cheap. It costs you $50 for a ticket and then you have to wait in line for an hour, maybe even two. All that for a three-minute ride. Hardly seems worth it. Especially since the highs and lows of roller coasters are completely manufactured. You want real highs and real lows?  Fancy yourself a fan of danger, excitement, and living on the edge? Then look no further than menopause. It’s nature’s version of roller coaster, except it doesn’t last mere minutes. It can last days, months, years, even years! But wait, you’re probably saying right now, I’m a man and I can’t experience the fun of menopause. Wrong! Menopause is so much fun for women they just can’t help but share it with all those around them. Better grab onto something, cause you’re about to go on the ride of a lifetime!

Looks like someone got a little too excited.

SHAWN: Do you live in the Hamptons? Or maybe Narnia? I’m not sure where you’re finding $50 roller coaster rides, but that’s about as mythical a statement as “no terrorist attacks happened under Bush” (how quickly we all have forgotten about Scooby-Doo 2). Maybe you’re referring to the $50 tickets to Six Flags, in which you get a whole gamut of amusement park rides and all the roller coasting you could dream of for an entire day—not a bad deal. Go to a smaller park or local county faire and you can enjoy the pure bliss of roller coasting for a mere $1 per ride. Only the best roller coasters have a long line and, dammit, dropping 400 feet in 12 seconds is totally worth it. As for menopause, even though women love to share it with those around them, as a dude, you will never experience the true “natural roller coaster” of it—so you better fork over a few bucks if you ever want to have a little fun. Plus, menopause may be fun and all, but the end result is infertility, depriving women and men of something even more of a roller coaster—pregnancy. Luckily, the only actual roller coasters that end with infertility are the standing ones that crush your balls.

RYAN: No, I don’t live in Narnia, no matter how many closets I check. Unfortunately, I live in the real world. And in the real world, roller coasters cost money. A lot of money if you want to ride a good one. Don’t even start on the ones at the county fair. Even at $1, they’re overpriced. You’d get more excitement and thrills from riding a Big Wheels down the hill of a retention pond. As for the amusement park roller coasters, you might think that long wait is worth it for those 12 seconds of fun, but trust me on this one. Women want their fun to last longer than that. A LOT longer than that. That’s why menopause is so fantastic. It lasts plenty long, which is why nobody ever complains about not getting their money’s worth. Because it’s completely free, courtesy of mother nature. So what if menopause closes the door on the potential for having kids? By that time in their lives, women should have already crapped out all the kids they wanted. If it weren’t for menopause, grandparents today might still be welcoming new babies to the family. Hey, Shawn, go say “hi” to your Uncle Stevie… and change his diaper while you’re at it. And you’re sorely mistaken if you think as dudes we don’t get to experience the roller coaster of menopause. Mark my words, in 40 years we’ll make an update to this blog entry to just say “Shawn concedes the point”.

If I can't have any more babies, I'm taking yours!

SHAWN: Does that last comment mean I have to stay friends with you for 40 years? Because my plan was to ditch you sometime in 2013 when my first album—Heat Street—goes triple platinum in Germany. Don’t worry—I’ll give you royalties for coming up with the title of the second track, “Ryan’s Wrong All the Time.” And Ryan’s most wrong today, folks, about nobody complaining about menopause. Hell, most women would say menopause doesn’t last long enough (the same complaints issued against Ryan), while others would prefer they get to choose when it happens. There’s magic in the fact that you get to decide when you want to experience the pure thrill and escapism of a roller coaster. Menopause happens to you, whenever the hell it wants to. We’d be way better without it. Plus, it’s not like menopause is the only thing keeping grandparents from reproducing—there’s also the fact that the elderly don’t have sex. On top of that, if women really don’t want kids, there are ways to tie certain tubes to accomplish it, and they can get that done whenever they want. Fuck you, menopause, you forceful tyrant. Now, it sounds like your main complaint against roller coasters is cost? Welcome to America, where the most fun costs the most money (one day you’ll experience a high-end $10 prostitute and you won’t be able to stop talking about the difference). But, even then, fun roller coasters are a steal, as they come jam-packed with a whole amusement park of amusements. All menopause comes jam-packed with is withered ovaries.

RYAN: Heat Street’s finally dropping in 2013? I just figured with the way you kept building that album up, it was going to be this decade’s Chinese Democracy. I may still be right, since it will probably suck just as much. Speaking of sucking, way to read there, Shawn. I never said women don’t complain about menopause. I said they don’t complain about getting their money back. Big difference, in that what I said can never be proven wrong. Still, anyone with half a brain can see the value of menopause. If making the hard decisions and preventing dangerously late-in-life pregnancies makes menopause a forceful tyrant, then so be it. But those decisions have to be made. And I don’t trust people to make it for themselves. It’s cute that you you think the grandparents of the world aren’t bumping their wrinkled uglies. Oh, to be that naive! Spend more than three minutes in a retirement home and you’ll realize those places are nothing more than extremely well-supervised orgies. Funny though, that when given the choice, some people so adamantly choose not to ride roller coasters. I thought they were supposed to be magical and delightful. So why are people moved to tears when forced to ride one? Maybe cause they’re not nearly as much fun as people want. Maybe cause each year, as many as five (FIVE!) people die each year. In my book, that’s five too many. Menopause may be bad an all, but at least no one ever dies from it.

Next On Danger Queue: Vampires vs Actuaries—Both Are Huge With Teen Girls Right Now

Hope we didn't spoil the ending for you.

RYAN: Wow. Talk about a twist. Bruce Willis is a ghost! My mind is still blown from that. M. Night Shyamalan is known for the twists at the end of his movies, and all these years later, this is easily the greatest of them all. Way better than the big reveal at the end of Lady in the Water, when we all learned how stupid we were to pay money to see that movie. I mean, wow. Bruce Willis. A ghost. Nobody can honestly say they saw that coming. Not even me, and I normally have an eagle eye for these sorts of things. Not to brag or anything, but I knew almost immediately that the Mighty Ducks were going to beat the Hawks in the championship game. But I had no idea what was happening in The Sixth Sense. I thought it was all about that little kid from Thunder Alley and all the creepy ghosts he saw from time to time. And then TWIST! Bruce Willis was one of those ghosts.

SHAWN: Pshaw. Bruce Willis is a ghost is a cheap trick compared to the undeniably unpredictable turnaround at the end of Planet of the Apes. Hell, even the movie title is leading you to believe that Charlton “Chew” Heston is on some kind of distant planet of the apes over 2,000 years in the future. But you know what? It was Earth all along! Earth!!! After trying to escape this horrible future planet where apes rule over man, it all turns out that it’s the very planet we all live on today. Our future is a planet of the apes. It really makes you think. Maybe we should all reconsider the ways we treat apes—especially you, Ryan, and the frequency in which you plaster your naked ass on the gorilla cages at the zoo to taunt them. Sure, The Sixth Sense had a twist, but once it came out it was obvious. Now, Planet of the Apes gave us a twist that made us reconsider the way we live, long after the initial shock wore off. Making us think? God damn you all to hell!

Bruce Willis (left) with Toni Collette (right) in The Sixth Sense.

RYAN: There was nothing cheap about Bruce Willis being a ghost. It was masterfully set up by one of the most iconic directors of our time. Shyamalan put all the hints right in front of our faces, but we were too busy stuffing ourselves full of popcorn to even notice. No one but the kid ever talked to Bruce Willis because they couldn’t even see him. His wife wasn’t being a bitch and completely ignoring him like we all thought. She just thought he was dead and gone. But he wasn’t. He was a ghost. And here he was, trying to help the boy who saw ghosts, when he himself was a ghost! Oh, the irony. The delicious, delicious irony. Yes, once that twist came out, it was obvious, as is the case with ANY twist in ANY movie. But The Sixth Sense’s twist was far superior because it never told us that Bruce Willis was alive. We just all immediately raced to that conclusion on our own, setting ourselves up for the big reveal. Planet of the Apes resorted to low-class tactics for its twist. The whole movie we were told they were on some distant planet, and then at the last minute they were all “Hey, we lied. It actually is Earth.” That doesn’t seem well thought out. That seems like a last minute addition to make a movie suck a little bit less.

SHAWN: Are you saying that Bruce Willis being a ghost wasn’t a tacked-on ending to make that movie suck less? Would The Sixth Sense have been just as good without the twist? Do you remember a single other scene besides the ending, you damn, dirty ape? No, you don’t, because it’s a mediocre movie that got hype because of the old switcheroo. Planet of the Apes, however, is one hell of a thriller and the ending enhances its awesomeness, rather than revealing the fact that you just endured a two-hour mind-fuck and nothing more. On top of that, maybe if you saw Planet of the Apes, you’d know it had a delightful setup and planted the seeds for the phenomenal twist through and through anyway. How have the apes, on an allegedly uninhabitable planet, domesticated horses? They must’ve already been there! How come the apes have the same class system as humans? Did that happen organically? What’s this technologically advanced civilization Cornelius is revealing the remnants of? And where did Dr. Zaius go to med school? Probably Northwestern! It’s all there, if you’re willing to pay a lick of attention. Yet the ending makes you not just question the film you just saw, but life as you know it. And Shylamalan is one of the most iconic directors of our time? Do I really need to direct our readers back to your hilarious Lady in the Water zinger?

"I...saw...Lady in the Water."

RYAN: Please, son, there were many memorable scenes in the Sixth Sense. You’d remember them if you didn’t spend the whole movie trying to cut a hole in the bottom of the popcorn you were sharing with your mom. The girl dying of cancer and her homemade video. The children hanging in the school. Bruce Willis being shot. Saying that the Sixth Sense was a mediocre movie sans for one scene is just being ignorant. Why are you so damn ignorant? If you think the twist to Planet of the Apes was tacked on, fine, but even you can’t argue there’s an inherent difference between the execution. Sixth Sense’s setup was intellectual, based on superior writing and filmmaking. It gave subtle clues to the ending — Bruce Willis not wearing his wedding ring, Bruce Willis wearing the clothes he was shot in, and his wife being cold whenever he was around. Meanwhile, much like a monkey with a pile of feces in hand, Planet of the Apes obnoxiously threw all its hints right in our faces. And “hints” is a bit of stretch, considering the “setup” you speak so highly of consisted of a character literally saying they were on some faraway planet. Oh, so subtle! If a movie as horribly put together as Planet of the Apes can make you question your life, then you have quite possibly the saddest life of anyone I’ve ever met. And I once met Frank Stallone (nice guy, that Frank). And yeah, Shylamalan is an iconic filmmaker. He doesn’t make amazing movies each time out, but who does? Certainly not the director of Planet of the Apes. He’s such an unknown I could literally make up a name right now and nobody would know the difference. Hmmm, oh, I don’t know, how about… Franklin Schaffner? Yeahhhh, that’s the name of the director… or is it?

SHAWN: Okay, all those scenes you just mentioned from The Sixth Sense? Yeah, I don’t remember them, and neither does anyone else who saw the movie over ten years ago when it came out. And that may well be the fatal flaw of the movie right there—once it’s done, is it ever worth seeing ever again? The whole movie is about a twist, so once it’s revealed what’s left? Bruce Willis’s fine acting? Nah, can’t be that one. And the fact that Planet of the Apes has obvious hints makes it all the better—you can actually sit back and enjoy it if you want, because it’s a fucking movie. Who wants to spend the whole movie playing I Spy? And who’s this Franklin Schaffner, you ask? Well, have you heard of the movie Patton? Yeah, he directed that—oh, and won an Academy Award for it, thus solidifying himself as a legend. How many Academy Awards has Shyamalan won? None, you say? Yep. So, overall, at its core, Planet of the Apes is simply way more exciting. Heroes get killed, there are chase scenes, the costumes are like five years ahead of their time—that’s a movie. You’re not only interested in paying attention because your friend saw the movie last week and told you there was a twist, but you’re actually excited about the plot and the characters and—when you find out it was Earth all along—you’re all, “WHAT THE FUCK?!” and you actually feel something because you were running from the apes with Charleton Heston. You know, as opposed to getting to the ending of The Sixth Sense, being all, “That’s the twist?” and then telling other people, “Meh, it was an alright movie. Could have used an entire planet of apes, though.”

Next On Danger Queue: Roller Coasters vs Menopause—Someone Stop This Crazy Ride

Because we surely can't cook our own breakfast.

SHAWN: Breakfast is easily one of the three most important meals of the day, so why would you want to stuff anything subpar down your gullet for it? Thankfully, God (and that little Dunkin’ guy) gave us donuts. Not only do they come in an array of sizes, shapes and flavors (sprinkles!), but they’re so sweet and delicious you might not need to eat for another two hours or so. Hell, some are stuffed with shit like jelly, jam or marmalade! They really are a phenomenal treat that’s quick and easy—you don’t have to spread anything on them yourself—and they are entirely eatable, with a hole for holding or sometimes a long, skinny shape for conveniently shoving them in and out of your mouth. They’re just as easy to find, with Dunkin’ Donuts now required to set up shop at every corner in the country. On top of that, donuts are really cheap. Like insanely cheap. Like you can buy a dozen of them for the price of two hours parking. I have a place for those 12 donuts to park—in my mouth.

RYAN: Breakfast is definitely one of the most important meals during the day. Way more important than brunch or lupper. So stop wasting your time shoving dozens upon dozens of things in and out of your mouth like you’re back in college. When I eat breakfast, I want something quick that can power me through the morning. Donuts may taste kind of good, depending on what color sprinkles you got, but you said it best: they’re nothing more than a treat. When I climb out of my racecar bed each morning, I’m not looking for a treat. I’m looking for a meal. That’s why time after time, I start my day with a hearty bagel. Delicious. Filling. Delicious. Bagels are everything you could ever want from a breakfast food. Possibly more, depending on what exactly you want. But if you want variety at breakfast, oh shit, then you need to go and get your bagel on. Cinnamon. Raisin. Even cinnamon raisin!

Not shown: Five-gallon tub of reduced fat cream cheese.

SHAWN: Wow—three varieties of bagel that are all basically the same? How could that be possible?! Such intensity! So how are those cruller bagels? And the knot-shaped ones? And the jelly-filled? And the sprinkles? And the chocolate? And the powdered? And, yeah, bagel varieties got nothing on donuts. Plus, bagels are hardly hearty, what with their immense calories, simple structure, and inability to be considered well-balanced in any regard. Granted, donuts are a treat as well, but don’t pretend bagels are more than the pride of New York Jews. There’s, what, like one Einstein Bros. for every 5,000 Dunkin’ Donuts? Yeah, because people like awesome food. I mean, donuts are fried fucking dough, stuffed and coated and sprinkled and intensified. You don’t need to buy a $5 bucket of cream cheese (or “schmear”, a word generally reserved for the way feces coat the inside of a toilet bowl) to make them palatable. They’re already perfect.

RYAN: Wow. So many contradictions there I don’t even know where to start. You say bagels have a “simple structure”. Do you ever actually look at a donut before shoving it in your mouth? Cause most of them have the exact same “structure” as a bagel. A circle with a hole in the middle that’s meant for holding it but I know you use it for other unholy, frowned-upon things. Oh, and bagels are so unhealthy because of all those calories, huh? If you were really worried about your caloric intake, I doubt you’d be eating a bunch of fried dough smeared with icing and sprinkles. Unless you were itching for one of those heart attacks everyone’s talking about nowadays. Bagels are just as delicious as donuts, but way healthier. With donuts, you’re stuck trusting some shady, bleary-eyed hooligan to spray globs and globs of icing on your donuts, if it’s even icing in the first place. With bagels, you’re in control. You choose what kind of cream cheese you get and you choose how much to use. Maybe you want to pile it on there. Maybe you want just a smidge. Bagels won’t force you to shove anything you don’t want down your mouth. Though I know you go for that sort of thing.

I think Shawn just Krispy Kreme'd his pants.

SHAWN: Oh my God, why can’t you read? When I talked about bagels’ “simple structure”, I was saying it meant they weren’t a meal. I then also said donuts weren’t a meal, but apparently you write your responses before actually finishing reading the paragraphs. Gees. Head in the game, Ryan. Everyone knows that’s my thing. But I’m saying I agree that bagels are just like donuts, except for the one important distinction—donuts come in an infinite variety, all delicious, and all tastier than your stupid bagels. If you’re going to suck down a holey object bursting with calories, anyone with half a brain would pick donuts over bagels, which are the Josh Duhamel of breakfast food (you only turn to bagels when all the other movies starring delicious donuts are sold out). And, speaking of contradictions, did you just say bagels are healthier? Is it the sesame seeds that fooled you? Because, get this, hot shot: according to the nutritional values right there accessible online, one glazed donut is 180 calories, while one gross PLAIN bagel (no cream cheese) is 340 calories (540 with cream cheese). Suck on that. And what Dunkin’ Donuts do you go to where you’re not in control of the kind of donut you get? Yeah, you don’t say, “One donut, please,” and see what the hell drops in the bag—you tell them what you want (“chocolate, with sprinkles, and stuffed with grape jelly and radishes please”) and, sure enough, they fucking already have it made! No work on your part! Anyway, I guess I’ll just stop writing now since you’re only going to respond to the first seven words.

RYAN: Sorry, I didn’t know you were channeling your inner Gary Busey and expecting me to read between the words you didn’t bother writing. I’ll try and do better the next time, I promise. I don’t know what AOL member’s homepage you pulled those nutritional values from (PrEtTyPrInCeSs1994?), but they’re certainly not real. At the very least, they’re not from Dunkin Donuts, which is surprising considering how you’ve gone out of your way to mention their stores this entire time. Either you’re completely obsessed with their food or you’re angling to get some freebies. At Dunkin Donuts, a regular, gross, glazed donut, which nobody eats, comes in at 220 calories. A chocolate frosted cake donut: 340 calories. I don’t see any nutritional info for any stuffed with jelly and radishes, but it’s certainly high. Even if your nutritional values were real, which they aren’t, you’re overlooking the fact that donuts are so unfulfilling that everyone eats at least 2 or 3 of them at a time. Or at least that’s what I gathered from reading what you said about them only holding you over for 2 hours or so. Was that another case of you meaning something different than what you wrote? What bagels may lack in variety and deliciousness, they more than make up for with their versatility. Donuts are limited to breakfast and only breakfast, unless your life is so sad you resort to eating donuts for dinner, in which case my heart goes out to you. Bagels, on the other hand, continue to shine on during lunch and dinner. Or have you never heard of a little thing called pizza bagels? Hmmm. Interesting. Does anyone make a pizza donut? Yeah. Thought not.

Next On Danger Queue: Bruce Willis Is A Ghost vs It Was Earth All Along—Ummmm…Spoiler Alert?

Opening endless possibilities since 1895.

RYAN: The excitement, the anticipation, the glitz, the glamor: it’s easy to see why literally millions of people each year gather around to catch a mere glimpse of the New Year’s Ball Drop. It’s a time-honored tradition that launched the career of Dick Clark all those decades ago. The ball may change each year—it gets bigger and more shiny—but its magical journey into a new year is always the same. For when the ball slowly begins its descent, it becomes a symbol of hope for all those who gaze upon it. It represents a whole new year where anything is possible. True love can be found. Promotions can be had. Money can be earned. Friends can be made. Resolutions can be kept. While most, if not all, of those things will undoubtedly not come to fruition, for those few seconds, everyone truly hopes and believes they’ll come true. And if Shawshank Redemption taught me anything (besides to always look at a man’s shoes), it’s that hope is a good thing. Maybe the best of things.

SHAWN: Hope may be good, but I can think of something better—naked ladies. And those naked ladies mean very little to a young man until the most important time of his life and that would be puberty. Another time-honored tradition that launched the career of Dick Clark, puberty is when a boy becomes a man and, as we all know, men run the world. In other words, puberty is the most important event in the world. Like New Year’s, it involves the slow descent of a ball—two, in fact, if you’re not Ryan—that eventually drop and signal hope for all that gaze on it. They also get bigger and more shiny until that most-important moment, but the thing that really makes puberty better than the New Year’s Ball Drop is that it’s more than a moment. Hell, some suggest puberty lasts well into a man’s 90s, and I won’t disagree. For the rest of a man’s life, he can enjoy the sweet sound and feel (especially the feel) of sexuality, Shawshank Redemption-related or not. Anything is possible when a man reaches puberty, and it all actually happens. All those possibilities that come with the Ball Drop—resolutions, money, promotions, hope—die about two weeks in when the local gym clears out once more and life returns to normal. Luckily, thanks to puberty, we have a Dick to help us through it all—and I’m not talking Clark.

Awww, yeah, this New Year's just got rockin'.

RYAN: Puberty can hardly be considered the most important time in anyone’s life. Unless by important, you mean horribly awkward time plagued by bad acne, a cracking voice, and random erections. Nobody enjoys going through puberty. They just want it to be over with so they can move on with the next phase of their lives. Unfortunately, puberty isn’t an overnight process. It’s painfully long, lasting years, if not decades. Worst of all, there’s no choice in the matter. Everyone has to go through puberty. Like it or not. The New Year’s Ball Drop, however, is something people want to go to. And for good reason, too. It is, after all, a well-orchestrated party planned down to the very second. Crowds of people gathered around. Plenty of celebrities. Live music being played by some of the hottest stars. The promise of sexual activity lurking in the air. And the hope of what will come with a the new year. Will things pan out the way people want in the new year? Probably not, but It doesn’t matter what happens after that ball drops in Times Square. All that matters is for that brief period of time, there are no worries or problems. With the New Year’s Ball Drop, everyone is living in the moment and carefree. On the complete opposite end of the spectrum lies puberty, where everyone is self-conscious and worried.

SHAWN: First of all, not everyone had a puberty plagued by every stereotype in the book. Did you also work at Burger King, stutter in front of cheerleaders, and have an uncomfortably deep conversation with the jock while locked in the school for Saturday detention? And we both know that random erections don’t stop after puberty, especially with all the sexy ads on TV these days (Snap and Crackle, I think I just found Pop). Just shove a book in front of it and you’re good. And, even if there were one or two awkward moments in every pubescent boy, the end result is too great to pass up. Sure, we could all pass on puberty, but then we’d have to rule out sex forever. Is that what you want? Yeah, even you say half of the fun of the New Year’s Ball Drop is “the promise of sexual activity”—you know, the very thing that would never even occur if not for puberty. Now let me ask this: without the New Year’s Ball Drop, where would we be? Oh, look at that, nowhere different. Maybe we’d all be stuck watching some other New Year’s countdown—what a shame. Plus, unless you’re in New York City, that Ball Drop is only for babies and the elderly—no one in the middle gives a flying fuck. Last I heard too, you weren’t going to NYC this New Year’s, so which one are you—baby or elderly?

Two soft splashes immediately followed.

RYAN: Last I checked you weren’t going to NYC this New Year’s either, so what does that make you? And where do you get off criticizing what I did during puberty? Evidently in all those books you fucked with your random erections during your puberty. That’s sick, Shawn. Seriously. I’m scared to even ask if they were library books. There’s probably some little boy out there who never found out if the Little Engine That Could actually did because those last pages were stuck together. Just to clarify, are you really arguing puberty is great because of what happens when it’s over? Interesting point that makes absolutely no sense. You can have a shitty flight out to California, and when you finally land, that flight is still going to be just as shitty. That’s what puberty is. A shitty trip to somewhere kinda cool. There’s nothing shitty about the New Year’s Ball Drop. Despite what my book-fucking colleague said, it’s not for the elderly and babies, as we all know they can never stay up late enough to actually see it. Sure, you can watch it later if you really want to, but it’s not the same. The New Year’s Ball Drop is all about the experience. Gathering with a bunch of strangers who for just one night are your best friends. Everyone is there for the same reason and excited about the same thing. The New Year’s Ball Drop brings people together. Puberty, with all its raging and debilitating hormones, drives people apart.

SHAWN: Since I’m not going to NYC, what does that make me, you ask? That makes me someone who doesn’t watch the stupid Ball Drop! That’s the point, Hawking! You obviously do understand that the Ball Drop is for children, elderly, and elderly children—as apparently you think the Ball Drop is only fun if you’re in New York—so I won’t drill that point into your vagina any deeper. Plus, how can you say a flight to California was shitty when it got you to California? If you can’t get to the end without the means, well hot shot, the means are pretty damn important. And it sounds like this wasn’t the case for you, but during puberty naked ladies were just as great and my dong got just as much action (albeit by my pal Righty) as it does now—nothing wrong with that. Clearly, you’ve never been to a Ball Drop or you’d know that not everyone is there for the same thing. Many are there to pick the pockets of distracted tourists or to find a good young lass to slip a roofie too. Meanwhile, people around the world are having their own New Year’s parties—because they have actual friends that aren’t strangers—and laughing, partying, and kissing someone they know doesn’t have mono at midnight. Oh, yeah, funny you forgot to mention the kissing at midnight—probably because your hatred of puberty left you sexless and sterile. And, for the record, the Little Engine did. And he did HARD.

Next on Danger Queue: Donuts vs Bagels—Breakfast’s Not Breakfast Without a Couple of Holes

One talks funny. The other's a Wookie.

In the history of the world, there are probably no two people more vital to the course of time than Margaret Thatcher and Chewbacca. Operating in different times, places, and zip-up costumes, what the two really shared was courage, grace, and resilience. That is why they must do battle.

RYAN: There really isn’t much of a comparison between Margaret Thatcher and Chewbacca. One kinda ran some country for a few years. The other was co-pilot of the Millennium Falcon. That’s right. The Millennium Falcon. Ever heard of it? Made the Kessel Run in less than 12 parcecs. Twelve. That’s not just fast; that’s crazy fast. But Thatcher was pretty tough. I’ll give her that. You’d have to be to fly straight into an asteroid field to escape a Star Destroyer. Oh, wait. That was Chewbacca.

The Royal Navy's got nothing on this.

SHAWN: First of all, Han Solo is the impressive one who can maneuver a ship close enough to the Maw Black Hole Cluster to pass through without being annihilated. Chewbacca’s merely a co-pilot, while Margaret Thatcher was the pilot of the entire United Kingdom. Plus, Chewbacca was co-pilot for, what, three movies, whereas Thatcher held the longest reign in political office since Lord Liverpool in the 19th century! When Argentina invaded the Falkland Islands in ‘82, who sent a naval task force there so fast, the junta’s heads spun? Newsweek referred to Thatcher’s patriotic response as “The Empire Strikes Back”. Yeah, when was the last time anyone referred to Chewbacca as the “first woman Prime Minister”? Leader vs. sidekick: easy if you ask me.

RYAN: Chewbacca wouldn’t have needed to rely on a lousy naval task force to take care of his dirty work. He would have gone down there with nothing more than his trusty bowcaster and lit those Argentineans up. Remember when he shot that guy on the speeder bike from like 7 miles away? It would have been like that. Over and over. True, he only co-piloted for three movies, but those spanned well over a decade. And those movies were just a small sampling of his tremendous 200-year life: a life so full of accomplishments he was rewarded an MTV Lifetime Achievement Award. We all know they don’t just give those things away.

SHAWN: An MTV Lifetime Achievement Award? First of all, if Margaret Thatcher were still alive, which she is, she would totally get one of those. And, secondly, Chewbacca is now in the company of Godzilla and Clint Howard. Congrats? Hey, at least he finally got an award, since, despite all his “hard sidekick work”, he was the only rebel not awarded a medal of honor at the end of A New Hope. Yeah - clearly the Galactic Alliance also realized everyone would’ve done just fine without him. What awards does Thatcher have? Oh, just a little thing called the Presidential Medal of Freedom and a peninsula named after her in South Georgia! So where would I find the Chewbacca Archipelago, hmm?

A lifetime of mediocrity.

RYAN: Wow. Georgia. The country Europe doesn’t want and Asia doesn’t know about. Congratulations, Thatcher. You can die knowing you left your mark on the world. Or at least on a small part that no one will ever go to. The only reason Chewie didn’t get a medal of honor at the end of A New Hope was the obvious anti-Wookie bias within the Rebel Alliance. How many other Wookies did you see at that ceremony? Exactly. Which makes Chewbacca’s accomplishments that much more impressive. I’d like to see you put C-3P0 back together, fix the Millennium Falcon, and help in the destruction of not one, not two, BUT TWO Death Stars. All while everyone else is trying to hold you down.

SHAWN: Uh-oh, looks like Stewart’s up to his old tricks. South Georgia is not a bastard country, but a British territory in the South Sandwich Islands. Head in the game. Margaret Thatcher would’ve known that. Chewie just would have growled loudly and ate a baby (in all fairness, Thatcher might’ve eaten a baby too). But let’s just take this down to the one topic we’re clearly scared to tackle: hotness. Thatcher’s a babe and you know it. Hairier? No. But far more succulent in an evening dress? Hell yeah. Thatcher’s got zazz and class; Chewbacca just works at light speed. And, as you know, light speed isn’t anything to be proud of.

Next on Danger Queue: Ryan’s New Beard vs Shawn’s New Slacks