It's like a big game of who's gonna fuck who.

RYAN: What happens when you take a unique collection of women from all walks of life, put them together in a day-long event, and force them all to comically wear the same dress? You got yourself a set of bridesmaids, that’s what. And bridesmaids are easily the best part of any wedding. Don’t get me wrong. I love the smell of true love, the sharing of nuptials, and poorly written speeches as much as the next gal. But bridesmaids bring so much to the table. When you get any group of women together, there’s bound to be deep-seeded emotions: jealousy, distrust, annoyance, bloatedness. Normally those feelings get buried down (because that’s what girls do best), but when you force them to get all whored up and watch someone they know get married, they always boil over. You just have to watch for it. Who boxed someone out a little too seriously during the bouquet toss? Who danced a little close with the groom? Who drank a bit too much wine during dinner? It’s always a bridesmaid and, dammit, it’s always entertaining.

SHAWN: Taking a unique collection of women and shoving them all together for a whole day. Oh, God, that sounds horrible. And bitchy. And really, really passive-aggressive. Bridesmaides sound horrible and destructive for everyone around them. Why can’t they just be relaxed and chill, looking for a little party and poon after a long Catholic wedding? That’s where groomsmen come in, the unstrung heroes of every wedding. They’re low-stress, lots of fun, and pretty damn civilized until it’s 11 p.m., the bar and the dance floor are both still open, and grandma’s already left anyway. That’s when groomsmen shine, to save the reception, move fun-loving folks to the afterparty, and somehow muster some semblance of energy that no one cares to—nay, wants to—even have. Maybe we’re all busy pointing and laughing at bridesmaids, but we’re standing in awe of groomsmen who, for one night, put aside boyish games to make sure this wedding is actually the goddamn party it’s supposed to be.

Always trust groomsmen to safely guard your sepia-toned cars.

RYAN: Bridesmaids aren’t so much horrible and destructive as they are…fine. They’re horrible and destructive. But that’s exactly why they’re so great. Look, we’ve all been to countless weddings by now, to the point where they’re no longer fun or exciting. Instead, they’re chores. And the only thing that makes them even remotely memorable is the disaster that comes from having as many bridesmaids as possible (for the sake of this argument, I’m also including personal attendants, as we all know they’d be bridesmaids if the groom had more friends). Their snide comments, cattiness, and overall disdain for their friend getting married is what keeps us interested during the otherwise bland ceremony and reception. Oh, look: chicken with potatoes. I haven’t had that since the last wedding I was at. Last week. You just admitted that groomsmen do little to nothing before/during/after the wedding, and we’re supposed to respect them for that? That sounds like a case of lowered expectations, which I know you thrive on. Oh, but groomsmen get the party going at 11 p.m.? Wow, that sounds awesome, until the bar closes in 30 minutes. Good work, groomsmen!

SHAWN: I don’t understand how these fun-loving groomsmen are “chores,” while your “horrible and destructive” bridesmaids are apparently great. I haven’t seen horror and destruction lauded like that since Dachau. Clearly, based on your argument, you like bridesmaids because they’re like train wrecks and you can’t stop staring. That said, how can you favor train wrecks? People die in train wrecks! Trains get wrecked in train wrecks! Bruce Willis turns into a superhero or something in train wrecks! That’s all wretched, wretched stuff right there. Most importantly, no one would want a train wreck at their wedding. Groomsmen staying quiet is a godsend for brides and grooms, as they can remain the sole focus of this, the most important day of their lives. We all know it’s downhill from there, so why ruin it, bridesmaids? As for the bar closing at 11:30, I’m not sure if you’ve heard of other bars, but they now occupy buildings outside the party center of Bloomingdale’s. Yeah, and that’s where the groomsmen will be at 11:31, keeping the party going.

Bridesmaids, amiright?

RYAN: Oh, of course. Going to other bars! What a fantastic, properly thought out idea. I remember I did that after a wedding once in Cleveland. It worked out great, too. We got to the bar, ordered a drink, and then were told the bar was closing in 10 minutes. It’s understandable. I mean, it was close to 11 p.m. What kind of crazy bar stays open after 11? I think you’re missing the point on this whole wedding discussion. I’m not talking about your own wedding. Obviously no one wants a train wreck at their wedding, unless of course it’s an from unmanned train carrying moltern phenol, as told in the fabulous Denzel Washington movie Philadelphia. I’m talking about someone else’s wedding, where anything goes because I’m not the one paying for it. I want something memorable, something I can tell everyone for weeks, if not months, afterwards. Tales about timid groomsmen who do nothing for six hours don’t quite cut it. Their indifference to the whole wedding is, to be frank, offputing. But bridesmaids, oh, sweet, sweet bridesmaids. They care. They care to the point of ridiculousness. Groomsmen don’t give a shit, and it shows in everything from walking down the aisle to the garter toss. Half the time the garter lands on the floor because the groomsmen wouldn’t even bother lifting their arms up. But when that bouquet is tossed, those bridesmaids are boxing out like Dennis Rodman on the low post. And they only look slightly less ridiculous.

SHAWN: Don’t bring real facts into this, asshole. My wedding in Cleveland and the fact that all bars there close at noon has no bearing on the fact that groomsmen like to keep the party going long after it’s supposed to have ended. They make people love coming to weddings, because there might actually be partying. You know what’s not partying? Watching a bunch of shrews manhandle each other for a bundle of flowers, or watching a father-daughter dance. God, just make out all ready and kill the tension! Either way, groomsmen know what people want, and probably should be consulted far more on wedding planning. Groomsmen are what make weddings memorable. How many times do people leave a wedding, raving about how that one bridesmaid “politely took her hair down at 10:30, only to take it right back up”? You also still never told us why you think bridesmaids care. Could it be the fact that they stand next to their best friend, seething uncontrollably, wishing death upon her closest family, hoping she meets a cute boy at the reception? And you know what? Even if the bridesmaid meets one, he’ll be too busy partying, even if he squeezes in a one-night stand. That’s what groomsmen do—nay, that’s who they do.

Next On Danger Queue: New Babies vs No Babies—My Ovaries Are So Confused!

Either way, China is the winner in the battle of random Wikipedia articles.

SHAWN: In this sports-happy world of ours, where all eyes are on the NBA Playoffs and the WNBA Avon Parties, some people are missing out on the more interesting, unique, and ultimately phenomenal sporting events happening this year. One in particular comes to mind, and it’s no other than diving at the 2011 World Aquatics Championships to be held this July in rocking Shanghai, China. Sure, it hasn’t happened yet, but you know that shit’s going to be good. It has everything: 1-meter springboard, 3-meter springboard, 3-meter springboard synchronized, 10-meter platform, and more (10-meter platform synchronized). Plus, both men and women will be competing, so expect sexy things! Honestly, I wish it were July 16-24 right now. I’d provide a specific date, but they haven’t set it yet. But you know damn well it’ll be a good one.

RYAN: Oh, no! We wouldn’t want to miss out on the 3-meter springboard. Everyone knows that’s the best springboard of them all. It’s too bad the 2011 World Aquatic Championships are being held in Shanghai. Holding events there is so 2008. Then again, it doesn’t even sound like they’re going to happen at all. How can they not have a date locked in yet? That’s not only disrespectful, it’s an embarrassment to China and all of its past leaders, most notably Wang Jingwu, everybody’s favorite warlord from the delicious Tang Dynasty. For seven glorious years, Wang Jingwu owned the Pinglu Circuit. Nothing, absolutely nothing, happened without Jingwu’s approval. And unlike many other men of his time, Jingwu refused to blindly give his allegiance. His respect had to be earned. Now, I can’t speak for Jingwu, since he passed away 1095 years before I was born, but I’m fairly certain he would have been disgraced by the poor planning and leadership of the 2011 World Acquatic Championships.

Finally, a drink that captures the bold, citrus flavor of the Tang Dynasty.

SHAWN: Oh, the 2011 World Aquatics Championships are sure as hell going to happen. And Shanghai is so not 2000-and-late! If a country can do a damn fine job hosting an epic sporting event, I say let them do it again. If anything, having the 2011 WAC in China just shows how diving and other aquatic sports have risen to the same level of awesomeness as the Olympics. But you know who hasn’t risen to a level of awesomeness? Wang Jingwu. Why? Because he’s dead. And not just dead, but succeeded by his 15-year-old son. Yeah, apparently he can be replaced by a child. What kind of a warlord is that? Sure, the Tang Dynasty is the Bush Era of dynasties, but let’s have higher standards than that. The man expelled more governors than Arnold Schwarzenegger’s maid; he’s a pushy little tool. Now, diving at the 2011 World Aquatics Championship indeed leads to greatness, especially as a precursor to the 2012 FINA Diving World Cup. Don’t even get me started on that!

RYAN: Evidently being dead means someone can’t be awesome. I didn’t know that. Sorry, esteemed figures in history—George Washington, Harriet Tubman, Anna Nicole Smith—because apparently your accomplishments are irrelevant now that you’re dead and buried. Or, more likely, they’re even more awesome now that we can put their lives in proper perspective. Wang Jingwu rose from nothing to achieve one of the highest titles in the Tang Dynasty. So what if his 15-year-old son succeeded him? Warlording is a family business. We all know that. Just like we all know the 2011 WACs will be super lame. Being in Shanghai doesn’t mean the WAC is on the same level as the Olympics. It just means they’re pathetically trying to copy them, except the copy arrives three years later so that no one even gives a crap. Plus, there are so many competitions out there nowadays that it’s impossible to keep them straight, let alone give a damn about any of them. If you don’t do well at the WAC, you’ve always got the Pan Pacific, European Short Course, African, Caribbean Island, and Oceania Swimming Championships. Among many, many others. But you know what? There will only be one Wang Jingwu.

The World Aquatic athletes are known for their abilities as much as their ambiguous genders.

SHAWN: Well, I suppose being dead doesn’t necessarily remove you from awesomeness—I’m looking at you, guy from LFO—but the legacy is what matters. In Wang Jingwu’s case, his legacy is that he was a horrifying, brutal warlord who was eventually replaced by a child—the Bill Clinton of Chinese officers. And can we really say Wang Jingwu rose from nothing? Nobody knows his origins, so there’s a good chance he was just some rich kid with destiny imprinted on his forehead or that damn Mulan dyke in drag again. Wang Jingwu spent his life destroying and double-crossing and being called “Wang”, so I understand why you like him, but he’s still a dick. Now, diving at the 2011 WAC is a wondrous thing, with options and competitors galore making the world a more diver-friendly place. Who will win the gold? The silver? The topaz? Sky’s the limit! And maybe you should do you research or you’d notice that the 2011 WAC is in preparation for the Olympics. So, yes, that makes them pretty epic. They’re practically the gatekeeper for the Olympics. If you don’t master diving at the 2011 WAC in Shanghai, you might as well be Wang Jingwu because next year you’re going to be replaced by a younger version with nicer thighs.

RYAN: Not knowing Wang Jingwu’s origins is exactly what makes him so inspirational. Maybe he was some rich kid, or maybe he was some forgotten orphan raised by a traveling circus until the age of 9, when he earned his freedom and went on to bigger and better things. Whatever the details may be, there’s no denying that Wang Jingwu achieved greatness. He has his own Wikipedia page, for Christ’s sake. Do you have your own Wikipedia page, Shawn? No, didn’t think so. So stop being so judgemental, and stop trying to convince us we should care about the 2011 WAC. By your own admission, they’re nothing more than the gatekeeper for the Olympics, so then why wouldn’t I just watch the Olympics instead? The athletes would be better. The competition would be more intense. And the setting would be more epic. It’s like asking people to tune in for a practice instead of the game itself. I’m sure there will be a few bored losers with nothing better to do who will show up for the 2011 WAC, mostly parents of competitors and Shanghai residents who enjoy air conditioning, but I doubt anyone is circling those dates in July. Nor should they. You know what the WAC needs? A strong, powerful leader. Someone who can inspire them to achieve greatness. Someone like Wang Jingwu.

Next On Danger Queue: Bridesmaids vs Groomsmen—The Real Stars of Any Wedding

If these images make sense to you, you should probably stop reading now.

The entire crew at Danger Queue Enterprises (NYSE: DQE) would like to apologize for the delay in Dangers within May. To ensure continued awesomeness, expect Dangers every 2-3 weeks, rather than the previous weekly. This allows our tireless staff at Danger Queue to continue producing the high-quality, typo-ridden essays that you fine readers have come to expect from the #1 point/counterpoint blog written by Ryan and Shawn.

RYAN: I’m a busy man. I can’t afford to waste even a second of my day focusing on a single task. There’s simply too much to do. So if I’m awake, I’m multi-tasking. And that includes when I’m driving, which is why all my cars are automatic. I don’t have time to concern myself with trivial matters like shifting gears, and with my automatic transmission, I don’t have to. I let the car do most, if not all, of the work when it comes to driving, which allows me to get stuff done on my daily commute. Shaving, sending emails, texting, putting on pants, calling in to Crazy Ira and the Douche. Automatic transmissions are the tool for the modern man. Manual is an outdated feature that simply won’t die.

SHAWN: If you were truly a multitasker, you not only WOULD concern yourself with shifting gears, but you’d embrace it. A “multitasker” like you shouldn’t have any trouble drinking your coffee and putting on your mascara while driving your motor vehicle with a gear shift. It sounds more like you’re a lazy-ass than a multitasker. Making the car do all the work? You monster! I hope that lovely Protegé of yours dies, choking on its own engine fluids, knowing that you ran the poor thing into the ground because you reserve your right hand to “driving” (read: masturbating) rather than shifting gears. Manual transmissions may not be the transmission of the “modern man”, but the modern man is lazy and obnoxious. There’s nothing more fulfilling than having full control of your car, like it’s a body of armor. And, as you Exo-Squad around the neighborhood, you can weave in an out of the way of modern man as he floors it, waiting for his car to figure out what the hell to do as he keeps slowing down and speeding up and then jizzing all over.

Ryan can do it all, thanks to automatic transmission.

RYAN: Jerk it in a car one time—ONE TIME!—and it follows you around for the rest of your life. In my defense, I normally have enough restraint to make it home or to the nearest Denny’s restroom, but not after seeing that sexy billboard for laser hair removal. Insult me for that all you want, but don’t you dare question my multitasking abilities. Just because you’re stupid enough to think multitasking is about doing as many things at once as possible. Sure, I could shift gears myself like some kind of farmer, but multitasking is about doing what needs to be done. So why bother doing something that can be done on its own? When you need a duplicate of a document, do you painstakingly make a copy by hand or do you use the photocopier? When you want a glass of orange juice, do you squeeze the oranges yourself or just grab the carton of Tropicana from the fridge? Methinks you take the easy way out because you are in fact a modern man who drives an automatic car. There’s no shame in that. Sure, it makes you a lying hypocrite for your half-assed defense of manual, but there’s no shame in that.

SHAWN: Your jerking off in the car wouldn’t follow you around so much if you weren’t in a convertible, parked outside Jewel, asking how much the Thin Mints are. That shit gets you on the news—the FOX news at that. And, yes, no one’s buying the “laser hair removal” story still. My apologies for thinking multitasking meant that you do multiple tasks. However would one get that idea? Clearly, to you, multitasking means thinking and blinking at the same time, which you’ll get down one day. Methinks you just prefer automatic transmission because you’re too dim to figure out manual. I understand: all those options and numbers, and all the dexterity required to move your wrist in a non-stroking motion—it’s a challenge. But it’s a fulfilling challenge, and once you go manual, driving’s a whole new story. So much control. So much power. Do you also make your wife bathe you and your doctor feed you your medicine? Let’s hope you’ve figured out how to poop for yourself.

Awww, yeah, he's like a fucking NASCAR driver!

RYAN: I accept your apology, even if it was completely insincere. Don’t forget I’m married, so not only do I have a sixth sense for insincere apologies, but I’m also desperate enough to accept them. Obviously, multitasking is about doing multiple tasks. I’m fairly sure that’s how the term originated. But the truly smart, inspired multitaskers—Edison, Da Vinci, Danza—don’t waste their efforts on things that can be done on their own, which is the case with manual. With automatic, you can simply ignore the cumbersome burden of shifting gears and focus instead on everything else you need to do, which includes but is not limited to driving. Speaking of ignoring, how come you didn’t answer any of my hard-hitting questions? Either you’re just as lazy as the people you insult for driving automatic, or you know the answers would prove my point. Either way, that makes me a winner. And please, stop pretending like you a) have ever driven manual and b) have the dexterity to even master it. I’ve seen your tiny girl-like fingers struggle to open a pack Activia. And yet you want me to believe you’ve mastered the art of shifting gears. You know shifting from reverse to drive in your Saturn doesn’t count, right?

SHAWN: At least you were able to figure out my apology was sincere on your own, without requiring some device to do it for you automatically. And your examples—Edison, Da Vinci, Danza—are the absolute worst examples you could think of! Sure, they invented things that may aid people in doing other things automatically, but the only reason they were able to do that is by doing shit themselves, manual-style. There wasn’t no automatic Theory of Relativity Machine or a battery-powered Mona Lisa Painting Vibrator or whatever. This was manual, girl, and maybe if people were still focused on doing things themselves we’d have invented even better theories and machines, so that Edison, Da Vinci, and Danza wouldn’t have to be household names. Rather, people would be talking about how Jan in accounting invented the flying telephone or how Ryan invented the Mastrubator 3000X. With automatic, we have people committed to ignoring the world around them, focused on one silly objective like putting on makeup while driving, and missing out on all the exhiliration and fulfillment that comes with accomplishing something themselves. No wonder these drivers all get home to a half-eaten bag of Cheetohs and a backlog of TiVoed American Idol. Yes, I’ve driven manual and, super yes, it’s great, so fuck you. It would take an automatic to assume that you can finish an argument with one word answers. But I suppose I did, huh? Too bad it was in my favor. Also, that car I drive is my wife’s Saturn, so suck it. Unless you want to hire someone to suck it for you.

Next On Danger Queue: Random Wikipedia Article vs Random Wikipedia Article—You Best Stay Tuned

One attacks your body from the outside, the other the inside.

SHAWN: Ah, the sweet taste of wine: so glorious and fulfilling, like watching a season of Oprah beginning to end. Loving wine is an honorable tradition, ranking wine lovers in the elite caste of people with refined tastes. These winos, if you will, can’t get enough greatness, and who can blame them? From drinking enough wine that you can identify the difference between barrel-aged wine and urine, to sniffing every grape you see like it’s a lady’s ass, winos are the best of us, the most sophisticated and detailed. I’d say we should all be winos, but not everyone can pull off such a grand moniker. A true wino devotes his life to a single alcoholic beverage. Seriously, how is that not awesome?

RYAN: You would like winos. They’re pretentious, high-functioning alcoholics who only enjoy two things in life: drinking wine and judging people for the wine they drink. That’s right in your wheelhouse, and the only thing truly holding you back from being a full-fledged wino is that your thrifty, Jewish blood prevents you from spending more than $8 on a bottle of wine. That’s okay. Life has plenty of other, better things to offer. Take rhinos, for instance. They’re majestic beasts that combine the raw, sexual power of Tony Danza with the graceful, elegant beauty of Tony Danza. With seemingly unpenetrable skin and a large, deadly horn, rhinos, not lions, are the unquestionable leader of the animal kingdom. In fact, did you know the Cowardly Lion in the Wizard of Oz was supposed to be a rhino? They changed it because it was impossible for audiences to see rhinos as anything other than brave, powerful creatures that command respect.

Uh, yeah, you get 'em, rhino!

SHAWN: I’m not sure if you noticed, but the key word in “high-functioning alcoholics” is “high-functioning.” Yes, winos exist on an existential plane higher than standard ragamuffins. They think deeply about the booze they’re drinking, no matter how much of it they’re drinking. They’re thoughtful and considerate. When you find your standard American alcoholic, getting in bar fights, hitting children on the road, and screaming about Democrats, five bucks their night didn’t start with a glass of Cabernet. They’re getting off on Bud Light, and that’s only if they’re middle-class or higher. Clearly, you know little about wine, as well, or you’d know that these days an $8 bottle of wine can be fabulous, and this isn’t my opinion but that of wine experts in France. France, Ryan! You know what a classy place like France is lacking, though? Rhinos, and for good reason. Rhinos are filthy, giant beasts who, like Brian Posehn, are clearly remnants of prehistoric days when animals were built big and ugly. On top of that, you can’t even justify that they’re the leaders of the animal kingdom as they’re slow and docile. You never see a rhino taking down a gazelle at 40 miles per hour. They obviously changed the Cowardly Lion to be a lion because it’s ironic and interesting. A cowardly rhino is like calling me a Jewish Shawn or you a feminine Ryan—all redundant.

RYAN: High-functioning doesn’t mean you get a free pass to do whatever the hell you want. A high-functioning murderer still kills people, just like a high-functioning alcoholic still drinks way too much. And make no mistake about it, winos are full-fledged alcoholics. They may have the means to afford slightly better alcohol, but that doesn’t make it any better or any less obvious. Tossing around around terms like “full bodied” and “subtle flavors” doesn’t cover up an unhealthy reliance on alcohol to get through the day. Make no mistake, winos are alcoholics who lie to everyone on a daily basis. At least rhinos don’t live their lives under false pretenses. Are they the perfect animal? No, but they’re damn close. Undeniable power with stunning beauty thrown in for good measure. Maybe they don’t have the speed to take down a gazelle at 40 miles an hour, but seeing as how they only eat plants, I don’t think they need it. And that’s why they’re the unquestioned leader of the animal kingdom. Unlike lions, they don’t need to use fear tactics to lead. Instead, they use respect and honor to bring together the animal kingdom.

Even Galifianakis knows wine classes things up.

SHAWN: I’m not saying high-functioning gets you a free pass, but I am saying it shouldn’t get you put in the same category of crazy-ass alcoholics who could learn a thing or two about moderation. And the phrase “high-functioning murderer” is a complete oxymoron, as you’d have to be crazy to kill, like Hitler or Donald Trump. Plus, if you can use terms like “full-bodied” and “that tastes like dry oak” correctly, you sure as hell aren’t drunk. What’s wrong with enjoying a bit of a high-class alcoholic beverage? Why are you such a teetotaling square, Ryan? I bet you go home, make some fine toast, snap open a classy bottle of water, and watch the news. Wow, you sound fun. But not as fun as getting killed by a horrible, uncoordinated, monstrous beast like a rhino. Have you seen a rhino? If you call that “stunning beauty”, then you might very well be the man Camryn Manheim’s been waiting for all these years. And they only eat plants? That’s pathetic. Never trust a vegetarian. What’s so wrong about meat, maybe a little fine steak accompanied by a glass of red wine? Yeah, that sounds glorious, unlike “enjoying” some plants with God’s gigantic wrinkly mistake.

RYAN: Oh, please. Winos put themselves in the same category as crazy-ass alcoholcs with their crazy-ass behavior. The only difference being that winos have more elaborate justifications for their alcoholism. It’s okay to drink at 10 in the morning because it’s a wine tasting. It’s okay to drive home drunk because the roads are pretty much clear. Drinking in the morning and driving drunk are two telltale signs of alcoholism. So why should we ignore them just because they were drinking wine from some supposedly famous winery instead of from a 40 in a paper bag? That doesn’t make it any less of a problem. Speaking of problems, what’s your problem with rhinos? Because your irrational hatred of them is…irrational. Rhinos haven’t done anything to you. They don’t do anything to anyone, unless that person is trying to kill them for their horn, in which case all bets are off. The rhino may rule the animal kingdom with a quiet dignity, but only a fool would mistake that for weakness. I think you’re just jealous because rhinos are (a) stronger than you and (%) tougher than you and (() can pull off the horn way better than you. So what if getting killed by a rhino isn’t fun? I guess I missed the memo that states being killed is supposed to be fun. And it’s not like you’re one to talk. Right now, you’re on the path to be killed in a fiery car crash or after a long bout with liver disease. Which part of those is supposed to be fun? Watching yourself burn to a crisp, or slowly and painfully watching your body wither away? Have fun with that, you stupid wino.

To make this argument fair, we excluded the super awesome double-sided letter opener.

RYAN: Do you need to strike someone down, deflect a laser, cut through a wall, and see in the dark? Why, you’d need upwards of four, maybe five tools for something like that! Well, what if I told you that you could do all those things and more with just one tool? No, it’s true! It’s called a lightsaber, and it’s only far and away the greatest invention ever known. Elegant and civilized, lightsabers harness the power of light crystals to turn any old moisture farmer into a super badass killing machine. Throw away that clumsy, random blaster of yours. You won’t need it anymore. Because now you’ve got a trusty lightsaber hanging at your side. Fire that bad boy up and watch as everyone backs down. For behind that seemingly gentle hum lurks an undeniable power that demands respect.

SHAWN: To this, I say pshaw! Pshaw indeed! First of all, no one even gets lasers shot at them anymore, ever since the Laser Ban of 2003 after that accident in LAX. Secondly, we have doors now, so no need to cut through walls. Lightsabers are antiquated, archaic tools that are overpriced and underused. Plus, they’re not safe: last time I used my lightsaber, I lost a penis. Now, for a real amazing tool—possibly the actual greatest invention ever—look no further than the letter opener. Not only does it have a safely positioned yet ingeniously leveraged blade, but it’s easy to control and opens letters. Finally, you don’t have to suffer through paper cut after paper cut, tearing envelopes apart with your teeth. Thank you, letter opener. And have you ever tried opening a letter with a lightsaber? What a mess! Now I’ll never know when Laurel’s baby shower is!

Lightsabers turn harmless pussies into unstoppable killing machines.

RYAN: Archaic? Antiquated? Surely you jest. Lightsabers are as amazing and breathtaking as the day they were first invented. Letter openers, though; well, you can file those away with VCRs, Furbies, and your dismembered penis, as they’re all no longer useful to anyone. Nobody mails letters nowadays. You know it. I know it. Hell, even Laurel knows it, which is why she sent out an e-vite for her baby shower. (For the RSVP yes, she titled it “I’m expecting…to be there.” Classic Laurel.) You only think you need a letter opener because of all the “past due” statements you get in the mail. Just pay your bills on time and you won’t have to worry about papercuts on your tongue. Or better yet, learn how to open a fucking letter already. What are you? Three? It’s probably a good idea you don’t have a lightsaber, as you clearly do not have the hand-eye coordination or physical strength to properly handle one. I, on the other hand, do. Which is why I will continue to use my lightsaber until the day I die, which is closer than any of us think. Maybe doors and the laser ban makes lightsabers pointless in your mind, but that’s only because you’re a simpleton. Don’t you see? A piece of legislation will not stop people from resorting to laser violence. Thankfully, I’ll be ready.

SHAWN: Lightsabers are only breathtaking to you because you punctured a lung with one years ago. Everything from walking up a flight of stairs to smiling for too long takes your breath away. And maybe your letter got lost in the mail about this, but there’s still plenty of mail to go around. Just because you have no friends, family, life, money to order things, friends, and pen pals doesn’t mean other people don’t still get tons of letters. Also, for the record, letter openers aren’t a necessary tool to open letters—I can open them just as well with my wife’s teeth—but they’re a wondrous luxury that saves valuable seconds and rescues you from the accidental tearing of photos or chain letters. Such a nice product. It’s clearly nothing like the horrifying lightsaber that will (a) kill you soon enough, and ($) represent an anarchist movement of “laser violence,” as you call it. That actually sounds quite horrible, especially the part with all the violence. Let’s just hope your opponent doesn’t send a letter to surrender.

What do you do when the letter opener comes in a letter?

RYAN: I only punctured my lung because I was trying to do a little manscaping with my lightsaber. No regrets though. I now get to talk with this cool computer and my chest is smoother than a baby’s bottom. You really are stupid if you think letter openers are better than lightsabers. I know I call you stupid all the time, but I really mean it this time. Okay, I mean it every time, but still. A letter opener is nothing more than a sharp blade rendered almost completely useless by protective plastic. Why not just use a knife to open that letter? Or a pen? Or a ruler? Or anything with a straight edge? At least then you’d have something that’s multi-functional. A letter opener is like a one-trick pony, except the trick is extremely lame and the pony needs to be put out of its misery. Oh, but it’s all because of the safety right? If you were six years old, I could understand that. But you’re supposed to be a grown man now. You shouldn’t be using things like letter openers and safety scissors because you’re supposed to be busy driving, smoking, and having assloads of unprotected sex. So why not use a lightsaber every now and again? It’s what all the cool kids are doing nowadays. Sure, the technology existed a long time ago in a galaxy far away, but it only just got to Earth. It’s new and exciting, like the iPad, except way more functional. Unless you happened to have the lightsaber app for the iPad.

SHAWN: Now, if all things were equal, from safety to cost, you might have a point about lightsabers being cooler than letter openers. But, as Will Smith says, Welcome to Earf! You see, we live in a world where things do cost money, and the cost of a letter opener (free to $1.50) totally matches the cost of manufacturing ($0.001) to the customer’s benefit (free to $1.50), for a healthy average profit. Consider the lightsaber: there’s a big demand if you’re a Jedi, but otherwise it’s definitely unsafe, causes permanent scarring, and makes even the blind cringe when you take off your shirt now, Ryan. However, its cost of manufacturing ($9 million) and its cost to purchase ($20 million) does not match up with consumer value (looking bad-ass to $500), nor fits with the average salary of people who want to buy a lightsaber ($8.50/hour at that Blockbuster that just won’t close). Sorry to break out numbers, but lightsabers are a total waste. Seriously, why do you need six feet of power shooting out of your handl…oh, I see it. It’s your small penis. Sorry. Got it. It all makes sense. No, no–you go ahead and get a lightsaber or whatever. A lightsaber won’t laugh at you in the locker room.

Next On Danger Queue: Winos vs Rhinos—Pretentiousness Comes In Many Forms

For a mere few hundred bucks, all your dreams shall come true.

SHAWN: Ever fly in a plane? No? Oh, I forgot you’re poor. Ever get into a cardboard box, then, and pretend you’re flying a plane? Now we’re talking! Whether in an actual plane or not, it’s only human to dream of one day being a pilot—or, at the very least, flying your own giant pop can in the sky. And thanks to flight lessons, you can make that shit happen. For a mere $200 or so, you can hop into the pilot’s seat and control your own massive mechanical bird. Hell, and we all know pilots get laid at an average rate of 400% the amount of normal people, so get ready for that too.

RYAN: It’s not that I’m too poor to fly. It’s that airline tickets are way too expensive because of my limited means. Okay, fine. I’m too poor to fly. But even if I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be signing up for flight lessons any time soon. Sure, $200 a pop doesn’t sound like much if you’re a regular Richie Rich, but the next thing you know you’re paying for gasoline, runway fees, a pilot’s license, and eventually your own plane. I think instead I’ll sign up for dance lessons. They’re way cheaper than flight lessons, and only a million times cooler. I’ll learn all about the different styles of dance, culminating with the evolution of dance, which I assume is the final project. And along the way, I’ll learn how to move my body to the rhythm of a song and gracefully own any dance floor. And as you know, dancers get laid at an average rate of 450% the amount of normal people.

This guy's gonna kill it on his final.

SHAWN: Even if your shoddy math is correct and dancers get laid at an average rate of 450% the amount of normal people, 380% of those are the same sex, and all 450% are concerned that their partner will snap in half during loving. Pilots are homegrown manly men or womanly women who have mad skills that you can only attempt to replicate through lessons, which makes them all the more desirable and bad-ass. Anyone can dance, if The Situation has anything to say about it, and he does. Dance lessons are pointless and useless, and maybe good to prepare for your first dance at your wedding, followed by being useless. Flight lessons can keep giving. Imagine this, hot shot: you’re on a plane, the pilot AND co-pilot are narcoleptic. The flight attendant gets on the PA. “Can anyone fly a plane?” she announces, to a horrified crew and consumer base. People start throwing babies out windows to prepare for the crash…but then you stand up, a lone voice in the wilderness, and you land that motherfucking plane. Oh, but wait! You only took dance lessons, so in your attempt to cha-cha a landing, you all die. Thanks for nothing.

RYAN: Your hypothetical situation is ridiculous. We already established I never fly because I’m poor. You might as well have had me riding a bald eagle over the desert plains of the Sahara because that’s just as likely. And how would the pilots even be pilots if they’re narcoleptic? None of this makes sense, but then again nothing you just said makes sense. Anyone can dance but not everybody can fly? Apparently there’s no differentiation for you between doing something well and doing something poorly. I could sit behind the controls of a plane and fly it right now without any lessons if I wanted. Yes, there’s a good chance we’d go nosefirst into the ground, but that’s no less of a disaster than watching you attempt to dance to your favorite song, “Maneater”. An epileptic giraffe has more rhythm than you. But by taking just a few dance lessons, you’d learn how to move that sad, pathetic body of yours to the music. You’d learn how to command the dance floor with a combination of elegance and confidence, two concepts that are very much foreign to you. And you’ld use those skills every time you go out to the bars, which would be every night because of your rampant alcoholism. But how often do you fly in a plane? Three, four times a year?

No, no, you're right, Ryan, flight lessons are for chumps.

SHAWN: This argument isn’t about whether or not you personally should take flight lessons, idiot. You don’t matter—again, because you’re poor. Others do, though, and those people might have to land those motherfucking planes. And thanks for making my point for me—a bad dancer just looks like they’re having a mild and fun seizure, while a bad pilot murders. Way more is on the line, so you can’t even compare them. Who cares if I learn to dance when I’m on the dance floor? I’ll still be shaking my booty like a Polaroid picture’s booty. But who cares if you’re behind the controls of a plane without flight lessons? Surely everyone in that plane who’s praying that there’s beer in Heaven! It doesn’t matter if you dance more than you fly. On top of that, the fact that you dance so much makes dance lessons all the more worthless—you’re doing it enough, you’ll eventually get better, and soon you’ll have it mastered. You’re not going to make it through many practice flights without a flight lesson.

RYAN: You think that taking flight lessons will save lives? That’s an interesting point, considering the only people who ever take flight lessons are terrorists. Yeah, that’s right. I said it. Terrorists. See, when they’re not busy hating America and killing innocent people, they take flight lessons so they can further hate America and kill more innocents. But no terrorist has ever taken dance lessons, or at the very least, no terrorist has ever used dance lessons to bring pain and suffering to American soil. Because dance lessons are innocent fun. As Kevin Bacon taught us in his timeless movie “Apollo 13″, dance is a powerful tool that can bring an entire community together and save astronauts’ lives. You may think you’re shaking your booty like a Polaroid picture’s booty, but because you haven’t learned the fine intracies of dance, it simply looks like you’re trying to put on a pair of jeggings, which as we discussed ad nausem in your most recent intervention, is not something you should be wearing. But if you took just a handful of dance lessons, you’d own that father fucking dance floor like it was your job. And most importantly, it wouldn’t immediately get your name on the No-Fly List with all the other terrorists.

Next On Danger Queue: Lightsabers vs. Letter Openers—Use the Force, Mr. Postman

There's so much more at stake than spelling preference.

RYAN: Oh, joy! Today’s going to be the best day ever cause we’re going to the theater. Yes, the theater! The place where magic unfolds right before your eyes. Plays, movies, musicals, sex shows, the theater has it all, and it’s all just so magical, whimsical, and utterly fantastical! The theater is a place where people of all ages, races, tax brackets, and levels of beauty come together to escape into a world that can only exist on screen or on stage. It’s a place where you can sit back, snack on your giant bag of buttered popcorn, and witness something that will be simply unforgettable.

SHAWN: Forsooth, you cannot contain drama in its purest, rawest form within the confines of a building. Why, drama unfolds around you, in the least expected of places, but with no less impact. And that is why theatre is far, far superior than the theater. People see movies and pornography in theaters—that’s not art. Theatre lives around us, the tragedy of life, the comedy of…life, and the poetry of…poems! It’s all theatre, and it makes you feel more alive than ever. You shouldn’t be forced into only observing it on the stage, but you should allow it to come to life wherever you are, even if you become a part of it. Theatre!

I'll always remember you, too.

RYAN: Ah, yes. Of course. The arts. That’s what makes theater so great. Just last week, I saw Celine Dion perform out in Las Vegas. Now THAT’s theater. I almost spilled the giant bag of Skittles in my lap from standing up and applauding so much. By the time the show ended, my throat was hoarse from all the screaming and yelling. I couldn’t talk, let alone sing along to my car radio, for a few days afterwards, but it was all worth it for the experience of the theater. That’s why I try to get out to the theater as much as possible. There’s an energy level that you can’t find in grocery stores or on basic television. When it comes to theater, movies are my obvious favorite, especially ANYTHING with Adam Sandler, but I’ve been known to see some plays from time to time. Whittier Elementary puts on a lovely production of some of the Mother Goose classics, even though most of the actors break character to wave to their moms and dads.

SHAWN: Celine Dion is no more theater than dogs barking David Mamet. And that’s exactly the problem with theater. Simply putting someone or something in the theater does not make it theatre! Take Spider-Man: The Musical…please! THEATRE! But, seriously, you can put shit shaped like Celine Dion, a spider, or a Stephen King novel into a theater and that doesn’t make it theatre, you philistine. You dare bring along Skittles to a performance? Have you no soul? Clearly, you don’t, or you’d obviously feel that theatre is far superior than the theater. Theatre has soul coming out of its finely shaped ass. How does screaming at a singer constitute an experience? You can do that from home. Now, have that singer perform “I’m Telling You I’m Not Going” from Dreamgirls with all the glitz and beauty of one Jennifer Hudson and we’ll talk. That’s theatre. That’s power. At least you’re getting close by going to Whittier Elementary productions—their drama coach is brilliant—but maybe you should have a kid first.

Where do you think you are? The theater?

RYAN: OM-fucking-G! I saw Dream Girls in the theater and absolutely hated it. HATED it. That should have been a straight-to-video release. It wasn’t at all deserving of the theater experience. The only good thing was it had Eddie Murphy in it, who is in the discussion for the “King of Theater” title. I didn’t like his early movies in the 80s, but he’s really found his groove as of late. And now he just churns out hit after hit after hit. Any time he’s got a movie out, I’m there with my bag full of popcorn, large Diet Coke, and extra crinkly bag of Skittles. Because the theater isn’t just about what you’re seeing, it’s all about how you see it. You’ve got to have your snack foods. You’ve got to wear your show-specific clothing, and if possible, make your own poster to hold up throughout the show. For a Britney Spears concert, I had a poster asking her out on a date. I can’t say for sure, but I swear she saw it and thought about it for a minute. She only didn’t answer because she was right in the middle of singing “Toxic.” Where else can that sort of thing happen? Only in the theater!

SHAWN: Wait: what’s that? You hated Dreamgirls? More importantly, you had a negative experience in a “theater”??? A-HA! I guess that means the theater isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, hot shot. Now, I don’t know what I can impugn for your terrible taste—perhaps that soccer accident in the fifth grade—but clearly the theater is far from the magical place you’ve been describing it as. Hell, you apparently can’t even enjoy it without stuffing your face full of corn syrup and buttered corn syrup. And, seriously, Eddie Murphy? Maybe you just like him so much because you’re clearly on your way to becoming a Klump. Plus, it’s not the venue that’s drawing you to these things. It’s not the walls containing Eddie Murphy. It’s not the cranes holding up Britney Spears’ breasts. It’s THEATRE! Yes, its Britney’s ability to put on one hell of a show with little to no clothing, and Eddie Murphy’s ability to…not die. It’s living, breathing theatre, and it can’t be contained. Hell, take Eddie Murphy or Britney Spears out of the theater and replace them with no-talent hacks like Bob Dylan or Sir Laurence Olivier, and you’ll suddenly realize the theater has nothing to do with it. You’re in love with, yes, theatre.

Next On Danger Queue: Flight Lessons vs Dance Lessons—Because The Best Dreams Are Attainable

Smooth operator, touch my bumper (touch my bumper).

SHAWN: AAAAAHHH!!! AAAAAAHHHH!!!! EEEE!!! AAAAHHHH!!! What’s that noise, you ask? Well, some call it night terrors; I call it you. For the love of God, get out of my dreams. Out! I mean, sometimes I’ll be dreaming about puppies or roses or puppies with roses behind one ear, and suddenly you pop up, sometimes naked, shattering my dreamscape. Get out of there! These dreams are for me and me alone, and there’s nothing worse than having that sacred place defiled by someone else. Plus, I have no idea how you even got in there in the first place! Let’s just say that there will be no greater joy than if you get out of my dreams. No. Greater. Joy.

RYAN: I’m only in your dreams because I’m trying to incept the living shit out of you right now. It’s totally going to work too. I just need to go a few more layers down to fully plant the idea. There’s really a simple solution if you don’t want me in your dreams. Don’t go to sleep. And seeing as how you’re already awake, how about you get into my car? Come on. Hop in. We’ll drive around for a while. Nothing but open pavement in front of us, except for when we hit congestion near the city. But we’ll get through that and just keep going. And going. Because when you’re in my car, the possibilities are endless. We can go anywhere, or we can go nowhere at all. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that we’re together. In my car.

Ryan's up to his crazy tricks again.

SHAWN: How dare you try to incept me?! I knew you were lingering in my dreams for some reason or another. Now it’s all coming together. What damned idea are you trying to plant? I already said I wouldn’t marry you. Plus, inception doesn’t always work. It’s still new. It’s not worth the chance. Just get the hell out! It’s pure torture to have to close my eyes and see you constantly. GO AWAY!!! And, no, I won’t get into your car. You’ll probably just drug me to incept me again. Is there even room left in your car with all those dead hookers and schoolboys in there? I’m sure it’s smelly and cramped too, filled with McDonald’s wrappers and semen. It’s surely horrible to get in your car. No, thank you: I’d much rather have you out of my dreams before you plant the idea in there that I’m a furry or something.

RYAN: Believe it or not, Shawn, not everyone is trying to rape you. In fact, I’d venture to say that nobody outside of your immediate family is. I know I’m not. I’m only trying to get you into my car. That’s all. Would it help if I told you I had heated seats? Well, I’ve also got air-conditioned seats in this ride. Yeah. They make those now. Get into my car and you can see for yourself. Come on. Just sit back and relax. Stop worrying about who is in whose dream, and stop asking what idea I’m trying to incept you with. I can’t flat out tell you the idea, otherwise it will never take hold. If I want this idea to drive you, to define the rest of your life, I need it to seem like it was your own. So it’s crucial I stay in your dreams until the job is done. And really, this isn’t any worse than your usual fucked-up dream where you and Kathy Griffin defile the salad bar at Old Country Buffet. That, sir, is not an appropriate use of the sneeze guard.

Your powers are useless against the wrath of Griffin, sneeze guard!

SHAWN: Would it helped if you had heated seats?! Sounds like the Big Bad Wolf adding, “All the better to rape you with, my dear!” Now you don’t even have to wait ‘til the heat circulates to take your pants off. So, no, it doesn’t help. Same goes for air-conditioned seats. Didn’t your momma ever teach you to never, NEVER get into a stranger’s car or shake a baby? Sure, I used to not think of you as a stranger—more like an arch-nemesis or pet—but with all your creepy-ass incepting I certainly can’t trust you anymore. But believe me: it’ll be better for all of us if you get the hell out of my dreams. If you think stumbling on what Kathy Griffin and I did with that sneeze guard at OCB was bad, wait until you see the dream where Kathy Najimi and I do twice as much with a pile of iceberg lettuce. Yeah, you still want to go deeper in there, punk? Get the hell out of my dreams and stop incepting m…wait. I suddenly have an urge to sell you everything I own for $1. Huh. Oh, well: it’s my idea, so it must be a good one. You in?

RYAN: Well, if you’re selling all your stuff for a $1, I might as well be the one to buy it all. The Virtual Boy alone is worth almost half of that, and I’m sure the rest of your shitty stuff will cover the last fifty cents. Would you mind helping me load it up in my car? Here, you climb in the trunk and then I’ll just hand you each box. Yes. Yessssss. Up you go. Now lie down for a minute so I can see how much trunk space there is. Perfect. Yes, I love it when a plan comes together. And this plan was perfectly crafted. Getting into your dreams to incept you with an idea that would then lead to you getting into my car. Your feeble little mind never stood a chance against my intellectual prowess. Sure, I had to see some things that can never be unseen, including Kathy Griffin’s surprising flexibility. And I’ll never eat a crouton again. But it was worth it. And now that your in my car, we can head out to my rape dungeon. But don’t let the name fool you. It’s more of a cabin than anything else.

Next On Danger Queue: Theater vs. Theatre—All The World’s a Motherfucking Stage

If you were stuck with an entire year of only one season, which would it be?

RYAN: Goodbyes are usually so painful, full of tears and the occassional soiled pair of pants. But not in the case of Oprah’s Farewell Season. In this case, goodbye will be an amazing experience because with Oprah, this woman among gods among men, goodbye is a season-long celebration. A celebration of the most influential woman the world has ever known (take that, Thatcher!). Sure, there will be too many tears to count during this farewell season, but those tears will be of joy and love from all the free trips, cars, TVs, and clip-on booklights Oprah will give away. And with loyal friend and confidant Gail by Oprah’s side, and Oprah’s own television network showing us the behind the scenes gold, we can sleep well at night knowing Oprah’s Farewell Season will be the BEST SEASON EVERRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!

SHAWN: You’re right that goodbyes are usually painful and full of tears, but the key word is ‘usually’. In fact, some goodbyes are awesome, freeing the world of the treacherous grasp of an evil dictator, like when Hitler was defeated or Mubarak was ousted. And that’s what’s finally happening with Oprah. Finally, televisions will be free to show non-Oprah content, books will become popular on their own merit, middle-aged women won’t go through life thinking cars will be handed to them just for showing up in a random studio and fondling a producer. It’ll be a beautiful thing, and the world will rejoice, probably with one season that’s here to stay—garlic. Garlic seasons a meal more than Oprah spices up a life, and garlic’s affordable, practical, and delicious. Sure, you may need some refreshing gum to clean your breath afterwards, but don’t pretend you don’t require a cold shower or two after watching Oprah and Gail go “camping”.

You can bet whatever producer made Oprah do this is no longer with us.

RYAN: Oh, yeah, sure, garlic, what a great thing. It only makes everyone’s breath horrible and renders them completely unkissable, though that was true for you long before you ever had garlic. Garlic is an afterthought even in the world of spices. And the world of spices is so minute and insignificant, I shouldn’t even be wasting my time talking about it. But Oprah and her farewell season: that shit is legit. First off, we NEED Oprah telling women what to buy, read, and eat, purely because we don’t want middle-aged women thinking for themselves again. The last time that happened, we got New Coke. Secondly, even though you’re only pretending to hate Oprah to look like a big man (and it’s totally working), you touched on the reason why Oprah’s Farewell Season is so fucking fantastic. It has something for everyone. Those of us who love Oprah can enjoy the year-long tribute to the woman who makes our lives worth living. For all the haters out there, it’s a long overdue goodbye to a woman who you just compared to Hitler. So it’s a win-win-win situation. What’s that third “win” for, you ask? Oh, that’s just for me, because I clearly already won this Danger.

SHAWN: Look at you: only focusing on the aftermath of garlic, forgetting about the amazing and breathless experience a good slice of garlic bread or a good hunk of garlic chicken or a fine leg of garlic man provides. That would be like you, the same person who calls the world of spices “insignificant” not long after defending paprika like it’s a goddess. For shame. Garlic takes bland and creates magic—bread, chicken, and breaded chicken all become glorious with the help of garlic. Meanwhile, Oprah takes middle-aged women and turns them into mindless zombies. Just because women have reached menopause and are now useless to society doesn’t mean they have to stop having ideas and sexuality. Hell, the entire cougar movement is a backlash against Oprah. Sure, it’s still a small, underground uprising, but that eventually worked for Egypt. Oprah’s just too powerful to realize the extent her wrath can take, so I’m not shocked that you’re blinded to it. Plus, being post-menopausal doesn’t help your cause.

Things just got DELIIIICIOUSSSSSSS!!!!!

RYAN: …Sorry, I got distracted there for a minute by the sight of you grasping so desperately for straws. Though it happens often, it’s always hilarious. Keep reaching, buddy. You can get it. Okay, back to what you said, which conveniently didn’t mention Oprah’s Farewll Season at all. Why was that? A simple oversight, or maybe you realized that you have no counter at all to what I said. So instead you just went off on Oprah, not to be confused with all the times in the mid-90s when you got off to Oprah. Hey, I’m not judging. You were home “sick” (bullies, right?), and there weren’t a lot of options on basic television. I get it. Still, that’s no reason to bash Oprah’s Farewell Season, or if you want to change topics midway through, Oprah herself, and say that garlic is better than them both. Don’t get me wrong. Garlic is a fine, fine spice that can add taste to any dish. But you know what else does that very same thing? Every single spice in the world. Garlic is different only because it’s clearly the worst of all the spices. And yes, that includes nutmeg. When was the last time somebody ate something and said “This could use more garlic?” Never. Because nobody really wants garlic in the first place. But everyone who didn’t once angrily masturbate to Oprah as a child is looking forward to her farewell season. It’s going to be a wild and crazy party, full of giveaways, emotional highs and lows, and maybe, just maybe, we’ll all learn something new about ourselves in the process. There’s room on the bandwagon for one more, if you change your mind.

SHAWN: Damn, girl, how long of a response are you going to write? This is Danger Queue, not Nabakov. Our readers have a -3rd grade reading level, and, yes, that is a negative. Either you’re trying to bore them to death, or trying to lash out with more imaginary points than a bald porcupine. If you haven’t noticed, Oprah’s Farewell Season sorta stars Oprah. She’s kinda important to it. Thus, bashing Oprah’s perpetual ability to ruin womanhood is speaking just as much to a single season’s ability to do just that. And I’m not sure where you buy your spices where they all apparently taste like garlic, but you should probably see a doctor, as you may be having a stroke. You’re right that all spices spice (good call, Sherlock), but garlic is different because it’s a prime ingredient in every amazingly complementary food: garlic bread, Texas Toast, Crazy Bread, garlic bread—all foods you look forward to devouring. No one’s “looking forward” to Oprah’s farewell season for reasons other than getting Oprah out of our hair once and for all. Plus, it’s funny that you say “looking forward” when the SEASON’S ALMOST DONE!!! Oh, I’m sorry, did I just call out that Ryan clearly isn’t even watching Oprah? I call that winning.

Next On Danger Queue: Get Out Of My Dreams vs. Get Into My Car—There’s Only One Place For People Like You

You don't travel the path to greatness alone.

SHAWN: If you think Charlie Sheen’s words are powerful, just check out his fire-breathing fists. Sure, you may be all, “Fists can’t breathe, or talk, or shoot fire,” but you also may be all, “Charlie Sheen can’t be real.” Well, you’re wrong on both counts. Nothing can stop Charlie Sheen’s fire-breathing fists, especially not a pathetic earthworm like Chuck Lorre. When there are wrongs being wronged, it’ll be those fire-breathing fists that ascend the steps of justice, hurdle the foyers of conscionable doings, and finally burn down the podiums of impatience. We live in a world of Sheen’s people, and they’re protected by 10 digits, folded up and flaming.

RYAN: Those fire-breathing fists are nothing more than a relic of the past. A defense created out of necessity because of the fake existence Charlie Sheen was forced into. But now, like a brilliant phoenix, he has risen up, and those fire-breathing fists are rendered useless by his mercury surfboard. For when Charlie Sheen heroically stands on his mercury surfboard, sailing across the winds of our universe, he’s capable of delivering a truth we can’t even begin to comprehend. A truth that would rock us to the very core of our own feeble beings. And there’s nothing we can do to stop it, if we dared even try, which we won’t, because of how extraordinarily grandiose Charlie Sheen is when he stands atop the surfboard. That six feet of impenetrable mercury lifts Charlie Sheen above the limitations of this plane to an existence worthy of his greatness, where he can definitively proclaim to the gods, “Winning!”.

It's not even fair if there's a turbo controller involved.

SHAWN: If anything, Charlie Sheen’s mercury surfboard is holding him back like a bouncer at a crazy upside-down dream club. Charlie Sheen may think he needs his mercury surfboard to ride this tsunami of media coverage, but it’s only because that pathetic human centipede Chuck Lorre has tried to murder Charlie’s self-esteem, causing him to lose his unwavering faith in his unstoppable fire-breathing fists—fists that don’t need to ride atop the media coverage, but can plow through it like E. Honda hundred hand slapping his way to the front row at a Bieber concert. On top of that, these fists don’t just breathe fire, but conduct advanced mathematical computations, bear the sword of righteous anger, and take that conceited bitch Denise Richards down a peg.

RYAN: You’re just another fool and troll if you think Charlie Sheen’s mercury surfboard is holding him back. It’s because of the mercury surfboard, and ONLY the mercury surfboard, that he was finally able to break free from the telepathic shackles of the CBS warlocks. And now traversing the battlefield on his surfboard, empowered with his newfound purpose and enlightened indifference, Charlie Sheen can finally destroy the Biblegrippers who have sullied this nation. Would he be able to do any of that with his fire-breathing fists? Of course not. There’s a reason Charlie Sheen didn’t use his fire-breathing fists to defeat the earthworms that crossed his path. Because he knows, as we all know, that the fire-breathing fists are the dainty little sparklers in the fireworks show that is Charlie Sheen. The mercury surfboard? That’s the big finish that makes all the amatuers “ooh” and “ahh”.

Poor bastards won't even know what hit them.

SHAWN: Jesus, you’re starting to sound as worthless as that hollow shell of a goblincock Chuck Lorre! Neither the mercury surfboard nor the fire-breathing fists are anything close to the big finish that is Charlie Sheen. He’s clearly going to go out in a haze of brown vengeance with his new brain, ascending to the throne of acceptance with that beautiful man John Stamos, while watching all of us weeping into our diapers as he drops candied hope balls in his wake. Now, in terms of what’s going to get him there, his fire-breathings fists make his mercury surfboard look like his tiger blood. Those worms picked a fight with a warlock, and this warlock’s a fighter, first and foremost with fire-breathing fists. Even Charlie Sheen himself has said his end goal is to bring fiery death, and you sure as hell can’t do that without fire, which God knows only comes from one source—fists. And don’t think he can’t do it, as can’t is the cancer of happening, and happening is the pulmonary arthritis of control.

RYAN: Fire-breathing fists are an archaic tool, much like the tiny stick apes use to feed on contaminated little maggots like you. Charlie Sheen has no need for such things because he’s evolved. What takes ordinary man thousands, if not millions, of years to accomplish, Charlie Sheen has done in a single weekend. But that’s because he’s not ordinary. Never has been. Charlie Sheen is special, and damn it, he’s not going to hide behind the curtain anymore. He has a new brain and with it a new desire that burns inside him with the intensity of a thousand suns. A desire to show the world for what it truly is. To show everyone the moments between the moments. His fire-breathing fists won’t help him anymore. But his mercury surfboard will. When Charlie Sheen rides his surfboard out onto the battlefield, he’s only got one speed, one gear. It’s go. And now that he has harnessed the power ingrained in his mercury surfboard, his quest to achieve victory on every front is no longer a quest. It’s a certainty. For Charlie Sheen is winning. Look it up. It’s right there. On the pages between the pages. Open your mind before you open your eyes and you’ll see a beautiful image burned into your brain since the day you were born. It’s Charlie Sheen. Majestically riding his mercury surfboard. With a path of inspiration and hope lying in his wake. Winning. Duh.