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

Maybe Rudolph's nose was red for a reason.

SHAWN: Ho ho ho! Fa la la! And the rest! Those are the beautiful, melodious, heart-lifting, joyous sounds of the Christmas spirit. Once it grabs a hold of you, there’s no letting go. It permeates your body and the next thing you know you’re giving out presents to complete strangers, smiling at children on the bus, and skipping to Macy’s to cram yourself against a metal barrier and watch a 50-foot inflatable Garfield plug across the street above Indiana State’s third-string marching band. It’s what Christmas is all about. Sure, there are presents and food and other shit, but the spirit is what makes the holiday. There’s only one time of year where you can feel this warm, this connected to your family, this…spirited! If we all had the Christmas spirit all the time, the world would be a far better place, with far less Glenn Beck and way more hugging.

RYAN: You can shut up with the all the ho ho hos and fa la las. People don’t care about the Christmas spirit. People only care about the spirits that come in 750mL bottles. It’s the only thing that can get them through this horrible thing we call the holiday season. Shopping all day long for presents, fighting off hordes of soccer moms for the last Furby, spending obnoxious amounts of time with family, listening to all those awful versions of Jingle Bells. The holiday season is so forced and obnoxious. Even worse it slowly creeps up farther and farther, meaning we have to put up with it more and more. Nobody waits til after Thanksgiving any more like they should. No, now it all starts in October, even September in some places. Thankfully, the power of spirits, or alchohol for the uninitiated, makes the holiday season seem not so awful. They help take the edge off and make us feel nice and warm inside. Almost invincible, depending on what you’re drinking. All the things we used to dread suddenly don’t seem all that bad. You can’t really connect with someone over gingerbread houses and mistletoe and all that other Christmas stuff. If you really want to connect with someone, you need to get absolutely blitzed with them. That’s the power of spirits.

Looks like Santa had a little too much Christmas spirit.

SHAWN: Uh, 1995 called, they want their joke about Furbys back. Instead, kids today want the far superior Zhu Zhu Pets—hideous little balls of fur that run around and make noises and fine they’re basically Furbys. But ruthlessly trampling security guards to obtain these gifts are part of the spirit and the excitement and the jingling bells! Sure, the holidays can be stressful, but so is life—and one of those ends with death while the other ends with hot cocoa and loved ones. And both of those (Christmas and life) are what you make of them—Christmas doesn’t have to be stressful if you’d stop being such a resistant Scrooge and just let the spirit consume you. Why do you hate families so much, Ryan? You may think you can achieve that same joyfulness with your hard-core drugs (and alcohol is definitely a drug, as that’s what my church told me), but spirits just provide a temporary joy, while harming yourself and your loved ones in the process. Don’t do drugs; do the Christmas spirit. You’ll still feel warm inside, but it won’t be from pissing your pants.

RYAN: Why would I let the spirit consume me when I can consume the spirit? With all 750mL of Jack sloshing around in my belly, I’d be fully prepared for the onslaught of the holiday season. That delightful alcohol-induced warm, fuzzy feeling may disappear the next day, but it’s hardly temporary when I can always get it back the next day by grabbing a whole new bottle. The Christmas spirit is way more of a temporary joy. People tell you to be merry, so all you lemmings follow suit and be merry. And then after you open your brand new Nintendo 64 on Christmas Day, the Christmas spirit disappears faster than that temporary tattoo I had on my dong (apparently they rub off easily). And you won’t bother thinking about the Christmas spirit again until the retailers start pushing it down our throats. So probably in July. And then all the stress starts up again. Huzzah! I’ll tell you what’s not stressful. Imbibing in some delicious spirits. Yes, sir. With spirits, all your problems just melt away. You feel better. You dance better. Food tastes better. People look better. Yes, ma’am, with spirits, everything is just better.

This Christmas gift got Ryan through the lonely years of high school.

SHAWN: You’re saying the alcohol-induced stupor you obtain from spirits isn’t temporary because you can just grab another bottle? Yeah, I think that means you have a problem. When was the last time someone got cirrhosis from the Christmas spirit? And you must have the Christmas spirit confused with penises because nobody’s pushing it down your throat. Granted, it’s all over the place—stores, TV, pornography—but it’s still our decision to accept it. We’re not lemmings; we’ve simply chosen to celebrate joy and giving and baby Jesus rather than spending our 401(k)s on enough booze to make us forget that life is passing in front of our eyes faster than a cheap hooker who takes your wallet after she said she loved you. Plus, you clearly forgot that a Nintendo 64 is more than just a plastic sex slot. After you open the gift on Christmas Day, you can actually USE IT, sometimes for up to an entire year, until the next awesome present comes around. Even you admit that at the end of a lot of Christmas spirit, you get an N64. At the end of a lot of spirits, you get a hangover, a bathroom covered in vomit, and a whole lot of regret. Don’t worry, Ryan; I’m sure that 14-year-old boy “regrets” it too.

RYAN: I think you’re the one in a drunken stupor if you actually believe Christmas spirit is still a choice. Tell that to all the people who don’t celebrate Christmas that are forced to read about it, hear about it, and see it everywhere they go for not a-one, not a-two, not a-three, but THREE whole months! Between decorations, music, TV specials, books, magazines, food, and Rosie O’Donnel, how can honestly say it’s not being rammed down our throats? Sure, some people might enjoy it, but the rest of us are gagging. And for someone who loves the Christmas spirit, you sure seem to be missing the point of it, what with your intense focus on all the materialistic things. I thought Christmas spirit was supposed to be about the joy of spending time with family blah blah blah blah, not getting a gift and then using it until the next Christmas present comes around. Or maybe that’s really what the Christmas spirit is: getting people to give you things. Yeah, that sounds wonderful. Excuse me for not buying into that sham. Real spirit doesn’t come from a present you unwrap on Christmas morn. Unless that present happens to be a bottle of Grey Goose.

They both eat caddies for breakfast.

RYAN: For years, we’ve only known Tiger Woods as the insanely talented athlete who occasionally enjoys golfing on the moon, sipping Gatorade, and strutting around with the likes of Derek Jeter and Roger Federer. All that stuff is cool and all, but now we’re getting a look at the real Tiger Woods. And I must say, this new Tiger Woods DEMANDS respect. Now I in no way condone cheating. It’s a horrible thing to do to the person you say you love, and seeing as how there’s a slight chance my wife might read this, I don’t want her going all 3 iron on my face. But, you have to applaud Tiger for being so damn bold. Most people would have been content with just one affair. Maybe two or three if it were all at the same time. But not Tiger. Maybe it was his competitive spirit. Maybe it was his endless desire to always be the best. We don’t know the why, but we do know Tiger went all out and bedded himself upwards of 11 other women on a regular basis. Some people might shake their heads in disgust at such revelations. Not me. I nod my head in respect.

SHAWN: You dare call Tiger Woods’s moves “bold”? Those aren’t bold, they’re moronic. He cheats on his wife several times with not a-one, not a-two, not a-three, not a-four, not a-five, not a-six, not a-seven, not a-eight, not a-nine, not a-eleven, but a-ELEVEN women? That’s pure idiocy. He couldn’t possibly imagine he’d get away with it. Plus, he was stupid enough to leave a trail longer than the Pony Express and then have the audacity to make sex tapes and encourage the women not to wear condoms. Clearly, Tiger’s just mildly retarded. As a golfer, he’s got the skills; but as a man, he’s not smart enough to lock his clubs away from a crazy-ass wife who has a history of crazy shit that makes Kanye West blush. Now, you know where you can find skills flowing out of every part of its body? A tiger. Tigers demand respect, too, but in a deserving way—not by running around in secret, but by being fast, awesome fighters with teeth that could chomp through Tiger Woods in two bites (he’s usually a par 4). Tigers are ferocious, majestic beasts, on and off the golf course.

"Elin will never find me out here."

RYAN: Everything you just said about tigers is also true of Tiger Woods. Ferocious. Majestic. Fast. Awesome. Fighter. Beast. Teeth. What, you don’t think Tiger Woods only uses those pearly whites when he’s taking a picture for the latest cover of Golfer’s Digest? Don’t be so naive. Rumor has it he ritualistically devours an entire caddy after the first 18 holes of every tournament for luck. Something like that has got to be true. And for all we know, Tiger Woods wanted to be caught. Maybe he was tired of living a lie and didn’t know the proper way to break things off with his wife. So he did what any other gentleman would do: he started banging everything that moved. Tigers may be okay and all, but they’re far from impressive. All they do is hunt down and kill weaker and stupider animals. That’s not cunning. That’s just brute force. But Tiger Woods. Now that guy’s cunning. Sure, he got caught now. But the man’s been doing it for the entire length of his marriage. Three years of cheating and not getting caught. Give the man some credit. And let’s not pretend tigers never get caught. It’s not like all those tigers at the zoo are there willingly.

SHAWN: Lies! Tiger Woods can’t possibly maintain sparkling white Colgate teeth like his while devouring caddies and tearing apart small animals with his mouth. Nine out of ten dentists agree that caddy-eating is not cohesive with Tiger Woods’s teeth. And did you just call Tiger Woods “cunning”? I’m assuming you used the wrong word and meant “a cunt”, because there’s nothing cunning about every single one of your affairs suddenly surfacing. And what was so cunning about mowing down a fire hydrant before flooring it into a tree? Sure, some tigers end up in zoos, but none drive headfirst into suburban landscaping and forget to immediately kill the women they cheat on their wife with so they don’t come forward. Every man knows to do that. Tiger Woods was just lazy with his affairs. Even if it took his wife three years to catch him, he still got caught for being a moron. He should’ve taken his affairs to the grave, like most celebrities. At least when tigers get caught, they weren’t doing anything wrong; they were just being awesome tigers. Is there any wonder we humans want to capture them to put them in zoos and stare at how amazing they are? They may use brute force, but brute force is ridiculously impressive, hence the success of the WWE and Jennifer Garner.

At least they're monogamous.

RYAN: Oh, the tigers weren’t doing anything wrong when they got caught. It’s not their fault they’re stupid enough to be shot by a tranquilizer dart. I don’t know why you’re even wasting your breath making excuses for the tigers. They don’t care about you. They’d eat your face off and rip you to shreds the first chance they got. Or do you not remember what happened to Roy of Siegfried & Roy fame? That white tiger was supposed to be his friend. And how did the tiger repay Roy for all that he had given it? By betraying him and giving him the most painful hickey of all time. For all the bad Tiger’s done, the only one he’s sent to the hospital was himself. And possibly his mother-in-law (we’re all anxiously awaiting the details on that one). And let’s not forget all the good Tiger’s done too—charities, fundraisers, learning centers. So don’t you dare call Tiger Woods lazy. The man was juggling women while still performing in golf tournaments, appearing in commercials, and fighting crime (I assume). I’d like to see you try the same thing. You can barely handle talking on the phone while going to the bathroom at the same time (there’s no use trying to cough over the flush; we all know where you are).

SHAWN: Hey, it’s Roy’s fault for—cough, cough—trying to tame the amazing, majestic, wild tiger. Don’t blame the tiger. And—cough, cough—sure, the tiger would rip my face off, but that not only makes him super badass, but tells me that I should let him be. Tigers are prideful wild animals, so we probably shouldn’t fuck with them. And that is way less a flaw than a virtue. Humans wouldn’t put up with being caged and forced to perform, so why should tigers? Roy gave that tiger nothing but some spoiled meat every couple of days and a freezing cage. Tigers should be given freedom, as they’re smart, fetching creatures with a knack for tearing things apart. I suppose Tiger Woods is similar, if you replace “things” with “God’s holy gift of marriage.” Maybe Tiger Woods has donated to charities, but who’s to say that wasn’t just to get into some nonprofit manager’s pants? With so many ulterior motives in his life, how can we take anything Tiger Woods has done at face value? Maybe if he’d focus more on his commercials and crime fighting—and less on destroying sacred marital bonds—there’d be less violence in the world. Rather, Tiger Woods used his powers for evil—tricking girls into unsafe sex with him, all for a few seconds of pleasure. Tigers would never do that. Tigers are committed to what they do best—running, fighting and being awesome, with no time for sexual deviance. So I think I can sum up this whole argument pretty easily: tigers are badass cats; Tiger Woods is a stupid pussy.

Next on Danger Queue: The Christmas Spirit vs Spirits—We’re Getting Jolly Tonight, One Way or Another

It's entirely possible neither one of these pictures are correct.

SHAWN: It’s generally accepted that the 1800s were a great time for landowners, agriculturalists and especially authors. Well, what if I told you there’s someone who was around at that time who was ALL THREE?! Surely, you’d immediately crown him King of Kings and bow to him as being the most awesome person to ever set foot on God’s green earth. Friends, that man is Chandos Wren-Hoskyns BA, JP, DL, OPP. An Englishman of the bluest blood, not only did he marry the great-great-great-granddaughter of THE Christopher Wren, but he legally changed his name to incorporate the moniker. This was a man far ahead of his time, a hero for feminists and misogynists alike. Hell, where we would be without his bestselling A Catechism on the English Land System? Probably living in the ocean, that’s where.

RYAN: Please. People don’t care about Chandos Wren-Hoskyns’ boring old novel on the English Land System. People care about the English that professional billiards player Ryuuji Umeda used to capture the Three-Cushion World Championship back in 2007. Yes. The Ryuuji Umeda. You have heard of him before, right? I don’t know how anyone could not know of him. He’s only the greatest billiards player to ever come out of Tokyo, and his victory in 2007 was only one of the greatest upsets in professionals sports. He not only beat two-time world champion Daniel Sanchez; he completely dominated him. Ryuuji so effortlessly moved the ball around the table, playing the angles and leaving the perfect amount of draw, that he racked up an ungodly amount of points and made it impossible for Sanchez to win. If you ask me, which you just did, Sanchez never even had a chance. Now that, not being a landowner and agriculturist, is impressive.

Ryuuji is the Tiger Woods of Three-Cushion Billiards.

SHAWN: Pshaw—if you surveyed 900 elderly British fops, far more would know the admirable Chandos Wren-Hoskyns than the pathetic semi-celebrity Ryuuji Umeda. And tell me more about that English he used to capture the world championship…oh, wait. There wasn’t any because he’s Japanese. I’m sorry, Ryan, I forgot the aversion you have for Western culture—you know, the culture that raised you. Plus, there’s nothing special about Ryuuji—just another flash-in-the-pan billiards winner, doing the talk show circuit and kissing babies and blah blah blah. Hell, he wasn’t even the first Asian to win the championship. How does he like following in Nobuaki Kobayashi’s size-6 footsteps? Now you know who’s not a one-hit wonder? Chandos Wren-Hoskyns, who wrote way more than tales of the English Land System, but hard-hitting Inquiries into the History of Agriculture in Medieval and Modern Times, along with Occasional Essays. Yeah, he was too busy being awesome to write them all the time, but people were even rushing to the store to read the essays he wrote whenever the hell he felt like. Chandos Wren-Hoskyns was the Johnny Depp of his time.

RYAN: I take it you don’t play much billiards. Or if you do, you’re one of those people who scratches every time he tries to hit a ball into a corner pocket.  Well, here, let me give you a little tip to make you not so shitty at at least one thing in your life. When you aim at the cue ball, try hitting it on the side, the top, or the bottom. That’s called putting English on the ball. Professionals, amateurs, casual players, even 8-year-old girls use it to control where the cue ball goes. It’s no wonder you don’t appreciate Ryuuji Umeda when you don’t even know the basics of the game he’s mastered. Funny that you called him a one-hit wonder considering the multiple hits he’s had. Silver medal in the 1998 Asian games. Gold mdeal in 2006 Asian games. UMB World Three-Cushion Champion in 2007. I know math isn’t your strong suit, but that sure looks like a lot more than one. If you want one-hit wonder, take a good, hard look at dear old Chandos. Reform of land tenure? That sounds like something no one would ever want to read about. At least Ryuuji is still alive and kicking, meaning he’s still got so much to accomplish. Who knows? He could be in full-training mode for the 2010 Asian games as we speak. Is there another gold medal in his future? Only time will tell. But the book is already closed on Chandos and his life, seeing as how he’s dead and all. Good news though. It was just as boring as all his other books.

Even Chandos' skeleton is boring.

SHAWN: You dare call Talpa or the Chronicles of a Clay Farm: An Agricultural Fragment boring? Go back to your Boxcar Children and porn, you illiterate moron. And how can you go back and call someone a one-hit wonder when they’ve written more books than Ryuuji Umeda has won championships. Plus, Captain Scratch, prior to this debate it was pretty obvious that you thought “putting English on the ball” was referring to that time Mr. Bean licked your testicles, so don’t pretend you’re any expert. Hell, billiards is as popular a sport as skeet shooting or The Biggest Loser presents nude luge. Sure, Chandos Wren-Hoskyns’ books may not sound like contemporary hits, but they were bestsellers at the time and that’s what counts. Just like how in Chandos Wren-Hoskyns’ time, some Japanese billiards player would probably have been locked up in some kind of camp and forced to do manual labor. And let me get this last point straight—you’re arguing that Umeda’s better because Wren-Hoskyns is dead? I’m going to let the readers take another look at that. Okay, now I’m going to point out to them that Chandos was born in 1812. He’d be 197 years old right now, which might not seem long to you—as your arguments are as zombie-like as they come—but that timeframe makes it a little less surprising that he’s dead. Even if Ryuuji Umeda has more to accomplish in his life, he’ll never achieve all Chandos Wren-Hoskyns did in his 64 years. You mean Umeda wasn’t educated at Oxford, worked as a lawyer, served as a sheriff, was appointed as a Deputy Lieutenant, and was a fucking MEMBER OF PARLIAMENT? No? That’s interesting, because Chandos Wren-Hoskyns sure was.

RYAN: I don’t need to pretend I’m an expert at billiards. Your unbelievable stupidity just makes me look like one. Anyone who plays pool—and that doesn’t mean just rolling the balls back and forth— knows the basic elements. I can tell you more, if you want. That long stick you’re always stroking and rubbing up against? That’s called a pool cue. And the white ball? That’s the cue ball. See, it’s not that hard. But please, enlighten me on the wonders of Talpa and Chronicles of a Clay Farm. But try and do it without your good friend Wikipedia. Oh, what’s that? You can’t? You’ve never read any of those books? Yeah, neither has the rest of the world. Don’t worry. Talpa is such a great book that Amazon is literally giving it away as a free download. Interesting, given that you keep saying Chandos’ novels were bestsellers. I’m guessing you just made that up, like you usually do when you’ve got nothing else. Even if if Chandos was a best-selling author, which he wasn’t, that literally means nothing back in those days since selling one book back in those days would be enough to make that claim. None of the things you said about Chandos was impressive. A lawyer? Yeah, like there aren’t enough of those. Oh, but a sheriff? In a ceremonial position with no responsiblities? Sounds like a tough gig. Ryuuji competes against the best in the world in his field and regularly comes out on top. From what you described, when Chandos did anything in his field, it was tilling and irrigating. And then he wrote some books about it. Yeah, that’s definitely better than being a world champion.

Next On Danger Queue: Tiger Woods vs Tigers—Only One Will Get to Keep Its Endorsement Deals

Leave the limbs you've lost. They belong to the children now.

RYAN: Long before the days of the Mystery Machine and Scooby Doo, there was another ragtag group of youngsters and their dog who bettered the world by solving mysteries. But this foursome didn’t need “snacks” to figure things out. All they needed was heart, moxie, and maybe a little bit of help from their grandpa. I speak, of course, of the Boxcar Children. Benny, Henry, Violet, the ugly one, Benny’s dog Watch. Those characters have gotten our nation’s youth excited for reading for more than 60 years. At my school, Boxcar Children books were the hot commodity. The only thing checked out more often at my school’s library was the ample cleavage of the young librarian’s assistant, Ms. Thomas. Kids today are lucky, as cleavage is more readily available with magazines, television, newspapers, the Internet and sudokus. But they’re also lucky because now there’s more than a hundred Boxcar Children books to choose from. There’s everything you could possibly ever want, from the mystery of the pizza to the winter mystery to even the radio mystery! Woah! That last one sounds like a doozie!

SHAWN: Wow—those sound like some crazy mysteries! A missing pizza? A missing radio? A missing…season? Good thing nearly 40 children are on the case, rather than going to school and actually making something of their lives. Real good example for the children. Now, here’s another mystery: five vicious killers slaughter your husband and everyone else you know and love, leaving you to die on your wedding day. What would the Boxcar Children do? Sic their spunky dog on them? Yeah, that’s why The Bride is way better than the Boxcar Children. Sometimes moxie and doe-eyed optimism doesn’t save the day. Sometimes you have to chop off an arm, cleave a skull, rip out an eye, or utilize the deadly Five Point Palm Exploding Heart Technique to find closure. I’m not sure what kind of crazy conservative farmer school you went to, but my fellow students would rather see Uma Thurman in spandex than some damn kids uncover the location of a missing sapphire necklace. You’re right—kids today are lucky. They have happy parents who can enjoy the exploits of The Bride.

Someone found the website of what Ms. Thomas does on weekends.

RYAN: What the hell are you talking about? Those Boxcar Children books weren’t about missing pizzas and radios. Those items were just catalysts for the engrossing stories. It’s like you’ve never even read a Boxcar Children book before. I know you prefer books with a more pictures than words, but you should try venturing out of your comfort zone. Put down the Dr. Seuss and Arthur books; you’re 26 for Christ’s sake. If you bothered reading a Boxcar Children book, you’d know there weren’t 40 children solving these mysteries. There were 4, and even then Violet hardly ever did anything helpful on account of her being a girl and all. Benny and Henry did the bulk of the work. Even so, I’d still rather read one of those books than anything else. They were good, wholesome fun and showed the importance of strong values. The Bride only encourages people to solve their problems by killing everyone. That’s a great lesson for the children. I know tons of people who do the same thing. They’re called terrorists.

SHAWN: Do you listen to yourself? You’re saying I prefer simple books because I’m 26 and don’t read Boxcar Children? Yeah, it’s because I’m reading the New Yorker and Russian literature and books with words longer than ‘scrappy’ in them. Maybe one day you’ll graduate to literature as complex as, say, James Patterson—but, right now, while you’re coping with your clearly revealed mental retardation, I won’t fault you for sticking with the Boxcar Children. And, yes, I’ve read the Boxcar Children books before, but when I was in second grade. You know, when developmentally functional people read them. Excuse me for not remembering all the details. And do you know nothing of audience? The Bride’s adventures aren’t directed at children—it’s rated R, the unstoppable electric fence of movie ratings—so she’s not influencing children nearly as much as those delinquent kids who run away from orphanages to live in boxcars. Oh, and do you remember that Boxcar Children book where the kids single-handedly defeat the Crazy 88? No? Yeah, it’s because they’re giant pussies.

She's coming for you first, Violet.

RYAN: I don’t even know what you’re arguing anymore. Are you arguing the character The Bride? The movie Kill Bill? Uma Thurman? MPAA ratings? If you’re trying to win by making this as confusing as a Sarah Palin speech, then you’re doing a fabulous job. But you’re a fool if you think an R-rating is going to stop kids from seeing Kill Bill. That would require parents to act like parents and parent their kids, and based on what I see, read, smell, and hear, kids do whatever the hell they want to do whenever the hell they feel like doing it. I enjoy Boxcar Children books because it reminds me of a simpler time when kids were well-behaved and had respect for their elders. Am I developmentally challenged because I still like those books? No. I’m developmentally challenged because of the two concussions I suffered at an early age. But look at you with your Russian literature and issues of the New Yorker. I didn’t think you actually read that magazine. I thought you just obnoxiously spread issues out on your coffee table to impress visitors to your house. My mistake. But, oh, wow, The Bride (that’s what we’re arguing, right?) must be great for killing all those Crazy 88s. Someone must have pissed her off good. By what, killing the people she loved? Hmmm. Wasn’t she an assassain before that? And didn’t she then go and kill more people? Sounds a bit hypocritical. Oh. Wait. Maybe that’s why you like her so much.

SHAWN: Um, as my arguments were all about The Bride, I’m going to go ahead and answer your question about what I’m arguing by saying “The Bride.” Just scroll up and look at the title, hotshot. It doesn’t take four delinquent sleuths to figure that one out. And you were the one saying The Bride was a “bad influence on children,” so I happily pointed out that The Bride’s adventures are intended for mature audiences. Oh, hell, clearly your constant reading of children’s books has made you unable to comprehend complex sentences. I’ll word the next two sentences more to your liking. Boxcar Children stupid. The Bride fucking awesome. And kids wouldn’t be such rebellious pricks if it weren’t for learning from a young age that it’s okay to be disobedient—and maybe that’s because they’re fed such terrible media like the Boxcar Children. You’re younger than me, too, and I surely don’t remember a “simpler time” when kids were well-behaved. They’ve been troublesome gangbangers since something like 1924—oh, look, the same year the Boxcar Children hit the stores. Sure, The Bride was an assassin long before everyone she knew and loved was killed, but she never massacred a whole church the way Bill and his cronies did—and never because of stupid jealousy. And, yes, you’re right—The Bride was great for killing the Crazy 88s, and a bunch of other people, because that’s what awesome ninja warriors do.

Next On Danger Queue: ??? vs ???—Whatever Will Wikipedia Suggest This Time Around?

Because doing both is out of the question.

SHAWN: Sometimes a handshake just doesn’t do it. Sometimes a hug is entirely inappropriate—I mean, some people aren’t hug people. But there’s one form of greeting that is always welcome and always proper, and that’s the wink. Winks are friendly, encouraging, but also inclusive. Say some guy comes over and shakes your hand. You know what? That hand has probably shaken countless other hands and now you have AIDS. Now, if you meet someone and they shake your hand but also throw in a wink? Well, now you’re on the same page—part of some exclusive club where you’re best friends even though you’ve pretty much just met. For the rest of the party, you can exchange knowing smirks with that guy, because you’ve bonded, over the wink. Nothing says ‘friendly’ and ‘classy’ like the lowering of one awesome eyelid.

RYAN: Wow. I guess I’m just surprised that a supposedly straight, married man would just brag about all the fun of spending a party winking back and forth with another man. Me thinks you’re clueless to what a wink actually means. Maybe back in the 30s it was a way to bond with people, but nowadays it’s nothing but an open-ended invitation to casual sex. I do believe you’d be better off with the all-encompassing, less-confusing nod. While the wink leads to nothing but uncomfortable situations, the nod is a quick and painless way to acknowledge someone’s presence without the burden of a forced interaction. Just slightly lift your chin in someone’s direction and you’re good to go. It’s so easy it works for all situations—street encounters, parties, corporate meetings, wedding ceremonies.

Nope, not both...just one...now hold it..you got it!

SHAWN: Whoa, whoa, whoa—I’m not “winking back and forth” with anybody at parties. It’s just the one wink at the beginning that solidifies a knowing relationship and leads to an ally in any situation. All it took was Roosevelt winking at Churchill to end World War II. And I’m not sure who you’ve been winking at or with, but not all winkers are male prostitutes. Many are adorable old men, overzealous businessmen, and women who got dust in their eye. But, no matter who winks, one great thing about the wink is that it’s special. People don’t throw out winks to any loser that walks by. It’s not like the stupid, meaningless nod. Hell, some guys are essential bobbleheads, nodding at whoever walks by, acknowledging the presence of total strangers passing them in the hall. What’s the point? It says, “I don’t care enough about you to give you a unique greeting, and I plan to indulge in the least possible amount of effort to recognize you as a human.” You can barely even call nods “interaction”—they’re twitches at best—and, dammit, that’s not the way to bring people together.

RYAN: How exactly can you call a nod a “twitch” while defending the wink? If anything’s a twitch, it’s the wink. It takes absolutely no effort whatsoever to wink at somebody. At least with the nod, you’re moving your head up and down. A wink is nothing more than a half-assed attempt at blinking, which is exactly what someone will think you’re doing if they’re standing to your side. A nod works from all angles in all situations. And there’s nothing wrong with not wanting to get bogged down in a meaningless conversation with someone. Whenever I see you on the street, I don’t want to start talking about your latest trip to the American Girl Store. That’s why I give you a cordial nod and keep moving. And FDR didn’t end WWII with a wink. Maybe if he spent less time winking and more time doing, he could have lived to see the end of the war. Thankfully Truman stepped in and finished the job. When his advisers asked if he wanted to drop the bomb and pwn Japan, Truman didn’t respond with a some flamboyant little wink. He gave them the most badass nod of all time.

Pulp can move, baby!

SHAWN: You are such a greeting whore, throwing nods around like the town bicycle. Clearly, you don’t understand the fine art of greeting, so let me explain it to you. People feel like you care more about them if you take a concerted effort to meet them. A nod is about as concerted as being introduced to somebody by name while you continue to call him “that black guy.” The wink is proud that it takes more effort—it’s a focused greeting that isn’t just handed out like Kardashian gonorrhea. It takes a lot of muscle to close just one eye, and a lot of legitimate concern for other people to be willing to take the time to turn your head for somebody. But, oh, you can’t be bothered with expending that much energy, Mr. Nod. God forbid you turn your head slightly for someone other than yourself. I bet those people you nod at feel real special. And you also miss the most important part of the wink: it’s selective. You aren’t tossing around your greeting like candy and ending up in meaningless conversations. You choose who gets a wink and—BAM!—you get to choose who you end up talking to. Plus, everyone knows Truman said some shit to drop that bomb, sans nod, because nods mean absolutely nothing. They’re so overused, so effortless, that nobody’s going to bother remembering you. Now, the guy that winked at them—yeah, they’ll remember him.

RYAN: Why should I care about making people feel special? The whole point of the nod is to make things easier for me. Selfish, maybe, but I’m a busy man who doesn’t have time for long, formal greetings and salutations. Yes, I could say “hi” to someone, but instead I’ll nod my head. And I could say “yes” to answer a question, but instead I’ll nod my head. And I could say “Hey, check out that broad with the huge cans” but instead I’ll nod my head in her direction. The nod is all about being subtle and understated. It’s not all in your face like the wink. And just to summarize your two big points: The wink is more effort than the nod, and it’s also more selective. I’m going to let the stupidity of those two statements simmer for a little bit. Go back and read them again. Fully appreciate how ridiculous they both are. Is closing and opening a single eyelid really that much effort? Because I blink about a million times a day and don’t even realize it. One would think a wink is much easier than a blink. And winks are only as selective as the person doing the winking. Based on what you said earlier about winking with random gents, I don’t think you’re all that selective. Even so, “being selective” is really just a fancy way of saying “no one ever does it because of how confusing it is in the real world”.  The only instance where it doesn’t confuse is when it’s a precursor to sex, as in “hey, want to go grab some coffee”. Wink. So congratulations. That random guy at the party you were winking at? Yeah, you gave him blue balls. Way to be.

Next On Danger Queue: Boxcar Children vs The Bride—Let’s Orphan Some Kids

Some men weren't born for seconds.

RYAN: Holy shit, get this plate out of my face. Now. Eating all this food, it’s just not right. It’s not natural. Turkey. Mashed potatoes. Sweet potatoes. Creamed onions. Salad. Soup. Stuffing. Bread. Green beans. Noodles. I’ve got enough food in my stomach to feed a small African village. But there’s still so much left to eat. I haven’t even touched the dessert platter. Pies. Cookies. Ice cream. Flintstone Push Pops. Oh, sweet Jesus. Look at that pumpkin pie over there. It’s beautiful. So plump and a crust that looks like it will just crumble at the slightest touch. Oh, pumpkin pie. I want you inside me. No. I better stop. Something doesn’t feel right. It feels like all my internal organs are shifting to the side because of all the food I’ve eaten. I need to go lay down. But if I die, please remember me as a hero. And stuff some of that pumpkin pie in my mouth.

SHAWN: Well, if you’re going to go ahead and take a nap like a pussy, that leaves more for the rest of us. Oh, sweet, sweet, succulent creamed asparagus, my mistress; glad to see you aren’t cavorting with another man’s unclean hands. I’ll just have one more of you, thank you very much. You’re so delicious and mouthwatering, why bother resisting? Awww, shit, this pumpkin pie is heavenly too. It’s like Jesus Christ himself raped a pumpkin and had a delicious child with a flaky, decadent crust and IS THAT DOUBLE CHOCOLATE PIE WITH A WHIPPED TOPPING??? Don’t mind if I do! I’ll have one more of you, and you, and, man, these sweet potatoes are extra sweet. What’s that on them? Marshmallows?! I am so glad I gave into temptation and had one more. It’s so good, so tasty, so amazing-and with metabolism like mine, it’s like celery’s negative calories. Too bad Ryan’s not here to enjoy all this fine food with me. The seconds taste even better than the firsts. And they’re all for me.

Get this hideous plate away from me! Ewww!

RYAN: I don’t know how you can possibly even stomach the idea of eating more food. Seriously. Look at you. You’ve got gravy stains all over your shirt. I can understand the front, but how did you get stains on the back? Not only that, but you’ve had a piece of asparagus lodged between your two front teeth for the past 20 minutes. And your breathing is labored beyond what can be considered healthy. You sound like Louie Anderson after a 6-hour “snack” at Old Country Buffet. I’m not a pussy for throwing in the napkin on this meal. I’m just a man who knows his own limits. Two plates of turkey, potatoes, beans, noodles, and chicken nuggets are more than enough for me. Some of us, at the end of this meal, want to stand up from the table with their dignity and respect still in place. For me, that means being able to move under my own power and keeping my pants on. Yes, I know some people like to unbutton their jeans for the extra breathing room, but you’re wearing sweat pants so there’s really no exc­-oh, I stand corrected. You WERE wearing sweat pants.

SHAWN: Those sweat pants were too fucking tight anyway. Jesus, it’s like Ann Taylor doesn’t even make clothes for healthy-sized people anymore. But this thrift store shirt is perfect-especially perfect since I planned ahead and wore my most stained shirt for just this occasion. That gravy stain on the back is from Thanksgiving ‘04 when a drumstick battle broke out between Aunt Elena and Uncle Herb, and I got in the middle of it with delicious results. See-I wear these stains as badges of honor, for Thanksgiving meals conquered and in future remembrance of those to come. Some of us don’t give up in the middle of something when the going gets tough. Should I just call you Sarah Palin from now on? Yeah-go ahead and go take a nap upstairs, Ms. Palin, and then whine about your expensive dresses. I’m going to keep working all this fine food, the way God intended it to be worked. And my breathing’s only labored because I’m excited for this pie. Sure, you may not have full servings of vegetables stuck in your teeth, but when I stand up at the end of the meal-if I can stand up-I’ll be the one leaving with dignity, knowing that I actually feasted on Thanksgiving rather than suckling on bite-sized portions like some kind of Whole Foods-loving hippie.

The reigning Thanksgiving champ.

RYAN: How can you possibly think I’m the hippie? You’re the thrift-store shopping, stained-shirt wearing waste of a human being with the seemingly severe case of pot-induced munchies. If that doesn’t make you a hippie, then I don’t know what would. Frankly, I’m happy to not be so sinfully gluttonous when it comes to Thanksgiving. It’s a little thing called moderation. I still get to enjoy all the wondrous delights of Thanksgiving without the painful cramps, trips to the hospital, and stomach pumping afterwards. And if an afternoon nap should happen to come into play, who am I to complain? Naps are amazing. Real naps though. Not the kind where the doctors knock you out so they can perform emergency surgery to unclog all the major arteries in your body. But I guess moderation isn’t for everyone. Especially not you, based on the size of your rolls (and I’m not talking about the bread) and the fact you’re eating directly out of the serving spoon. If your breathing gets labored from just looking at a pie, I’d hate to see what happens when you actually start eating it. Probably another “badge of honor” on the crotch of those sweatpants. Oh, God, you’re not even wearing them…Somebody get rid of that pie! Shawn’s about to have one of his “accidents” again!

SHAWN: Maybe you should hang out with more hippies, you hippie, as you’d see none of them are fat. And these munchies aren’t pot-induced, but delicious-induced. It’s Thanks-fucking-giving! We didn’t feast with a bunch of Native Americans a month before giving them their first Christmas presents (smallpox blankets) to not eat like there’s no tomorrow-because, for half the people at the first Thanksgiving, there wasn’t. There are 364 other days of the year where you can eat in moderation, so why pussy out on the one day that matters? It’s not every day you can pound gravy by the glass and everyone just laughs and calls you a “hero”-which they do, by the way-so why not live it up? Okay, so maybe one necessary surgery every ten years has to come into play, but that’s a small price and a short week of rehab to pay for spending a decade enjoying life. Meanwhile, you slim chaps and your skinny jeans and your “I’ve had enough” mentality just nap the year away. That’s not napping, Ryan-it’s called passing out from malnourishment and it’s because you’re weak. Seriously, just look at this turkey, bursting with sweet cornbread stuffing and its own turkey juices. Get a whiff of this pumpkin pie! Smell that? That’s nutmeg. You can’t possibly behold this feast before you and then walk away. Where’s your American spirit? As for me and my house, I’ll have one more, thank you very much.

Next on Danger Queue: Wink vs. Nod—Excuse Me, I Didn’t See You Come In