Braun, and other American rocket scientists went on to advance the field of rocketry until the amazing machines were able to pierce the atmosphere and cross over into outer space, and eventually, the moon and beyond. The science of rocketry has allowed us the opportunity to place unmanned satellites into the sky to orbit the planet and give birth to new technological advances in weather prediction, navigation, communication, astronomy, and military intelligence.

Communication, of course, not only refers to cell phones but also television. With satellite television comes the dawn of the age of 1000 channels. And of course with a 1000 channels of television to watch, there has to be shows to take up all those unfilled time slots. Which then necessitates the televising of mud pit belly flopping, dwarf tossing & probably the most heinous of them all, the WNBA. And who is it that suffers the most from this increase in channels? That's right - the channel surfer. 

Channel surfing used to be a noble art that required prodigious skill and quick hand eye coordination, but how does one perform that now when it takes roughly the length of a feature film to search through all channels? I don't know about you, but I'm worn out after one pass. Maybe there's an idea for another sport here. Olympic channel surfing. My brother would bring home the gold hands down.

And when you think about it, has television really become more entertaining since the exponential increase in programming? Sure it's kind of nice having 300 movie channels, but that usually means there's more room to show crappier movies.

So the next time you find yourself awake at 3 am and channel surfing through an ocean of programming and weaving your way through an abominable minefield of infomercials, now you know who you can channel (no pun intended) your frustration towards: Robert H. Goddard and Wernher von Braun.

However, once again, I was saved by fate as this particular shark appeared to be suffering from presbyopia. It was a near-fatal chomp he attempted but thankfully I was able to keep my wits about me that day just long enough to distract the shark's attention with a "what's that over there" ruse. When the shark turned around to see where I was pointing I was able to get a head start toward the boat. By the time the shark realized he had been bamboozled, he could no longer make out where I'd gone and I was safely back on the boat. As we sped away, I could have sworn I saw the shark wave an angry flipper at me mouthing something that looked suspiciously like "Damn you, Fenrez, you have eluded us for the last time!"

Now celebrities are created daily by appearing on reality TV, so the atmosphere is ripe for guys like Takeru Kobayashi, pictured on the left, who was a world champion of hot dog eating, until his mighty throne was toppled by some other guy who will soon become another instacelebrity. Surprisingly (or not so, actually) I had heard of Kobayashi even though I had never watched a single hot dog eating contest in my life. I actually knew his name before I had ever seen what he looked like. Of course at first I thought I was hearing about the Kobayashi Maru test featured at the beginning of Star Trek II: The Wrath of Kahn (you remember the training test where Spock is "killed" but you learn it's actually a training mission after all - there's an interesting little tidbit about why the scene was put into the movie in the Spoilers section under the Trivia heading of this movie on imdb.com).

So is all this a bad thing? Not for me to decide I guess. But is it wise to celebrate such mediocrity? I guess the answer is yes, if that's what entertains people, and clearly it does. Sure it irritates me when some bimbo posts a picture of herself with the guy who was on 2 episodes of Big Brother - Season 3. I mean is that really something to brag about more than my picture with Ron Jeremy? But maybe it irritates me because I know that the 2 episode wonder probably had sex with the starry-eyed bimbo soon after the picture was taken, and here I am writing about it.

Wonder if I can audition for the next season on Survivor.

All I know is with millions of kids playing soccer every Sunday, it's virtually impossible to find a place to get tanked and pass out in public on a Saturday night. So maybe I must accept the fact that I'll be laughed at by kids when they find me sprawled out on the grass smelling like stale cheese and horse manure. Sure it's embarrassing but I'm a patriot. I can sacrifice my pride and ego for the hope of a World Cup title in 2018 (you heard it here first). Beats waking up next to a public toilet, anyway.

If I can avoid getting arrested, so much the better!

Of course I sometimes get a little carried away with the festivities and, occasionally, those pesky Black Cat fireworks just don't cut it for me. I need a bigger bang for my buck. What better way to ring in the holiday than with straight up dynamite. You get the most sound and light per dollar than anything I can think of. You can even create your own virtual war zone, without all the exemplary violence and gun battle skirmishes that usually accompany it. The only real drawback, other than the extensive property damage and the creation of new craters, is that you have to run a little bit faster than you do when lighting Black Cat firecrackers.

Failing to perform this task is unadvisable.

It's a bit small (as you can see there's no room inside for a bathroom), but it's cozy enough. Wish I had more privacy, though. The place resides right in front of a busy intersection, but you get used to the noise of the traffic. And it's nice not having to bring women back to my room at my parent's place. There isn't a lot of room on a super-single mattress for 2 people (or 3 if I got really lucky). You'd be amazed how quickly chicks get turned off when they see my dad in his underwear sleepily heading toward the bathroom for a 3 am piss.

Now I can bring them back to my own little bachelor pad. Although I think I need to paint the outside walls a more pleasing color because every time I bring a girl home, she gets as far as the gravel driveway before suddenly turning around and running away without a another word.

I'm thinking maybe puce is a more aesthetically pleasing color?

I can't even imagine what it's like to feel the cold, spine-chilling horror of seeing Chris Hansen walk around same corner that a 14 year old girl just disappeared from. One moment their thoughts are devoted to deciding which positions they're going to be performing with this underage starlet, and the next, after the bowels have stopped moving, seeing their lives flash before their eyes as the world's greatest cock-blocker nonchalantly glides toward them, always with that same shameful look on his face.

He's asking the alleged perpetrator why they did what they clearly came to do. The pervert shakes his head and says he made a mistake, or denies that he was going to do anything, all the while, in his head, he is waving goodbye to his family, job, and dignity. Of course the entire time he's pissing in his pants as the camera makes itself painfully visible. And after completing a humiliating interview, they get to experience the worst part: the walk of shame out of the house where they know they are going to get brutally jumped by a gaggle of armed police, and a very public arrest. Why do they know this? Because by now most of these fucking morons have seen at least one episode of the series, and despite this, still drove to the house, knowing full well that they could be walking into an ambush.

You would think that with the popularity of the series that they would have a tougher time to nab would-be pedophiles, but alas, when it comes to affairs of the genitals, the blood required to maintain an erection in front of a computer completely saps the volume required to keep the brain working in a more civilized manner.

Which makes for great entertainment.