Last night President Obama invited Sgt. Crowley and Henry Louis Gates, Jr. to the White House to have a beer and discuss racism in America, the “beer summit”. Coming from a Southern school, getting a good ol’ boy liquored up to have a pow wow on racial equality never seemed like a great idea, kinda like hosting a meeting for sexual addicts at a strip club.

Still, they’re making the efforts to heal some wounds, unite the country, all that good stuff. Maybe some drinking games could help. Inspired by this spirit of this event, I came up with a few ideas to get the party started, cause if you’re going to throw a few back, you might as well do it right.

Stoner fest ’09 next week will try to bring peace to the Middle East

1) Facepalm – Everyone takes turns trying to carry on a conversation with Joe Biden. Every time he says something stupid and you reflexively smack yourself in the head (aka the facepalm), you take a drink. Case races usually are more kind, as the game ends with the first concussion.

2) Asshole – Keep aside the fact that Obama is, literally, the president. A game of White House asshole involves watching an episode of The O’Reilly Factor (not the aforementioned asshole, though a good guess). There are no stringent rules per se, you’ll just need to drink a ton of beer to get through the show.

3) Never have I ever – First question: “Never have I ever faked a Hawaiian birth certificate so I could become President.” Come on, Obama, drink up. No? Worth a shot.

4) Prank Callin’ Cheney – Everyone takes a turn trying to send Cheney to the hospital. Heart attack, give out 1 drink to everyone, stroke 2 drinks. Typical buttons include legalizing same sex marriage and criminalizing impersonation of “The Penguin”.

5) Poor pong – Similar to the well known and beloved “beer pong”, Poor pong is an over-sized version of such, where each team takes turns flinging the homeless into large cauldrons of hot oil via catapult. Congress better get a move on that health care plan.

Every now and then, we here at Concentrated Awesome have something on our chest we must get off. This time, it’s not a third nipple, but a case of robot rancor. The following is an open letter (of contempt) to Michael Bay.

Audiences have "Fallen" for it, but not this writer.

Dear Mr. Bay (please note this is the first and only instance of me being polite),

There are certain sacred American ideals and institutions that no one should seek to alter or improve upon in any way: the Declaration of Independence, Slurpees, the Grand Canyon, Roger Ebert, mini-golf and Transformers. Whether out of arrogance or sheer stupidiy, you chose to tackle a TV show the children of the 80s (a bitchy bunch to be sure; see: what you are reading right now) hold dear, one which was already turned into a well-made movie two decades earlier. Not only did you decide to shift the focus away from the robots to the largely irrelevant humans, you cast something called a Shia LaBeouf, which sounds like it should be a hot French model, but is not. I’ve read Family Circus cartoons that were more complicated than the plot. You’re not unlike al-Qaeda — when you don’t know what to do next, you blow something up. You use CGI as a crutch to cover up all your other flaws, like Lindsay Lohan uses being a lesbian to shift attention away from her alcohol abuse. Your idea of “going green” is putting up green screens everywhere, like an even more insipid Christo. It’s obvious you don’t give a truck about Optimus Prime and co. Upon the use of the catchphrase “roll out,” my eyes did, out of the back of my head — from a seizure of stupidity. You rely on crude, outdated stereotypes for cheap laughs that make Carlos Mencia seem enlightened. These characters are supposed to be “more than meets the eye,” not shallower than Perez Hilton standing in an inflatable pool. For you, it’s about merchandise bought, not Autobots.  If I were a poorly-punning Picard, I’d say, “You make me so sick, Bay, that I need to go to the sick bay.” Then, I’d barf all over Worf just to prove how serious I was to the crew and to have a silly story to record in the Captain’s Log (space, the final frontier…for vomit-inducing vitriol). The only thing you’ve “transformed” (besides a huge pile of garbage into an even larger pile of cash), is dozens of otherwise reasonable dorks like me into raving lunatics, who start internet petitions and write to the UN asking that you be tried for “crimes against humanity” and “assualt and battery” of fond memories. You are more of a disgrace to the word “Bay” than the Bay of Pigs and “Baywatch” combined. You aren’t fit to direct traffic on a one-way street, much less multi-million dollar movies. I could go on, but my medication, if you want to call Ovaltine and a crushed-up asprin that, is starting to kick in. As for the tagline above, we are still “waiting” for a movie that does the franchise justice. Until it arrives, myself and others like me, will continue to (Star)scream.

I’m not quite sure why so many people are up in arms over Palin resigning, or at least her excuses for it. “I’m doing what’s best for Alaska by leaving office”. Sounds like it’s in the state’s interest to me.

But what’s to happen to dear ol’ Alaska? With Palin so busy counting her “whorin’ bucks”, she’ll have trouble filling in her wide gaping hole when pulling out (first time she’s ever had that problem). I know there’s a reasonable expectation of who will replace Palin as the next governor. I mean, how many drunken lemurs could it possibly take? That doesn’t stop me from coming up with a few suggestions of my own:

1) Rocky – If Palin’s stepping down, you better be damn sure there’s someone who’s willing to watch those crazy Ruskies (they are next door, don’tcha know). If he can kick Drago’s ass, he can take any Russian.
Pros: Speeches would be no less intelligible than Palin’s current ones.
Cons: I couldn’t fucking stand Adrian in an hour and a half movie, 24/7 at his side would be hell.

2) A Shark-bear hybrid – I really hope you’re not questioning my interest in playing God just for the sole purpose of replacing an Alaskan governor. If you’ve got a reason to defy nature, you damn well better take it. I was going to originally say a T-Rex riding a skateboard, but it would require extracting DNA from fossils and we all know they were put in the ground by Satan, so that wouldn’t fly.
Pros: Maulin’, Clawin’, Bitin’. Better than a pitbull with lipstick
Cons: Not quite as attractive in a swimsuit, though close.

That is one frigid bitch. And then there’s the ice cream bar.

3) A Klondike bar – Ok, so it’s an inanimate object. That’s one point against. Otherwise, a perfect fit. They both consist of a thin shell covering up who they really are and crumble when any kind of pressure or heat is applied.
Pros: The ice cream could be pretty inspiring. “Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you would do-oo-oo for a Klondike bar”.
Cons: Not nearly as vapid as Palin, which may hurt in the polls.

4) The Baroness – Take a look at Palin. What do you see? Slutty librarian look armed with assault rifles. That’s the Baroness! She’s one dress suit away from being a stunt double
Pros: Will hunt down every one of those last damn wolves. Shooting them from planes would be mercy in comparison.
Cons: Will hunt down your children soon after.

5) An exact clone – What’s not to love about an exact DNA duplicate of Palin? Admittedly, this was a bit of a stretch. Conservatives are going to complain about human cloning. Though on the plus side, we could call her “Parah Salin” and she could fly into every rally off a Parachute attached to a speedboat.
Pros: Same great taste, less filling
Cons: There would be two Sarah Palin’s in the world. Would most likely quit again before end of term.

At work, we’ve got our annual game of kickball coming up in a week. Now, I don’t want to say that the Blue team (my team, of course) is the greatest thing since sliced bread…because we invented sliced bread on a coffee breaks one Tuesday, but whatever, no biggie. I just want to make sure we all know who is vastly superior, and so that all those in attendance may know which team to properly root for. Here now, a helpful guide to better know your kickball teams:

The White team originally gave Biff the Sports Almanac for the last 50 years so that he could make his fortune. The Blue team was able to undo this, as each of us is capable of running 88mph and generating 1.21 gigawatts of power.

The White team will intentionally yell out the wrong answer during “Blue’s Clues” just to spite us.

I can’t promise I won’t bring a giant broadsword to the game

Twenty-five years ago, the White team, through a series of dark rituals involving the Keymaster and the Gatekeeper, summoned Gozer the Gozerian. Fortunately, the Blue team knows how to destroy 50 ft. Marshmallow men and isn’t afraid to cross the streams. Fun fact: The Stay Puft Marshmallow Man is white. Coincidence?

The White team killed Dumbledore, are collectively Luke’s father, and stole the idol from Indiana Jones without giving him back his whip. The Blue team, on the other hand, founded The Order of the Phoenix, made the Kessel Run in less than 12 parsecs, and knows the location of the Ark of the Convenant.

The Blue team taught Michael Jackson the Moonwalk. The White team popularized The Macarena.

The White team steals one white sock from every load of laundry as their “duly appointed tuppence for rights to the use of monochromatic fibers”.

The Blue team wrote the Creative Commons license and freely encourages fair use. The White Team belongs to the RIAA and sued your grandmother for downloading “Ain’t nuttin’ but a G-Thang”.

The Blue team taught Chuck Norris how to roundhouse kick. The White team tried to steal his beard “in order to learn his secrets”.

The Blue team is a baaaad mutha (Shut yo’ mouth!) But I’m talking about Blue! (Then we can dig it). The White team doesn’t get this “Shaft” reference.

At least one member of the Blue Team is “Concentrated Awesome”. Members of the White team wish to create “Diluted Awesome” because they don’t believe you’re cool enough to handle it in any condensed form.

The Blue team would give me a raise after reading this if they could. My direct boss is on White and will most likely fire me promptly afterward.

Day One: Recounted the early history of video games to my nephew (he asked, really), making sure not to leave out Colecovision. I won’t stand for the Atari-centric bias that permeates so many of the texts on the subject. Also attempted to answer the question of who is the better basketball player: Kobe or LeBron. Realized if NBA Jam were still around, the debate could be settled for us (whoever gets “on fire” first is superior). Also realized I share the same interests as an 8-year-old, meaning I haven’t matured since second grade.* Came to the conclusion while eating Lunchables. In my Underoos.

* Later, thought of a rebuttal if anyone makes the same observation: Oh yeah? Well neither has your mom.

Day Two: For the first time in five years, went into the Atlantic Ocean. With my phone. Whoops. Am reminded of the famous verse from “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,” Water, water everywhere/ but not a drop your cell kind of place. Plan to sue AT&T over claim it has “more bars in more places.” Where were the bars when I was in one of the largest bodies of water on the planet, jerks?

Day Three: Lose another prized possession to the wicked waves, my sunglasses. Vow revenge. Attempt to wrestle the water. Want to call Vince McMahon to see if he’ll put “The Commotion in the Ocean” on pay-per-view, but the sinister sea stole my phone. After 15 minutes or so of combat and nearly double that of trash-talking (threatening to “pound the sound”), concede the fight. Learn that some battles, like the Iraq War or the Pepsi Challenge, aren’t winnable (I just couldn’t chose a cola; it still haunts me). Also, the ocean is a dirty cheater.

Day Four: Read a large portion of British comic Russell Brand’s bawdy autobiography. Have never seen the word “wank” or a variant of it used so many times (surprised he didn’t title it “Wanks for the Memories”). Determine that the people who think Dane Cook is an egotistic d-bag would have to burn Brand at the stake and pee on his charred remains just to not be considered hypocrites.

Day Five: Played my umpteenth game of Life with my nephew, who’s not only becoming very good, but also hyper-competitive. His obsession with winning runs in the family. Recall my own board game addiction: Pretty, Pretty Princess, 1991. Picture him patrolling the playground, threatening to sink his peers’ battleships and relishing starving their Hungry, Hungry Hippos. In 70 years, I could see him being a belligerent bingo player in Boca.

Day Six: Haven’t had much alone time with the spouse.  Start a tally of celebrity deaths since our marriage began versus number of times we’ve been intimate. Even Joan Rivers’ face isn’t this lopsided. Wouldn’t be so tough to take except for the absence of the internet. The closest I’ve come to a XXX encounter is using a marker to add an extra letter to a Dos Equis bottle. Start fantasizing about reaching third base with a modem. Nothing would please me more than jacking on.

Day Seven: Crack joke that “Seven days of marriage makes one weak.” Fear that I’m losing my sense of humor. Bill Cosby syndrome is very real, folks. Spend rest of the final day writing pitch for reality travel show involving South Carolina’s governor, called “Sanford and Sons.” At the last minute, shelve the idea. Do I really want “Created show for Bravo” on my resume?

It’s been a week since Michael Jackson shuffled, or more likely moonwalked, off this mortal coil. And in that time, I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen so many networks, family members, websites, newspapers, magazines, etc pimp out a celebrity so hard and so fast (that will be the only time on this site you ever see “so hard and so fast”).

But who am I to disagree with the whoring of a musical legend’s legacy before his body is even buried 6ft under? For those out there looking to cash in, feel free to borrow any of these:

King of Pop soda – Comes in two flavors: Thriller Vanilla and Groin Grabbingly Grape. No longer affiliated with the citrus drink Jackson Five Alive.

Billie’s jeans – You’ll know the kid is not your son; pants so constrictive you’ll lose your ability to reproduce!

One Glove Love: the left-handed glove store – Are you germaphobic AND left-handed? For those southpaws who tire of washing one hand repeatedly.

Neverland ranch…yeah, I could see marinating a chicken in that

Black or White cookies – No longer segregated to alternate sides of the cookie, MJ’s desserts are a swirl of black and white sugar together. Side effects include an uncontrollable urge to smash up a car, turning into a black panther, and shapeshifting into other races/genders.

“Bubbles” gum – It’s exactly what you think it is: gum that tastes like a monkey. Coming soon: Chimpanzee flavored.

Neverland Ranch Dressing – The salad dressing for the middle aged who refuse to grow up, perfect with Elephant Man baco-bits.

Smooth Criminal Shaving Gel – For the discriminating gentleman with an anti-gravity lean. Nick yourself? There’s a surgical mask included to cover up!

Moonwalkers – Kids love Heelys, the sneakers with the roller skates built in, but they just haven’t been reckless enough…until now. Why let some sneaker tell you that you have to go forward, when you can skate wildly backwards down the sidewalk, crashing into old folk and lampposts alike. Not recommended for hemophiliacs.