By JEFF VRABEL • 843-706-8140

‘Avatar” is lame. You know it, I know it, portions of James Cameron’s animatronic exoskeleton know it. By contrast, though, and in the interest of objectivity, here is an incomplete list of people who seemingly don’t know it: billions of moviegoers all over the planet (ours), the lucrative international market and the important movie-industry people who will spend the better part of the next two months passing expensive awards around crowds of themselves.

Whatever. I am no stranger to standing alone when it comes to the hating of highly popular movies — seriously, two rum-and-cokes and one mention of “Forrest Gump” and I am not responsible for whatever happens to your carpet — so let me take this opportunity to start the local post-Golden Globes pre-Oscars “Avatar” backlash.

By JEFF VRABEL • 843-706-8140
 

I have put off writing this column for three years now, because at some point its publication will jab a lengthy and irrevocably infectious splinter into the relationship between my son and me, probably even more than the horrible truth about what really happened to his fish when we got back from vacation. (I am afraid, little man, they did not go to the ocean for a visit.)

By JEFF VRABEL • 843-706-8140

Well, everything seems to be under control around here. Swine flu is getting good and vaccinated, at least among you chirpy, vivacious Younger People. Windows 7 is out, giving us Mac people another great many reasons to direct smug, self-important smirks at each other (try it, it’s fun). The Balloon Boy’s weird parents will soon be given over to torture, as they should be. Yep, everything would be pretty much as solid as could be expected, were it not for the small flotilla of behemoth Burmese pythons slithering their way from Florida to the Lowcountry to devour us all.

Now, unless you are aficionado of Celtic music or belts, there’s really no upside to learning that many thousands of snakes are en route to your town, and yet this may be the case, according to a story last week that has inexplicably not caused residents to scamper chaotically into the streets with curlers in their hair, slippers on their feet and mad rictus grins of horror frozen on their faces. Because, and I want to be absolutely clear on this, SNAKES ARE COMING TO KILL US ALL. You guys have your little slap-fights on the blogs about health care or whatever, I’ll be moving all my essential documents, potable water and slow, chewy smaller dogs to the top floor.

By JEFF VRABEL • 843-706-8140

Full disclosure: I have never worn Crocs, except for that day with the unpleasant episode of the exploding garbage disposal, about which the less said, the better.

But otherwise, that’s not for any particular reason other than that Crocs don’t come up much. I’m inside all day, and regrettably, I work for a company that requires me to wear human shoes to work (they have a similar policy regarding pants, which I oppose) and what’s more, I am cursed with larger-than-average feet, so wearing Crocs has the unsubtle effect of making me appear to have a small aircraft carrier to each of my legs, which is a highly confidence-rattling way to go about your day.

But that’s OK with me, because very soon, Crocs will be known solely as the ridiculous rubber clown shoes that achieved immense popularity largely because Americans will buy anything if their neighbor has one, even if it makes you look like you’re wearing pickles on your feet.