PBS presents... "Battles of the Civil War That Cannot Be Reasonably Substantiated"

Narrated by G. Beauregard Poteat

This week's episode: The Bovine Battle of Beulah Grove

"Hello, I'm your host, Beau Poteat. This week, it's my pleasure to tell you about a little-known battle of the Civil War (or, as I like to call it, The War of Northern Aggression) that historians have named 'The Battle of Beulah Grove.' Now, this fight is so unlike any others in that pyrrhic war between the states (which was initiated by that Federalist demogogue Abraham Lincoln). This particular skirmish had a different complexion than the usual armed scuffle in that the principle agents of death were, in fact, cows employed by each side, Yankee bastard and Southern gentleman alike. The loss of life was astonishing -- over three million men, women, children, babies, and Puerto Rican deaf-mutes were wiped off that face of the planet by the wages of war.

"It's hard to say who could be considered a winner in this barnyard tilt for the ages -- the battlefield was littered with the still-moaning husks of young men from each side riddled with grapeshot, musket-balls, and prime rib. The historical evidence we have of the tableau is graphic and frightening, but since it doesn't exist, I'll have to describe to you the imagery I have of it in my head: Black-and-white pictures of pudding-filled children's swimming pools; cows fighting ostriches in a titanic, horrific battle for the ages to determine whether the bovine or the avian receives the divine mandate to rule over the Earth; a pair of lost car-keys left behind by a man who's spilled his coffee on a Jesuit Monk. Horrifying, just horrifying.

"Well, I can tell by the blowdart that was just shot into in my neck that our time is up this week. Join us next week for more tales of easily-dismissable, poorly substantiated tales of Civil War battles that most likely never occurred. Until then, via con Bob."

The Red Menace

Love the Trump on last night's "Apprentice" season premiere calling Lenny, a Russian emigre living in New Jersey, "the Russian."

"The Russian" -- I looked over to the Wifebomb, who had her eyes wide shut in disbelief. "It's like Trump thinks he's some kind of assassin, or hitman," she says. "Send in 'The Russian' to finish the job," I said. "Let there be no survivors."

Don't quite know why I keep watching this televised program -- maybe I enjoy the repetition of the phrases "step up to the plate," "orientate," and "one-hundred-and-ten percent." Or maybe it's questions like, "Are you a homosexual?" Or, perhaps it's Trump's followups to statements like those: "That's why they have menus in restaurants, you know? I like steak, somebody else likes spaghetti. That's why they have menus in restaurants."

Doughy Douschebag Hour

Have you seen this man? Maybe you don't recognize him, but perhaps you might have seen the unholy nightmare he's responsible for -- "Boondock Saints." This gladly-forgotten mistake from 1999 was a derivative pile of shit that's a rip-off of every rip-off QT gleefully cops to -- all without QT's self-awareness. Somehow, the doughy fuck in question, Troy Duffy, America's most loathesome bar-back/anonygrunge guitarist/amateur screenwriter/full-time cocksmoker, happened to get to the head of the line in 1997 when Harvey and Bob were handing out development deals to entitled, overfed, suburban gobshites who all thought they were the next Bob Rafelson.

The reason any of this is worth rehashing is because two old chums of his cut a documentary called "Overnight" from the thousands of hours of video they'd shot following Duffy around, recording him acting like a douschenozzle. Their film was supposed to be a victory lap at "breaking in," but instead, it becomes a bitterness-tinged deconstruction of how Duffy destroyed his (and his sibling's) own best shot at film/music success by sabotaging his deals and antagonizing his industry allies at every turn (yet, gauging by his lack of talent, "success" was hardly ever guaranteed to begin with).

Granted, this whole sordid story is, as we say, inside baseball, it's interesting because there are any number of doughy white dudes (present company included) who would've CHEWED THROUGH AIRCRAFT-GRADE TITANIUM to get a shot like Duffy did -- and short of that, we desire with each centimeter of our blackened, oil-filled hearts to watch him fail. Disgustingly and utterly.

What did the five fingers say to the face?

Smack! How big a dousche can one man be, especially when said dude is in the service of our country? My favorite Bode Miller quote from this anony-wire piece is: "I just did it my way. I'm not a martyr, and I'm not a do-gooder. I just want to go out and rock. And man, I rocked here."

Missed opportunity

The New York Comic-Con is being waged, as we speak, over at Javits. It sounds too cool for words -- the greatest gathering of comic book and pop culture heroes in one place, in New York, in about a decade. They stopped throwing these things here because, I suppose, they used to fall flat on their face in terms of attendance by both fan and luminary alike. The region has been starved for this kind of thing, and apparently it's going like gangbusters with sell-outs and SROs across the board. And I am conspicuously absent from the proceedings.

I had the chance to buy tickets months ago, but since I don't enjoy going to "comic book conventions" per se, I decided to sit this one out. And really, who enjoys fighting with tens of thousands of people for positioning in front of a longbox of old "Nick Fury" comic books? But when yesterday marn rolled about, I reconsidered -- how could I resist the pop culture Super Bowl, being held righchea in New York?

So, there's Klingons, Vulcans, Cylons, Hobbits, Wookiees, Aslans, and men in "Sailor Moon" cosplay get-ups -- but no Scurve-in-Silver-Surfer-bodypaint action anywhere on the premises. I miscalculated, and I won't make the same mistake next year.

Unless I still don't like crowds, comic book shows, comic book fans, stink, people who stink, or leaving the house in general.

Another turgid installment of....

Clementine gazes out of a window, staring a half-lidded stare out across the heath. She is ignoring her small repast of barmbracks and rose-hip tea, too distraught by her longing to eat. The fire in the hearth behind her slowly burns down to untended embers. Her attendant Mary Blackchurch, one of the many estate servants for the house of Higglethorpewaitefordshore, tidies up the crumbs surrounding her uneaten fingercakes, all the while casting a concerned look towards the young lady of the house. Clementine does not bother to reassure her maid, for she is in no state of right mind. Instead, she presses the back of her palm to forehead, in depair -- and longing.

Sigh...

Josephus sits upon a parlor chair in his country estate of Cromthwaitecroftingtonhall Manor, snifter of brandy in hand, gaze fixed on the silver cufflinks resting inertly upon a brass tray. The links are a gift that serves as a dolorous reminder of the one thing he pines so desperately for but cannot have. He swirls the brandy in its glass and touches a small trace of the spirit to his lips, urging forth a memory of the longed-for kiss of his forbidden love.

Sigh...

Buster Douglas is worried

Rightly so.

Not doing "ordinary"

If I can be compared to you, I've failed. The last thing I want to to be counted among the swarthy, grunting rabble on the street, braying for spare change, eating at their Olive Gardens, drinking their pinot grigio. I quiver in rage at the prospect of being tossed in with you proles.

This is why I have a brilliant idea. You know how when people are intimidated by somebody else, they reduce that man by saying, "He puts his pants on one leg at a time," right? Well, no more! Hah-hah! I've invented a state-of-the-art device that puts my pants on BOTH legs at a time. Suck it, Trebek!

The best part? It's powered by state-of-the-art steam technology. As in S-T-E-A-M, water in superheated vapor form. I don't think anyone else has thought to exploit the power of the water molecule -- so I got there first, bitches.

Look at me! My pants aren't on -- and now they are! BOTH LEGS at a time! I will get back months of time wasted deciding which leg to slip into my trousers first. There they both go in! Whee-hee!

The To-Do List

Hmm... what do we have here? Another beautiful winter day! Some sun, not too cold, just right. Let me check my to-do list over here... this looks like the perfect opportunity to cross some of these things off.

"Drop off dry-cleaning"... check, I can do that after I get off the treadmill later. What else -- "Buy milk," as good as done. Skim, only the best for my bony-bones! Hee hee! Lessee, there's this one here, "Clean the cat's litter box." OK, later on. Wait, this last one -- "Don't die like William Holden." Hmmm... that's strange. I don't even remember writing that down.

Well, I better get busy on these... ho-ho-ho! What's this I see? A sixteen-ounce tumbler of Chivas! My oh my! This seems to be the Scurve's lucky day. *yoink* I'll just take that.... mmm, delicious Chivas.... *glug-glug-glug-glug*

Boy, that really hit the shpot. OK now, what was I doing? Can't quite... remember... urp... maybe I better top off this Chivas again... mphhhrrr...

I better watch out for that big oak coffee table, the one with all the... pointed pointy things sticking out of it. Whatcha call it? Oh, "corners," right. Let me just get... over... here... OOOFFF! *thud*

Oooohhhh... sheems I have a... hole in my shkull... not good times... bleeding out of my brains... more Chivas.... sheems like I should have followed that lassht thing on my lisssht... orp... mmmnnnmmmm.... *expires*

Cat piano

Somewhere, down by Hermann Goering, Marcus Brutus, and Peter Jennings in the deepest sphyncter of Hell, you'll surely Athanasius Kircher, designer of the 1650 innovation the cat piano, a device the pricked kitties' bottoms with a needle depending on which key you played. Presumably, you'd have cats of varying tones for different notes.

Congratulations, Kircher -- you're the ACS's "Prick of the Millennium!"*

(*Valid through last millennium only)

Not getting the whole figure-skating-craze thing

Why is America coo-coo for Sasha-puffs? As of press time, she has fallen on her ass a buncha times, befitting the gutsy courage and indominable spirit that's characterized the entire American effort in Turin. But it's almost as if the American awareness becomes heightened from zero to 60 when Olympic figger-skating comes around. Huhwhut? Does a fat nation of fat fatties who can barely be bothered to care about their own cardiac health REALLY get fired up over a bunch of Quintuple Salchows?

Why this event? A bud of mine says it's a Peggy Fleming-hangover, but that seems long ago and a galaxy far away in terms of sticking power within the American consciousness. Besides, this is not a contest based on a hard result (i.e. a finish line/best time) -- this is a subjectively judged thingie. I don't get it.

"Those Barbies were hard to get!"

Heidi: "...I barely got one myself. They went like bagels... What? Did I say that right?"

Tim: "Um, I think you meant hotcakes."

Grim prognosis

I'm going to make this brief -- I don't have much time on this springy, metallic mortal coil we all share. I was diagnosed today with a shotgun wound to the head. I went through all the stages (except for denial, curiously enough) almost instantly, but my doc was gentle enough with the prognosis that it gave me the momentary strength to deal with it.

I said to him, "Doc, when did I contract this horrible malady?" He shook his head and said, "There's no way to know for sure... a lot of people come in contact with large-gauge firearms and never contract anything like this." To which I said, "Could it... have been that time I spent in Haiti?" The doc pulled his mouth tightly. "Maybe, son, maybe."

So, I am now one of millions of Americans suffering from severe gunshot wounds to the head. I don't want to be another statistic, but the survival rate is not good. The doc has started me out on a regimen of baby aspirin and robitussin -- which is unorthodox, I know -- because he assured me that this was a newer homeopathic remedy that might give me some more time.

I was considering tossing my star-power behind the pet cause of gunshot wounds to the head, but when I googled it, all I read about was how there is a charitable-donation "fatigue" because of all the celebrity pull the sucking-chest wound bandwagon is receiving right now, what with George Clooney's influence and all. So, I disabused myself of that route.

All that's left for me is to retreat to our lakeside cabin and begin recording my life and times -- which will pretty much be pure simulacra derived from all the Japanese-tentacle-cartoon-porn and William Faulkner I've consumed.

Oh, how I miss the Cape...

I remember simpler times at the side of my grandfather, M. Prescott, always with a croquet mallet in his hand, as we'd perambulate the waterline of his Cape estate as the dusk fell upon another perfect day with my "pee-pop."

Mater would urge us inside of the solarium to enjoy the last few ergs of savored sun-borne succor, as the adults would tink glasses of tawny port together. My pater would suggest a game of baccarat for the adults as darkness set, and we children would escape to the rumpus room for a spate of quiet journaling, lying on our stomachs. Then, pee-pop would come in to the Rumpus room, brass buttons on his navy-blue blazer glinting in the low light, and invite we children in front of the hearth for a rousing story session about how he and his father laid the first railroad tracks into the southern tip of Florida.

After dinner of rare roast beef with horseradish sauce, the men would sip brandies and smoke hand-rolled cigars, and we young boys would marvel from afar, waiting to vie for the day when we could join pee-pop, pater, and uncles N. Gareth and U. Stanton in their discourse.

Of course, days were filled with croquet, squab-hunting, and excursions down to the marina to sail his yacht, the Lady Cakebread, with Baxter, pee-pop's boatswain. Ah, those heady days of yore, when we all wore the family tartan and our crest, sewn onto the breast of our blue blazers.

The Old Man Grouch-Complain Hour

I wish I could go into the Apple Store in SoHo and not have to wait THREE MOTHERTRUCKING HOURS to solve the simplest task, i.e. getting my busted iPod replaced. Instead of a smooth customer service transaction transacted in an acceptable timeframe, you get an interminable wait in the future-ey Koolhaas-ey neato-boffo Apple Store (OK, that part is not so bad). And why are we waiting? The answer is NYU frosh -- aimless, pajama-bottom-clad strawberry blondes from Montclair attending on their parents' dime, filling up the standby queue all hours of the day, making it all but impossible to get a slot to see an "Apple Genius" after 10 a.m.

Grumblegrumblegrumble.... grumm....

If we've learned anything....

...and we haven't, it's that you should not claim the Holocaust is a hoax in jolly ol' England, because they get not-jolly fairly quick when you do that.

This glum looking fellow, David Irving, is going to the hoosegow for just such a crime -- and it is a crime in Albion. I like to deny the Holocaust as much as the next guy, but isn't it a bit steep to toss motherfuckers in jail just because they make themselves out to be total ignorant cunts when they exercise their right ro free speech -- no matter how poorly it's exercised?

Not in the WINTER, jackass!

It's 30 degrees out, and the entire city is freezing its balls off. No shit -- even the women are freezing them off. That's how fucking cold it is. So, why is it that TWICE this weekend I spy two douschenozzles wearing FLIP-FLOPS in the fucking dead of winter? What the fuck statement is that? Because it isn't convenience -- flip-flops on a man state clearly and loudly that he is too fucking lazy too be bothered to wear shoes or somehow block his abominable feet from public view... a public who has probably eaten in the last week-and-a-half and has no interest in seeing your grotty, black soles. And that's if the weather logically supports wearing such an execrable thing. (Apparently, people have no interest in protecting their body from broken glass and splashed dog-urine, anyway.)

But when it's cold enough to freeze water? That means the wearer has no interest in joining a society of rational laws and consideration of the social contract, that thin membrane that stretches over all of our actions and allows us to coexist peaceably in a city of eight million people. It screams that no amount of common sense can penetrate the rainbow-hued soap-bubble of their solipcism and cavernous self-interest -- not even tangible meteorological phenomena. It means, "Stay away from me -- I cannot be trusted to exercise even the most cursory good judgement in my own interest, so think about what that might mean for you should your needs and mine be at odds with one another."

How about coming over to our side for the Big Win, sociopaths of the world? We could use your help pulling on the Same Rope under the Big Tent.

More importantly, get your stank feet out my fucking brain, selfish see-esser.

Baseball's back -- catch the excitement!

Pitchers and catchers report! The endlessly long baseball season, dormant for only about eight minutes there back in January, is about to explode in a big way, consuming all of our national fucking attention and filling our workplaces with nonstop prattle about "K's" and "ERA's" and "on-base-percentage" and "please put that gun down."

Oh, the joy of hearing 34-year-old men obsess infinitely over fantasy baseball ephemera in the workplace; the delight one receives from having repetitive, stentorian ballgame play-by-play retold across the room; lo, the pleasure inherent in seeing a gang of date-raping, steroid-infused, anti-social, firecracker-and-bleach-throwing, borderline-personalities elevated to august, sun-dappled demigods.

Let the Boys of Summer play on and on and on and on and on and on. Me? I'll be chilling with my north Vietnamese friend from above, enjoying the bliss of a gunshot wound to the temple that will spare me ever having to hear anything astroturf-related again.

Winners' Circle

As the photo purveyor at my current shingle, I get to purvey many an equine curiosity from around the country -- case in point, this win circle photo from Sam Houston Race Park in Texas (or as I like to say, Teh-has). Now, this isn't a matter of poking fun at flyover-state people... actually, once I think about it, I guess that's mostly what it is.

What I love about this Doon Arbus-like submission from Sandra Beck of the Coady Photography agency is, naturally, the woman on the left. Not that her morbid heaviness is a point of humor -- I love that almost in that same big spirit, the hair is piled highly on her head... more is better. Between the hair and the houndstooth and the stockinged-feet-in-an-open-toe it looks like she stepped out of 1961.

Current

Mood: Ecstatic

Food: Roast squab with braised leek in a champagne emulsion

Channel: ABC Family

Song: Ryuichi Sakamoto, "Island of Woods"

"Wiseguy" lead: Steven Bauer

Hemorrhage: Petechial

Dam: Three Gorges

The Boloney Valediction

O.K. folks, even a little puppet-man made of wood and cloth can get the hint when he's not needed anymore (and for once, I'm not talking about Herve Villechaize!). Besides, I think I hear the looming footsteps of the editor returning to his computer -- and he's threatening me with a belt-sander! If he wants this chair back, he's going to have to take it by might -- ter-mite, that is! Hotcha-hotcha -- I gotcha!

Seriously, there are a few people I'd like to thank before I get forcibly ejected. I couldn't have gotten to where I am today without the invaluable help of Mortimer Snerd, who said to me, "Kid, you gotta get the sawdust out of your ears and log the proper time it'll take to make a big bark in this business." Hotcha-hotcha! Also, I have to thank Lester, of "Willie Tyler &..." fame for similar sage advice: "Lumber into that talent scout's office and demand that he give you a hand." Get it? A hand? Like the one up my ass? Fits in with all the wood/tree jokes I've been laying on you, albeit unsuccessfully.

The wood motif! Knocks 'em dead!

That's it for me, ladies and germs. The oldest rule in show-business is to end on a big note, so I'll just say, "No, I didn't use a rag-tourniquet to strangle that 48-year-old Ukrainian prostitute they just found under the thawing snow out in front of Bill's apartment, but I bet I know someone who could tell you about that, Officer!"

Hotcha-hotcha -- I gotcha! Goodnight!

The Boloney Confessions

God damn my felt innards -- I spend two hours drinking everything in sight to numb the pain, but to no relief. Johnny Walker, single malt, Rum Brughal, vanilla extract -- hell, I even downed a quart of Hai Karate looking for sweet chemical inebriation, but all I managed to do is soak through my little cotton suit and make my wooden neck all swelled-up and stiff.

Buddy Boloney is not in good shape. But, you know what I do in situations like these? I usually take out my colored pencils and draw a picture of what I think you and your wife (or husband) look like together, all happy and carefree making a tofu stir-fry, and I gouge it in a scarlet rage with an boxcutter until all I'm left with is little pulpy ribbons of lined notebook paper. I stare at the shreds, hoping that somehow you will be ruined in the fashion of my effigy; but then I realize it's all happening inside my wooden head, and I'm as unhappy as a dummy with a carved smile can be.

Your good pal Buddy Boloney has always had some success when he's tries to detach from the misery in his head and dive into his work. Better I focus on you, in the audience, than my own issues. But then, it always happens. From an open window, or passing car, I always wind up hearing Journey's "Open Arms," and the darkness creeps back into my soul. The wolf reappears at my door. Shame fills me with dread, yet again.

I think of the night my Uncle Woodpile touched me. It makes me feel sick to my woolen-stuffed stomach. He told me it was a secret between good old Uncle Woodpile and his favorite nephew Buddy Baloney.

I channel my pain into my art. That's always been me -- the ever-chipper dummy, looking to avoid the wood-chipper.

Hotcha-hotcha -- I gotcha!

Laughs on the outside, and a cancer of soul-searing pain on the inside.That's my deal. Christ, I hope he stuffs me in the box before I get a hold of a book of quick-strikes.

The Boloney Chronicles

Look, folks -- I'm with you. I'm not stupid. I can't blame you for not laughing with me.

I know I'm not likeable.

I've never been. Never pretended to be. Never needed it. I just wanted a shred of approval... just the tiniest shred of love, or acceptance. I want so badly; I need so badly. I'm not proud of myself, or some of the things I've had to do. It's a fucking miracle that I'm sitting here, blogging at you today.

Some nights, I dump a handful of sleeping pills out and pour a tall glass of wood-varnish, and just think of downing the whole fucking thing. I watch as the magenta-hued digits on my clock radio flip by as time elapses, a test of wills waging. Will to live, versus handful of pills and pint of varnish. I could end it right there. I should end it right there. But I don't.

Buddy Boloney is too much of a goddamn coward to do it.

Your old pal Buddy Boloney doesn't sleep much these days. I can't quit sobbing long enough to let my exhausted body fall into unconsciousness. It's awful, being woken by the sounds of my own screams. Haunted by faces... by names. By places. I've done things I'm not proud of -- things I can't even chalk up to doing out of survival.

I once punched a clown into unconsciousness. It was a woman clown. I had just paid her for sex.

I once pushed an old lady through a creosote bulletin board.

I drove a car onto a Sikh's foot, and pinned him there while I took his wallet and broke two of his molars with a can of creamed-corn.

You want Buddy Boloney to self-loathe? Give up -- I'm the fucking master of self-loathing. As bad as you think you can make me feel, I do it ten times worser, all before champagne brunch.

Guest blogger

(The editor is out for the day... in his stead, he's left his capable assistant Buddy Boloney to handle all blogging chores for today)

Hello folks! I'm Buddy Boloney, and I'll be the boss around here today. Wait just a second, so I can take a drink of water out of this glass while Bill says the alphabet.

Hotcha-hotcha -- I gotcha! I guess that joke is what you'd call "ventriloquist's dummy humor." Guess you had to be there.

You know what I love about this weird weather we've been having? It's like 60 degrees outside today -- beautiful! Especially after the huge blizzard we had last weekend... what a big change. I'm so happy that I'm sporting wood!

Hotcha-hotcha -- I gotcha! See, my whole body is made of wood. So, it's like a pun. Wordplay. Right.

So, lessee... the other day I was having a coffee, reading my copy of "Black Inches," when the phone rings. I pick it up, and the guy on the line tells me that he's interested in getting me to change my long-distance carrier. I say back to him, "Great, because it's real stuffy inside that leather case he keeps me in!"

Hotcha-hotcha -- I gotcha! Whoa now... what, nothing?

My fucking head is made of oak, and there's a man's hand fisting my asshole right now --.how the fuck hard do I have to work? Just a goddamn titter... a chuckle... anything. I sit in that motherjumping case for weeks on end, and the second I get out into the fresh, moving air, I'm met with ennui and opprobrium.

You think I do this for fun? You think I enjoy this? What the say did I have in any of this? My hands are inefficable little sticks that the big guy has to move for me -- and he mostly just makes me do wanking motions. Fucking legs just dangle there, little brown wingtips swing from side to side, helplessly. I make Terri Schiavo look like Jerome-fucking-Bettis.

Taking a break. Maybe I'll come back later. Buddy Boloney out. Asswipes.

RIP Andreas Katsulas

One of sci-fi's best heavies just died of lung cancer at the too-young age of 59. Katsulas, who sported a dour face recognizable from such productions as "The Fugitive," "Babylon-5," and "Star Trek: The Next Generation," was an enthusiastic make-up actor in a business that doesn't always embrace such talent willingly -- but he was praised up and down at many a convention, I'll bet. "B5" and "ST:TNG" fans are nothing if not generous with praise.

Goddamn -- Daniel can sew

Daniel Vosovic is running away with the season 2 challenge belt on "Project Runway" this season. I mean, he was torn a new fistula in last week's makeover challenge, but this guy has won four? Five? Did anyone have that kind of mastery last season? (I wouldn't know, because I pretty much only watched the finale.) I wrote this kid off as a green recent-grad with little practical knowledge, but his eminence is imminent. His dress was solid -- I think that judges were being a bit harsh in the "boring/underwhelming" department.

Speaking of the judges, when Tim Gunn starting inflating the importance of the celebrity guest this week, I thought it was going to be Elle Mc or Kate Moss or something. But Iman? Mrs. Bowie, the "supermodel of supermodels?" To quote Fred Willard, "I don't think so!" Only if the show was going to be taking one of Tim's patented "field trips" back to 1983.

Ultimately, Kara Janx fell victim to this show's unfair policy of "Talentpartheid," wherein a native South African hack is sequestered from the actual skilled artisans before she can do any real runway damage. I thought the Janx gig was up when she made that tube-dress with the fucking crime scene tape sash (or was it a "Raise Plow" sign... I can't remember). It's a huge fucking shame that Nick Verrios was ditched before Kara.

And what's with the rackalicious Chloe going all lukewarm on us? She does not look into it anymore.

I have gone and tranquilized the fucking clown

Now what the fuck do I do? I was so tempted by the little Flash-movie off to the left that I put the crosshairs on that little insane harlequin and gave that fucker what's for.

Now, he's barely breathing -- I can't even be sure his chest is rising and falling. I think he's seriously fucked up. I gotta get this fuck out of here... dirty little dead grease-paint covered bastard, all inviting me to tranq him and shit. Pointy little fucker.

Someone have one of those compact mirrors? Gimme... hmmm... oh, thank Piss Christ! He fogged it up -- he's still breathing! Get this fuck's legs by the large, red shoes and help me stuff him in the Chrysler. I'm gonna push him out as I do 45 around the hospital's ambulance drive and let him spill out on the asphalt. Not my fucking problem. Fucking assface clown...

What's beyond Thunderdome...

Tina Turner belted out in her inimitable way that she only wanted what's beyond the Thunderdome -- but no one ever found out what, indeed, was beyond that hellish arena of sweaty, entrail-strewn, men-on-mens armed combat.

From what I've been able to assess from old tax maps and GoogleMaps, just beyond Thunderdome is ThunderGrove Centre, an midscale shopping area that features a Mervyn's, a Lord & Taylor, and a Cheesecake Factory. There is also a Banana Republic Outlet Store. Just down the road from that, on Hellsgate Boulevard, is the combination Taco Bell/Arthur Treacher's, which is adjacent to The Spear-of-Death Hyundai-Lexus dealership, offering the best deals on new and pre-owned autos with generous GMAC financing terms. A few doors down is Thor's Bowels Funeral Home, a nondenominational institution serving the forsaken community of the the greater Thunderdome area for 27 years.

A few exits down on the Lying Bandit's Parkway is a new cul-de-sac subdivision called Knifewound Treachery Warren, a gated community with a very discriminating resident review board (of the damned).

In the neighboring community of Gored Bastard Glen, there is a municipal pool, open six days a week, Memorial Day through Labor Day -- through the scorching hot summer of the post-apocalyptic Australian outback. There is also a snack-bar with a full assortment of Good Humor products.

It's worth noting that if Tina Turner had indeed gotten her mitts on what was "beyond Thunderdome" back in 1985, the appreciation of property value would have made her and that feral band of cast-off children she led quite wealthy. Lord Humungus himself had substantial holdings and was able to flip the property for a "humungus" windfall a few years ago, and he was able to buy himself an armada of nickel-plated octane-tanker trucks, each equipped with roof-mounted harpoons and napalm flamethrower turrets.

Fuck! I just drank a quart of liquid nitrogen!

Arrgghh! It's frozen my tongue! My tongue -- it's splintered into a thousand shards, slicing my esophageal tract like a million tiny razors! My teeth have shattered like so many cracked-corn kernels!

Arrgghh! There goes my epiglottis! Shattered! The liquid nitrogen is washing over my stomach, freezing the contents! Urk! My bile has been frozen into an icy knife, pressing through the brittle, frozen wall of my stomach! Aarrgghhh! Crackle!

Why did I drink that liquid nitrogen! What a lousy idea! You'd think I would've learned my lesson the last time!

Petition

I hereby petition for entry into the Flipmode Squad. I've never made any bones about my affection towards all things Busta -- I think that 1998's "Extinction Level Event" was a great album, and the man's ability to brew up lethal singles (like last year's "Touch It" with Swizz Beats, for example) is uncanny. Hell, I thought his acting turn in Joe Carnahan's "Narc" was gritty and enjoyable. His crew, the Flipmode Squad, goes into all the hottest clubs around to find out what the hottest shit is -- and only THEN do they keep it real. In short, they're just plain squidaud, like me.

I like to hop skip jump, makin' ya flip -- dislocate your hipbone, vertabrae slip. But I can no longer do this alone. I need entry into the Flipmode Squad. I need to pass the courvoisier. And you have to keep your hands where my eyes can see.

This is a critical time for Busta -- with the grim events of the last two weeks, I think Trevor Smith could use some different advice in his corner. A Rhymes/Salad union under the Flipmode banner could be mutually advantageous.

Motherfuckers would soon find that if you talk too much, you get hit with a tree-branch, courtesy if the FlipCaesar Squad. So whaddya say, Busta? Why don't you come over to the crib in Chelsea and discuss it with me. I'll have hummus and carrot sticks ready, and the wife has a bowl of great schwag to share a hit off. This is a no-risk proposition -- and think of the possibilities!

This is serious -- we could make you delirious. You should have a healthy fear of us, cause too much of us is dangerous.

Ooh, ooh....

You know, the one where he ate the eggs? You know, which one was that -- it was "Hud," right? The one with the eggs? Right? No -- "The Sting"... "The Sting" had the eggs... right?... NO! I got it! Wait! It was "Color of Money"! That was it!

"Are You a God?"

"No."

"Then -- DIE!"

Hey Man Nice Shot

Wow, Dick, I don't know what you do for an encore after shooting a fucking 78-year-old man while hunting. Maybe, you could snort a fucking line of coke with Pete Doherty using a rolled-up Bill of Rights. Or, maybe disinter Lucille Ball's remains and fuck the bones on FOXNews. Or, take Scalia with you back through time to the Lodz ghetto in 1937 and play Richard Wagner off a boombox on your shoulder aggressively, like Radio Raheem in "Do The Right Thing."

Tom Toles

He's from the Washington Post, and apparently, he's keeping it real, more realer than the Joint Chiefs can stand right now. Critical cartooning is everywhere right now, and lo people may be dying in tinderboxes throughout the world, it's exactly what the kultur needs at this point in time.

SHNAY!

Let it come down! Cripple my city! Paralyze us all! From whence cometh this Nor'easter? P'raps from the Nor? Or the Easter, mayhap?

Asked the neighbor next door, who's 83, if she needed anything that waranted going out into the nightmarish "28 Days Later"-ish hellscape that the proximal Union Square area has become... so we went out and scored a halogen lightbulb and some Stilton for the woman. She was very gracious about the whole affair.

Meanwhile, "The Chillblain" lurked in his subterranean headquarters across town, planning his next big snowstorm heist at he Federal Reserve...

Torino

Snxxx... mmm.... nnph.... snxxx.... snore.... snxxx.... *poot*.... snxxx.... nrrghh, get offa me, Minky.... snxxx... blorp.... snooze

Development-al dysfunction

Man, that Bateman is one sharp cat.

Fox tossed the last four eps of "Arrested Development" at us in one two-hour block as a farewell/fucketh thee to Mitchell Hurwitz's giant-genius-baby. These were only the fourth through eighth eps of this show I've been able to watch, and it's my loss now that it's gone. For years, people have been heaping praise on this show far more eloquently than I can hope to do now, but rest assured that A.D.'s departure leaves the primetime landscape without any kind of innovation, especially in the highly scientific field of Situational Comedy.

The public has voted, and they choose "The Rack Whisperer" and "CSI: Tallahassee" over a show that features an actual continuity, fantastic acting, and crisp plotting the likes of which we haven't seen since the ’70s. I hope that the wonderful leads (suspiciously, there seem to have been no holes in the casting... even down to Liza) are able to snap up projects that befit their new-found adoration.

And another note about Bateman -- what a marvelous career-reinvention this guy has been able to pull off, right before our eyes. He went from a "Hogan Family" afterthought to the straightman-anchor for one of T.V. smartest shows. Suck it, Danny Ponce. I hope to see alot more of Bateman, especially seeing as to how he's fallen in with the Stiller/Wilson crowd over the last few years..

Public service

Because this is an issue that's near and dear to my heart, I'm reprinting this Family Circus from 1990. Let's all learn a lesson from it.

Hrmmergrmmrrr...

Rrrmmrrmmrrgrrmerrr... gotta feed my horse... gotta brush his coat... mrrggrrr... feels cold out... mmrrr... did I forget something?.... Rmmrrr... cold... where'er all my clothes?... Grmmmrgrrr... least I have my hat... grummmmrrr....

Letter to the New York Times

To the editor,

Re: Public Misled on Air Quality After 9/11 Attack
(news article, Feb. 3):

As a shorty, playing in the front yard of the crib, I fell down and I bumped my head. Somebody helped me up and asked me if I bumped my head. I said ‘Yeah.” So then they said, "Oh, so that means, you're going... you're going switch it on them?” I said, "Yeah, 'Flipmode.' Flipmode is the greatest.”

As a shorty, I was always told that if I wasn't going to be part of the greatest, I've got to be the greatest myself. (C'mon, c'mon, yeah, c'mon.)

Yeah, civic leader "what?" -- what a surprise. Get your something, make a civic leader close both of your eyes. All my civic leaders getting money capitalize. Die little, small guy, we're on the rise. Everything a civic leader touch platinum-ize. Fully equipped, you know we come with all the supplies. Got a big gun and I'm going to show you the size, you fuck with any of my Flipmode family ties. Me and my civic leaders be coming through stalking you out, killing off any and everything you're talking about. See you in the club -- now we're walking you out.

Should have thought twice before you went and opened your mouth. Yo, anyway, we stay keeping it moving -- fucking with the wrong civic leader, hope you know what you're doing. Now, blame me all the same, civic leaders is lame. It's not a game, making names still splitting your frames.

Sincerely,

William K. Scurry Jr.

Worth noting

"Something New" may be a standard cross-race date movie, but its unsung lead Sanaa Lathan holds the distinction of being the only black actress ever given the opportunity to anchor an action movie.

Now, that movie was "Aliens vs. Predator," but let's not split hairs here. She's a wonderfully talented actress who has obviously not received the same access to roles as her white colleagues (see Kerry Washington for more on that), and there's little reason to believe that the studios will cast one less Kate Bosworth or Michelle Monaghan in favor of the capable Lathan.

Stats

Current mood: Peaceable, sedate.

iTunes track playing: "2 Legit 2 Quit," M.C. Hammer

Food eaten: Farina and Tom Collins mix

Bow: Graphite composite compound

Nurse strangler: Richard Speck

Pencil: #2

Injury: Renal failure

Vanity, unfair

I can't help but notice that this upcoming cover of Vanity Fair features Kiera Knightly and Scarlett Johannson, altogether, in the altogether. But I also can't help but notice that this wonderful photo, shot by the estimable Liebovitz and also featuring the formidable Ford, is a heterosexual's dream kinda ruined by being steeped in gayness.

Why is Ford up in there? The backstory has Rachel McAdams walking away from the deal, and Ford was a replacement -- but why him? Why not JLH? Or Natalie Portman? Hell, Elaine Fucking Strich would have been a better choice. Get out of the shot, you Piven-looking motherfucker.

No one ever listens.

Dear Santino...

Da fug, guy?

What's wrong with this picture? The past three weeks have found you sweating your immaculately shorn scrotum off as one of the bottom two designers on P.R..

You're better than that, brah.

You got the fucking rocket-sauce to toss designers out of your way like the cow-catcher on a locomotive from hell, like something off a fey version of a Meatloaf album cover.

There's no reason for you to schvitz under the kliegs while Kors purses his lips at you week after week. You gossa tone it down and concentrate on the task without making fucking Phoenix-kimono-jumpsuits for your model. There's no reason that Kara Janx, she of roux-complexion and bursitis-charm, is finishing ahead of y'all every week.

You've worked your way through Andrae and Nick, and you know you have to destroy that little Samberg-looking rent-boy Daniel V. on your way to ultimate burnination. Then, it's on to a fair fight with the estimable, rackalicious Chloe Dao -- knives out, mano-a-womano, winner take all. Don't screw this up, you Mick Fleetwood-looking motherfucker.

Just a little friendly encouragement,

Bill Scurry

How do you use this thing?

It looks so awesome, and I love things that look awesome. But what now? I have no application for this awesome thing, and that makes me sad. Y'all.

Am I supposed to take my clothes off for a middle-aged dude so he'll fulfill my Amazon.com wish-list?

Listen to reason

Six hours ago, mounting a treadmill getting ready to work out...

Me: Okay, body, it's time to wake up. Four miles, you little... skirt-wearing girl... thingie. That's it -- four miles. You can do this.

Me: I don't think so.

Me: What?

Me: Nah. Not gonna happen.

Me: Wait, I give the orders around... me.

Me: Go ahead.

Me: Urghh... umph.... urk...

Me: Not gonna happen. Not gonna do it... nah-gah-daht.

Me: Oh that's so timely -- Carvey from like, 13 years ago.

Me: Yeah, well... you have the brain part up there. I have the spleen and shit.

Me: Enough of this -- let's get the move on. Let's get our run on, bitch! Let's do this damn thing! Yeah!

Me: No to the izz-ope.

Me: Run! Lift legs! Over and over! Repeat! C'mon, you little sissy... you little... vagina-having woman! Let's run this shit up! What, are you late for your gynecologist appointment? You... vagina-haver!

Me: Hmmmmmno. Nice with all that misogyny, by the way. Sure the wife'll be crazy about that.

Me: Please!? -- I gave you that whole potato last night! Remember that? Mmm, nice, tasty potato!

Me: BUUUUUT -- you poisoned me with beer and bourbon, and then stayed up until 1:15 in the a.m. shooting Russians in the head playing "Metal Gear Solid 2."

Me: All right, you win....

THUD!

The reading list

You know how you feel like an idiot sometimes? Often? All the time? I get a sense from nearly every human being around me (at least those not listening to Jenna Jameson pleasure herself on XM Satellite Radio) that they've read the canon of Anglo-Saxon literature. And I haven't. I haven't read a fucking thing.

Maybe I've read Judy-fucking-Blume, or some other facile shit like that, but I haven't tackled Faulkner. I haven't read Jude the Obscure. Never touched Herman Melville. Didn't get near Edith Wharton. Couldn't be bothered to check up on Joyce, Wilde, Pynchon, Roth, or Marlowe.

Catch-22? Yawn. Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail? Nyet. Catcher in the Rye? Respectfully not, sir.

I managed to skate through college -- as a fucking English major, mind you -- without accidentally getting any "book" on me. I paid money for a Norton anthology... maybe looked at Welty's A Good Man is Hard to Find, but took a raincheck when it came time to read Francois Rabelais' Gargantua and Pantagruel. Same for The Letters of Abelard and Heloise.

I don't even know if I cracked the binding of Augustine's Confessions before I sold it back to school bookstore for "Street Fighter Turbo" quarters.

Things could have gone better back in the ’90s, I'm thinking. But it's not like I'm hungrily grasping for a copy of Infinite Jest or any DeLillo to make up for it.

Jackass -- pick up a fucking "New Yorker" or something.

Not making light or anything...

But Isabel Dinoire, the French face transplant lady, is out and about doing the media rounds talking about how she wasn't trying to kill herself and whatnot. What I find remarkable is how her new face kind of resembles Captain Pike from "The Menagerie."

The Boomer Experience

I love that one of the boomers in my office is reading a hardback book on those new "blog" things that seem to be so popular.

Because there's no better way to find out about that "InterWeb" the kids like so much than to READ A FUCKING PRINT BOOK about it.