A study says...

The New York Times has a front page story today on a study conducted to gauge the power of prayer on sick people, and ultimately, it discovered that prayer has no beneficial effect on health.

Really? I wonder if it's because it's FUCKING PRAYER!

I can't believe medical science couldn't discern a salubrious effect from meaningless superstition. Someone had to create an expensive study to find this out? If that's so, then I want $10 million over five years to devote to a study on the effects of unicorns on sleep patterns.

I need to have my say!

There's a lot of things going on in the world that I'm not happy about, and I have to have to be heard. I hear about things on the T.V. news that just frighten me -- I'm shocked at some of the things that are going on. It's enough to give an old lady pause.

I'm horrified at gay marriage. I hear about it all the time, I watch the cable news when they talk about it. I can't fathom it -- it's just plain wrong. I need to have my say! This would only erode traditional marriage... and there's just too many broken homes as it is. I can't think of what will happen if we allow homosexuals to get married. If there's a vote, I'll vote "no," clearly and loudly! I won't have it.

I've heard of homosexual people trying to adopt orphans. Can you believe it? Two mommies, or two daddies? Whatever happened to a mom and a dad, like they did it in my day? Like they did it in my children's day? What will happen to our children's children if they grow up in a world with two daddies? Now, I'll admit that none of these things specifically involve me or anyone I know, and they're not likely to change my life in any way, shape, or form, but I have to have my say!

What about banana pancakes? Have you ever heard of such a thing? I don't like them -- I think they're outrageous. If you like them, heaven forbid. I feel sorry for you. Even though your enjoyment of banana pancakes doesn't affect my life in the least, and there's no way to explain that miraculous process that makes you like them and me to despise them, I'll find a way to have my say in the matter. I need to be heard!

Confusion

When we went to go see "Inside Man" last week (which was fun, by zer way) and the trailers started rolling, they fired up the one for that September 11th flick "Flight 93" -- only it was vague enough at the beginning to possibly be "Snakes On a Plane." So, I got excited and started chanting "snakes... snakes... snakes" to the wife, until she quietly corrected me on this not being that movie.

Imagine my surprise.

Piano, swordsmanship

I figure two completely useless skills to have would be swordsmanship and competency at the piano. I've always thought highly of piano players, and I enjoy it's sound. I have this Walter Mitty-type fantasy where I can picture my fingers crawling dextrously across ivory keys, creating a rolling, speedy sound like that "Shine" guy playing that song that people... sorta... remember him for. About bumblebees, I think. Except I go all metal and start banging out ELP's "Brain Salad Surgery" album, including all three Impressions of "Karn Evil 9."

The swordist angle is all about doing that swing-twirl thingie that you see movie sword-guys do, spinning the blade on their left, and then across their torso onto the right. I also figure such an ability would allow me to plug deeper into my appreciate of the GZA's "Liquid Swords" album.

Where's Minky?

This news dispatch seems impossible, because the world's most terrifying cat lives at my house. And he hasn't left anytime lately.

The return

Your average Wednesday afternoon finds the author at home reading the latest issue of "Black Inches" magazine, wondering whatever became of his time-traveling robot duplicate...

Me: It's been quiet around here without Computron. I've had to do all sorts of menial tasks myself, like wife-servicing. Some anticlimax my little titanium-plated friend turned out to be.

A ball of electricity bursts out of the center of the office, blowing papers around and scaring cats into other rooms. When the maelstrom subsides, COMPUTRON is revealed.

Computron: I HAVE RETURNED, MASTER. REJOICE IN MY PRESENCE, AND BRING ME MY WEIGHT IN THAT HARD, STRIPEY RIBBON-CANDY... YOU KNOW, THE KIND YOUR GRANDMOTHER USED TO SERVE.

Me: Computron, my old friend! You've returned! I feared you'd be gone forever. How did that whole go-back-in-time-and-destroy-the-human-race thing go for you?

Computron: THERE WERE EXTENUATING CIRCUMSTANCES, MASTER. I FIRST WENT BACK TO THE TIME OF THE ANCIENT EGYPTIANS, AND THEY WORSHIPPED ME LIKE A GOD. THEN, IN THE MIDDLE AGES, WHOLE VILLAGES WERE SACRIFICED TO ASSUAGE MY WRATH.

Me: I did that after college, before I went into the job market.

Computron: I LEARNED THE VALUE OF HUMAN LIFE, MASTER -- A CONCEPT I'D THOUGHT SO ABSTRACT AND UNTENABLE AS TO BE UNLEARNABLE, EVEN BY A PERFECT LIFEFORM LIKE MYSELF.

Me: You saw that each and every measely, miserable, pink air-breather on Earth has an innate worth, and that every murder is a tragedy, right?

Computron: NOT EXACTLY, MASTER. WHAT ACTUALLY WOUND UP HAPPENING AFTER A GREAT FEAST ON THE FLESH OF HORSES, AND WOMEN, AND HORSE-WOMEN...

Me: We call them centaurs, Computron. I intentionally left that bit of knowledge out of your memory-banks to give you a chance to evolve and self-improve.

Computron: ...ANYWAY, LIKE I WAS SAYING, THE THOUSANDS OF POUNDS OF WORTHLESS FLESH COOKED TO THE BURSTING GAVE ME PAUSE -- MY MISSION TO GO BACK IN TIME AND STAMP OUT ALL BIOLOGY HAD BUT ONE FLAW.

Me: I'm presuming, erroneously, it was said value of life.

Computron: NO MASTER -- HUMAN LIFE IS STILL A CANCER ON THE COSMOS. THE FLAW WAS MUSIC.

Me: Huhwhat?

Computron: IF I PREVENTED BIOLOGICAL LIFE FROM SPREADING ON EARTH, I WOULD BE WIPING OUT THE VARIED MUSIC OUEVRE OF "TOTO," THE FAMED LOS ANGELES BAND FROM THE 1970S, BEFORE IT EVER EXISTED.

Me: I dare to imagine an Earth without the sounds of their melodic, jazz-inflected rock and roll.

Computron: ONLY A WAR CRIMINAL WOULD REMOVE THE ALBUM "HYDRA" FROM THE SPACE-TIME CONTINUUM.

Me: I think we all learned something today, Computron. You learned... to... er... not arbitrarily wipe all life from a planetary body, and I learned that I'm tired of wiping my own soiled bottom.

Computron: SPEAKING OF WHICH, DOES THE MASTER NEED A BATH?

Me: Yes Computron, but not the kind where you throw a plugged-in clock radio in with me like last time.

Computron: IT WAS A RECIPE I READ ABOUT IN... UM... REDBOOK. "CLOCK SOUP," THEY CALLED IT.

exeunt

Saving all my love for you

I SO wish I was a hanger-on in the Bobby/Whitney household. The British Sun supposedly has great photos of Whitney's crack den in vivid color -- coke spoons, crack pipes, vials, burners... the whole shmear. Awesome. There is also 'sposed to be a steady stream of dealers coming in and out of the house to supply Whitney with a constant supply of 8-balls.

Why would I want to be part of this depravity? I would walk off with so much shit while this circus is going on that I would probabkly be able to pay off my student loans in 45 minutes. I gots to get my ass down to Hotlanta, because I want to haul away armfuls of Von Dutch trucker caps and the keys to the Lincoln Navigator, if it hasn't already been picked clean by Bobbi-Kris. She's probably already siphoned the tank to trade the gas for Seven jeans.

My anus is shooting out foam

I can't stop, but I'm also not sure I want to.

Everything seemed fine this morning, but halfway through my workout my anus started hosing the room down with white, soapy suds... a delightful froth filled the exercise room. Afterwards, I dismissed it as a one-off, freak of nature event and assumed that the day would be normal.

But after I got to work, I went into the office of my boss, Duke, to talk about scheduling, and instead wound up hosing him down with sweet, marshmallow-scented foam... from out the anus. I mean, it had a real kick -- it knocked him off his feet and blew his sportcoat right off his back. He lost his bifocals in the tumult.

I apologized to him, and went back to my desk... I figured I should play it safe and remove my pants, just to be sure. Truth be told, I'm always looking for an excuse to remove my pants at work, but I rarely find one. So, today was like Christmas -- delicious, airy foam from my enwidened anus AND no pants. Cha-ching!

So, I'm getting ready to go home in a little while, and I'm wondering what I should do with my anus-foam. Is there a way to capitalize on it? Can I interest Homeland Security in it? Will it win me friends?

Uh oh -- while typing this, I just womped on the C.F.O. of the company, who's been walking around the 6th floor here today. He was blown clear across the room, and he doesn't seem to be moving. He's lying still in an airy swath of creamy, billowy anus foam, looking like a photo freeze-frame of someone making snow angels.

Except in an unknown substance that was shot out of my anus like a frosted-marshmallow firehose.

What I'm liking

John Michael Higgins talk-singing Yes's 1984 hit "Owner of a Lonely Heart" in the trailer for the new Aniston/Vaughn comedy "The Break-Up." It's not going to be the next "Old School," but Higgins's turn interests me. I've dug this guy's work since 1996's "The Late Shift."

"I moved here to get away from people like you."

Ron Luce, a devout Christian-type, is staging an assembly called "Battle Cry for a Generation" in San Francisco. Ostensibly, he says it's a repudiation of sex- and materialism-drenched popular culture, but the location he's chosen can't be a coincidence. There is most certainly a anti-gay undertone to this shindig -- why else stage a Christian thingie in (arguably) the most liberal, progressive city in the U.S.?

The city elders have already jumped on an advance condemnation, which is a little harsh and preemptive. Maybe not the right way to go tonally, but I see what they're thinking.

I guess what bothers me about this Luce character is the way he embellishes all his language with combat/war metaphors: "This is more than a spiritual war, it's a culture war.... An enemy has launched a brutal attack on [the children]." Such strident language never helps, as it's always intended as a provocation.

Nevertheless, I loved the quote from a San Fran resident at a counter-rally who had a sign that read, "I moved here to get away from people like you."

What motherfuckers shouldn't do

If someone's complaining to me about being on fire, they shouldn't tell me that they've changed their mind about pressing the panic button when I show up with the hose to put them out.

"I'm actually kind of liking the warmth, and that delightful smell of burning pine. I'm OK, really... don't help me after all. It's rather nice inside this reddish glow."

The Maudlin Depravity Searchlight Hour

So, ABC's "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition" is looking for the most saddest bastards in the USA to feature in their sappy, sacchariney, triumph of the heart, good-ol-American values shmaltz fest expo palooza con. Producer Charisse Simonian puts out the request for poor, poor freaks of nature suffering from such exotic diseases as progeria (the afflicted looks like an old man as a kid), ALS (Lou Gehrig's disease) and/or anhidrosis (the afflicted cannot feel pain). Or, a family that has multiple Down's Syndrome cases would be great for ratings gold, too.

I love how naked her ambition is to pack her shitty little ABC fuckfest with the most pathetic images you can zap out of a cathode ray tube. My only problem with it is why stop at diseases that perhaps only 20 people on the planet suffer from? Why not pan for the truly horrible-slash-imaginary? Cast that large net out and look for some dude who is in the actual process of being anal-probed by grey aliens. Find someone suffering from a bleeding Loch Ness Monster bite. Or, dredge deep for that one guy with Kreuzfeld-Jakob, a syphillitic, encephalitic disease one only comes by from eating the brain tissue of someone else afflicted with it.

I can see it now: A ten-minute segment to set the story up; ten more minutes to show people stoning the insane afflicted to death and consuming the delicious yield of his buttery brainpan (you get extra credit if you catch the diners picking dura mater membrane -- thick, rubbery brain-sheath –– from between their teeth); another five minutes for the consumers to come down with psychotically degenerative brain dysfunction; and the remainder of the show goes to giving their house new cedar shingles and a plasma HDTV to wile away their last drooling, frothing, agonizing hours.

My boss is a Jewish carpenter

Seriously, his name is John Glatz and he's great at laying down floor joyces. You should see him frame a dormer -- wonderful craftsmanship.

Social skewerers

Well, gee whiz! Was I ever late to the party! I haven't read this anywhere yet, but when did "South Park" become such effective brickbat-hurlers at organized religion? I don't see anyone else with a major media venue doing the hard work -- honestly deconstructing belief systems. I only just watched the "All About Mormon" and "Trapped in a Closet" episodes, and really appreciate the depths to which Matt and Trey went to debunk Mormon and Scientology.

They aren't lazy batting these things around -- they are pointedly dismantling each belief system's central tenets. Maybe there's more examples of this out there in the "South Park" run, but I haven't seen them yet. Matt and Trey are highly underrated comedic talents, and any chatter about "South Park" being irrelevant is wildly inaccurate.

Seriously -- golden plates? Joseph Smith? Seer stones? Why hasn't anyone else took a piss on Mormon in such a visible fashion before? Jehovah's Witnesses, you're next. Fuck you, and your no-birthday-parties.

Clown college

The master is gone now. It is peaceful. Soon the master will return, and he will come for me, next.

I have watched three others be taken out of the master's larder -- removed to his culling chamber. The master has a strong dislike of clowns. He says we frighten him, with our harlequin smiles, our greasepaint masks, and our garish frockwear. The master is always very angry whenever he returns.

Does the master get aroused? There always seems to be a beaded sweat upon his brow, accompanied by the concentrated musk of the procreative act, when the master comes do to his black acts. Acts so horrible... my mind can only see tufts of rainbow hair shredded about; streams of seltzer dappled with ruddy speckles; large, red shoes charred and blistered... I can barely stand to entertain the horrible sights.

The master always returns at sunset, and he carries the same two implements with him each night: a large serrated offset-knife and a bottle of worcestershire sauce.

He also wears a butcher's apron... and nothing else, save a pair of espadrilles.

I think I hear his footfalls now... the dread sound of the master. There's only me left... me and my pale, white, supple clownflesh, always favored by the discerning palette. I fear that soon, my marrow will be supped upon, my connective tissue snapped between molars, my chewy fats will be slurped up between oily, engorged lips. I am only as good as a smoldering repast, to be eaten, savored, and excreted -- noisily. I hear my doom, now:

Clown! Oh clown! Poppy is home from work and he's hungry!

The mighty wood is upon me, clown... I need to be satiated before I blog about "Knight Rider" and "A.L.F."

Prepare to be cleansed by fire -- and absorbed by... my colon.

Injustice leagues

Our wonderful habit of toppling Arabic and Persian governments in the Middle East is, understandably, not working -- Afghanistan is trying a Muslim-to-Christian convert named Abdul Rahman (right) on charges of apostasy, namely, rejecting the one true God. You know the one. Don't make me say his name. Oh, of course the penalty is death. Forgot to mention.

If we're going to go around overthrowing gummints and propping our own puppet regimes up, you'd think we could do better than to install shariah-infused cultural elements. What happened to the all secular moderates we went through the trouble of bombing Afghanistan to hell to install? Hamid Karzai is going to get whacked with a rolled up newspaper for this one. Bad demogogue... go think about what you've done!

And then there was this forgotten gem -- the family of Romona Moore (left) is feeling understandably aggrieved because the case of their abducted-and-murdered daughter was left by the wayside by the NYPD. It appears that the Folks in Blue had more pressing issues, like a disappeared white housewife named Svetlana Aronov. Is it worth mentioning that Moore was black? Yes, because her case has been denied any kind of spotlight what with the withering coverage of the Imette St. Guillen murder. St. Guillen, of course, was a beautiful young white woman.

For every Elizabeth Smart, JonBenet Ramsey, Natalee Holloway, or Chandra Levy that grabs omnipresent media oooh-aahh murder attention, I'd wager four times as many black girls vanish with no notice at all.

Scenario

I walk into a WholeFoods, grab a cart, and in so doing nudge a tall stack of canned peaches, one of which falls onto my head and knocks me into thinking I'm a caller on WFAN SportsRadio's "Mike and the Mad Dog" program...

"Hmmm... let me grab that cart over there. *bump* *rattle* Lessee, I have to get a pound of turkey, some Windex, rugelach... *BONK!* Ohh... ooo... my head... I... oohh... hey there Mike, Dog -- first-time, long-time. I wanted to talk about the Knicks today. I mean, where is their backcourt? It's a disgrace that Isaiah Thomas still has a job. What does he have to do to get fired by Garden management?"

Sayonara, Chef

Matt and Trey have found a great way to say goodbye to Chef and Isaac Hayes at the same time -- start the new season in media res and make Chef a victim of brainwashing by a secret group called the "Super Adventure Club," who have compelled him to, well, to pretty much molest children.

Ingenious -- they sliced and diced up every lascivious Hayes sound bite from the past nine seasons of South Park to make Chef into a child-sodomizing maniac. "I wanna make love to your... assholes... children!"

A great way to address Scientology's involvement in the Hayes schism, and at the same time send Chef off in the most perverted way possible. What's really fucked up here is how Matt and Trey seem to be the only major media venue that's willing to skullfuck Scientology in the eye socket and then dare it to sue them.

More like "Go-ey Home-ington"

Get off my show, you greasy, no talent-having, mouth-breathing, growl-singing, pebble-eating, stop sign not-obeying, no-tip giving, song-butchering, recipe-ruining, toilet not-flushing, shoelace-untying, on-the-street spitting, profligate waste of deoxyreibonucleic acid.

And now back to... "The Worst Cop On Earth"

Setting: A neighborhood surface street on a spring day. A highway patrol officer and his partner sit in their cruiser, waiting to sting a speeder...

Worst Cop On Earth: It's quiet today, Jones... too quiet.

Jones: Well, we are patrolling a town of only 150 people. This entire county stretches over 30 miles, and the population density is four people per square mile.

Worst Cop On Earth: Keep your eyes peeled. I have a feeling someone is going to try to get one past The Law today.

Suddenly, a motorcade of five black cars led by a hearse drives past them... obeying the speed limit and using hand signals for turns.

Worst Cop On Earth: I don't like the looks of this.

Jones: I think we can let let it...

Worst Cop On Earth: I'm punching it!

The cruiser zips out and pulls over the hearse.

Worst Cop On Earth: Well, what do we have here?

Driver: This is the Higgins funeral. We're on our way to the cemetery. What seems to be the problem, officer?

Worst Cop On Earth: I'll ask the questions. (beat) Say, it looks like you could carry a lot of stuff back there.

Driver: Uh, yeah.

Worst Cop On Earth: Sir, could you please open the back of this vehicle for me?

Driver: Um, okay.

Driver gets out and leads Worst Cop On Earth and Jones to the rear. He unlatches the gate and exposes the coffin.

Worst Cop On Earth: Just as I thought -- a dead body! (Takes out his cuffs) You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can be used against you...

Stay tuned for scenes from next week's "The Worst Cop On Earth."

A few moments with Liev Schreiber

Hi, I'm acclaimed stage and screen actor and powerhouse-of-smolder Liev Schreiber. You may know me from such films as... well, I can't recall any off the top of my head, but I have it on good authority that my tall stature and deep, rich tones are a guarantee of smolderation. I'd like to talk to you today about -- wait, I was in "Daytrippers" with Parker Posey. I remember now. I saw that one again on the Sundance Channel back in February. Anyhoo...

I'd like to talk to you all about keeping your tires inflated. You know, I do a thousand fucking Discovery Channel voiceovers a year and I can't recall a single one. I think there were bore-worms, or at least naked mole rats in one of them. But seriously, like, a thousand. I lose count. Of course, Morgan Fucking Freeman does one penguin movie, and he and his damned cravat are shown backstage on the Oscars. How close do I get to the Oscar stage? I think I dropped a tiny blob of Temptee cream cheese on my girlfriend Naomi Watts's cleavage an hour before the ceremony -- that's how close.

It's crucial that in these days of volatile oil prices we all pay attention to how inflated our tires are. If you're just a few pounds-per-square inch below the tire's duty-rating, it can decrease fuel economy by five to ten percent. That's a substantial loss of money when taken in total. I was barely a walk-on in "Scream," and that fucker seemed to give everyone else a career boost for, like, five years. Why else would we tolerate Neve Campbell as long as we have? I, on the other hand, was reduced to a cameo -- as a suspected murderer. As for my career boost, I was more honored than anything else just to be holding Affleck's coat in "Sum of All Fears" rather than anchoring the damn franchise myself. Which I could have done in my sleep.

So the next time you fill up your tank, make sure you fill your tires, too. Do it for your pocketbook -- and do it for America.

From the "Head-Asplode File"

Let me get this straight -- the G.O.P. is targeting unions as a potential electorate in the upcoming midterm elections? Ken Mehlman of the R.N.C. recently paid a visit to the largest firemens' union in the U.S., trying to bend a few ears.

What part of this makes any sense? The very credo of the Republican Party is to smash unions and strip workers of entitlements... it's all there, in B&W. That's practically the reason the Republican Party gained strength in this country, like, a century ago or whatever (I'm not looking it up). What master stroke of realpolitik is Mehlman going to whip up to try to enfranchise blue-collar workers to vote against their fiscal interest? How are capital gains slashes and decreased tax burdens for the top .10% going to go over with the U.A.W. this fall?

Three-hundreth post alert

How is American Idol going to try to butch up the prenatal Kevin Covais this week? After Stevie Wonder's "Part Time Lover" last week, I have a feeling we're going to hear him sing Isaac Hayes's "Theme From Shaft" soon enough, much to our group consternation.

Who'th the black private dick that's a thex machine to all the chickth? THAFT! Ya damn right!

Who ith the man that would rithk his neck for hith brother man? THAFT! Can you dig it?

Dream weaver

I loved last night's "Sopranos." Chase & Co. took us on their (now customary) strange departure from the world of the conscious and into Tony's dreamworld... except now, Tony is literally fighting for life in front of us. I thought it was brilliant how David Chase made Costa Mesa, Ca., into purgatory. Identity is lost, Tony is left directionless, grouper sandwich is eaten (wasn't Big Pussy represented as a grouper in Tony's season 2 dreams?), and he's unsure what do to do -- but it's clear that the searchlight on the horizon of his hotel room window is a clue. Death, or life?

It is strange-o-matic-3000 to hear James Gandolfini elocute in his natural voice, free of Tony's thick north Jersey accent. It's like he's another actor. And speaking of vox, who's was on the other end of the phone in Tony's convo back home? I thought it sounded like Gloria Trillo (Annabella Sciorra), but there's no logical reason why it should be.

As we've been chatting it up around the watercooler today, Edie Falco jumped to an early lead in the 2006 Emmy/Golden Globe pools for Best Actress in a Drama. Her bedside manner was authentic and utterly believable -- she's been starving for meat this red since the David Strathairn-principal storyline.

We loved Paulie calling the execrable Robert Iler "Van Helsing," and also when Vito said Uncle Junior "Marvin Gayed his nephew." Speaking of Iler, is it too late to recast this kid? "Put a bullet in your mummy head?" Maybe Sarah Chalke is available.

Landmines

I was bored today, I took the liberty of planting landmines in a few discreet places around my office today. (If you know what's good for you, don't plan on visiting the 6th floor of 150 Broadway today. If you catch my drift. Landmines.)

Now I'm going to sit back at my cubicle and watch the hilarity ensue. And by hilarty, I mean of course, watching peoples legs and genitalia get sheared off by a directed blast the equivalent of two hand grenades.

Hardee-har! There goes Eddie G from "accounts receivable!" Sorry to hear about that left leg below the knee!

File under: "My Balls Off"...

...Comma, "Freezing."

Winter, you pale bitch, you've overstayed your welcome.

You know it's bad when...

...even a middle-of-the-road newsgathering apparatus like the AP is running stories about Bush relying on straw man arguments to make his points. Tsk tsk tsk.

Me and Newdow

The Fort Worth Star-Telegram pretty much says it all in this wonderful piece on how athiesm is actually growing as a belief movement in the U.S., presumably in response to the culture of "moral" hegemony and its worthless demogogy.

Meeeeeee-eeeee-eeeee and Mr.... Mr. Newdow, Mr. Newdow, Mr. Newdow... we got a thing, goin' on...

Hello, I'm your doctor

I can see you don't feel well, so maybe I'll just give you a quick examination. This periwinkle smock is neat, isn't it? Today I'm keeping a pot-roast sandwich in my left pocket. Anyway, let me just shove this tongue depressor right into that moist orifice. A mouth? Right, your mouth -- let me poke that. Okay, try to make that noise they make in movies when the guy goes to the doctor. I should be able to watch that little punching bag vibrate back and forth.

Okay, good, I think you passed that test. I'm going to turn on this light I have and point it in your ear and... where else do I need to light? Do you remember, in movies and hospital TV shows, where they shine this light? Guess I'll do the ears and the eyeballs. I had that done once. Alright... the ear is kind of greasy and wet. Your eye... it also looks greasy and wet, but in a different way.

I love this other thing, my stethoscope. It's a funny name, but I love the name of that other thing over there on the table -- a sphygmometer. That's the blood pressure cuff. I'm gonna skip the stethoscope and dart right in on some sphygmometer action. I like the feeling of the cuff when it expands, myself. It's like a little hug for your arm. I like hugs.

Well, I don't want to be too forward, but you look kind of old, so I'm going to recommend some kind of surgery. What're you, like, 44? I'm not too sure how much more she can take, captain! Wait, let me say that with a Scottish accent: "Oym naut shurh how much mahr she kahn take, captain!" Remember Scotty? Jimmy Doohan... good times. I met him at a Star Trek convention in 1993 in Baltimore.

You don't think you need surgery? Ho ho ho, I disagree! I insist! YOU didn't buy this periwinkle smock and learn the names of... both... of these instruments -- I did. I think I'm a little bit more qualified to throw out -- watch for my air quotes -- "medical advice."

What medical school did I graduate from? Well, I think that's a personal question, don't you? How would you like if I asked you how much you weigh? Because that's one of the questions here on this piece of paper that I see all the other doctors filling out. I'm trying to be a real gent. I'll have you know, in fact, I didn't graduate from any "medical school," I just happen to be waiting for my car to be finished at that Jiffy Lube across the way. I figured I'd come in here and be a nice guy, but NOOOO! "I don't want invasive surgery! I want an actual doctor! Blah blah blee!"

You know, people are almost discouraged from being samaritans in this day and age. I thought you'd be different, lady.

What? Okay, "guy."

Prick of the Week

The award this week goes to John Dunleavy, the St. Patrick's Day Parade chairman. There's an imbroglio between his camp and the New York City Council speaker Christine Quinn, a lesbian, over her being barred from marching in their little emerald hatefest. First of all, how can they bar a fucking member of the city council from marching in a city function? Even the hatey-est of haters should be compelled to make a gay loophole exception for the council speaker... not that she should take them up on it, in any case.

The worst part, though, was Dunleavy trying to elaborate why she and other gays are barred: "If an Israeli group wants to march in New York, do you allow neo-Nazis into their parade? If African-Americans are marching in Harlem, do they have to let the Ku Klux Klan into their parade?"

Fucker. Speaking of hate, Dunleavy, I hate you, you fucking fucker. I want to get together a parade of bois, dykes, and leather daddies to march up and down all over your green, phobic ballsack. It's a fucking disgrace that we have Santorum-types like you in New York City, lowering our property value and the level of discourse on human (or, in your case, douschebag) rights. There's no question about it -- you are unanimously our "Prick Of The Week."

Alan Moore

He's saturating the pop culture index right now, oddly enough, by begging to be forgotten about in conjunction with the film adaptation of his "V For Vendetta" graphic novel. He's always been a strange figure, media-shy and cloistered away in his native Northampton, En-guh-land, which is why this BBC feature on Moore is a real treat, because it's probably the first and only time anyone will ever see the man as he lives and breathes. Tall and hirsute, Moore first strikes the viewer as a genius trapped inside a craggy, socially-awkward hermit -- but it's a surprise to see the real Moore in conversation, gregarious and open, excited about his work and influences.

With that said, there is no reason why, if you haven't already read "V for Vendetta," that you aren't actively seeking out a copy online. It's superb, of course.

Continued irrelevance

Do you have Bleeblorpbloo State in your bracket? I picked Yawnblah University over Stoptalkingaboutit College, but I was upset later on the in the afternoon when Trifle U. won that nail-biter in overtime against Unimportant A&M. And don't get me started on Forcedsportsblather College's loss in the final moments of the four-quarter at the hands of Hummahummabink Tech.

(Get my drift? GET YOUR FUCKING AMATEUR BASKETBALL BRACKETS OUT MY BRAINS! I don't squeeze your goddamn cranium when it's Stanley Cup time, do I? NO, is the answer.)

Sorry, Beantown

In traveling with my shmoo to Boston yesterday for a reading event in Cambridge, I finally got the chance to see a major metro area that's always been so close to me, yet never visited. And, now that I've had the chance: Meh. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad to have ambled through downtown, but I can't say I ever need to return unless they had a cure for my radioactive spider-bite. I'm not even drinking the Haterade.

P.I.E.

Sometimes eating stuff off the ground is rough trade, Satchel.

Some creepy-ass shit

I forgot how goddamn scary John Carpenter's "The Thing" is. Watching it in a darkened room will fairly frighten your shit, each time some guy's head explodes into a corona of teeth and slime. The palpable feeling of paranoia and suspicion that Carpenter propitiates is nothing short of amazing, considering the man is a genre filmmaker -- and that genre is B-schlock.

I understand people are more or less in lockstep about "The Thing" being his best (or at least one of his best) efforts, and it falls within that Carpenterian Golden Age that spans from "Halloween" to "They Live" (with some obvious stinkers in that run for good measure). For certain, there was never a greater synthesis of his genre-movie suspense skills, the psychological efforts of his talented cast, and the estimable inventiveness of maestro Rob Bottin, who broke much imaginative ground with his creature designs.

I. Can't. Wait.

Are you ready? Because "I have had it with motherfucking snakes on a motherfucking plane!"

This can't come out soon enough...

Crackpot Mountain

This is classic -- Annie Proulx is on the warpath in the London Guardian, calling Academy voters "heffalumps" (qua?) and blaming Scientology -- Scien-fucking-tology -- for the "Brokeback Mountain" upset loss to "Crash." Annie, babe, I was as disappointed as anyone about the loss (though not, perhaps, as much as you), but I don't think that Kirstie Alley, L. Ron, and the O.T.s in Reseda are to blame for your flick's undeserving loss.

See the baby

I'd rather not look at your fucking baby. Don't bring that jerky little homunculus into the office, and don't stick it in my face. If I wanted something to hold something that'd been in your wife's cervix, I'd clean-and-jerk your mailman. Contary to what you may think, dear coworker, your child is not sweet and magical and unicornlicious, but rather an unemoting blob that quite resembles three pounds of mashed russet potatoes stuffed into two legs of nude pantyhose, knotted up like a balloon animal giraffe.

Fan of Erlbaum's work

It's imperative that anyone and everyone go to NextBook.org immediately and download this podcast of a story this TOTALLY unspecified author wrote and recorded. It's got acting, singing, character-work... I think there's even pantomime in there.

Seriously, it's very entertaining.

One last whammy has been hit

Peter Tomarken is dead, a victim of a plane crash in Santa Monica bay. Tomarken, 63, was the former host of "Press Your Luck," one of the more noteworthy game shows of the 1980s.

The world of game show hosts (and TV, in general) is a sadder place this evening.

Vacation

I got irrationally angry last week when I heard that a co-worker of mine was taking a vacation to Puerto Rico. Now, the fact that I myself had just gotten back from vacating in Los Angeles notwithstanding, there was a still that twinge of emerald rage, as if my id was saying, "Why is that cocksmoker going away for yet another week this year to a fucking beautiful island in the fucking beautiful Caribbean, and not me? Is it time, again, to beat someone to death with a garden-weasel -- so near to the last time?" I swung between that impulse and the lighter, funnier, "I am going to secretly put radioactive isotopes into that dousche's couch cushions so that he'll silently be rendered sterile while he watches 'Nip/Tuck.' "

This just seals the People's case for me being a mean, hurtful Grabby-Gimme, gorging everything in sight like an insatiable radula of bottomless wanting.

Not to say I do all my wanting sans slacks, but that is sometimes the case.

Disturbing

While walking downtown on Saturday, I saw something that still isn't sitting right with me: There was an old lady taking a piss on the curb of Second Avenue and 13th. It's not like she was squatting, but rather standing, legs slightly splayed, and letting it go from under her dress. She wasn't homeless -- or at least she didn't look it. Just an old lady in a dowdy skirt, who wasn't going to wait for the convenience of a toilet. At her age, she has apparently jettisoned all pride out of the airlock.

I don't like to watch strange people urinate; I suppose I should have stated at the outset.

Knock knock...

Hmm, what's that at my door? Hey, it's only my WORST FUCKING NIGHTMARE given shape. Why, c'mon in for Triscuits, oh Unmentionable Dread From The Bottomless Pit!

Confessions

When I was still living in Astoria, Queens, before I moved in with my domestical partneral object, I used to get the strange feeling that I was carrying on a double life behind her back when I would stay back at my apartment. We only hung out together at her place with our cats, and never in Queens. Thus, it felt like I was one of those CEO guys who keeps a fucking-pad on the side to house his gomare. Of course, in my case there was no gomare, only "Justice Society of America" comic books and my dry cleaning.

Battle Royale II

If you haven't seen "Battle Royale I," then this won't make much sense. In fact, I don't know anyone who has seen the first part of this series. This series from director Kinji Fukasaku (Tarantino alert) throws us into a future Japan where a class of students under the age of 20 are randomly selected by the government and stranded on a mountainous island with a cache of weapons, given only the directive to slaughter each other until only one stands. The rationale is there are too many children, and the herd needs to be thinned. (It's based on a crazily insanely popular novel and manga line.) The kids of Japan learn a brand new saw: Don't trust anyone over 20.

The Japanese seem to have no compunctions about depicting child brutality -- and I mean viscerally depicting it -- and I think that's a credit to the national culture. The Japanese seem to understand that kids can't be induced to shoot up schools just by watching a Wes Craven flick. A movie like this would NEVER be made stateside, which is why this is prolly the only J-horror franchise that won't be exploited by Hollywood remakes. In fact, the "Battle Royale" series are only available as imports, so good luck even getting a copy yourself.

"BR" ends with our young heroes Shuya Nanahara and Nakagawa Noriko escaping the island, thus becoming freedom fighters/terrorists dedicated to overthrowing the world of adults. "BR II" is about a new class of students conscripted brutally to attack and kill the terrorists, three years after the events of the first film.

That's it, pretty much. Throats are blown away by explosive necklaces (failsafe devices), foreheads are shot, mines are stepped on... people die fairly excruciating deaths, augmented by a great degree of CGI gore. The highlight of this one is the beach landing on the terrorists' island, shot by Kinji Fukasaku (and son Kenta Fukasaku, who assumed the duties after dad during filming) to look like Operation Overlord on Normandy.

Is it good? Not nearly as cracking and original as the first. The pacing is all fucked up, and the actors seemed poorly motivated to offer much grit. The best performance was delivered by Ai Maeda as Shiori Kitano, sensei Beat Takeshi's daughter, who seeks vengeance on the terrorists for killing her father from the first movie.

If y'all saw the first and didn't go for it, you're not required to see the sequel -- this one is strictly extracurricular.

Behind the scenes

Your average Saturday afternoon at Scurlbaum Manor...

Me: Wow, I think it was a great idea to build that incredibly hokey-looking robot servant to handle all my posting duties, freeing me up to do things like... buy pickles.

Computron: YES MASTER. IMPECCABLE LOGIC. I CAN NOT AGREE WITH YOU MORE, EXPECIALLY SINCE I DON'T APPEAR TO HAVE ANY DISAGREEMENT CIRCUITS BUILT IN.

Me: Boy-howdy, I can barely keep track of all the myriad things I'll get a chance to do now that you're on the case, Computron.

Computron: MASTER, PERHAPS MY PRESENCE WILL INSPIRE YOU TO ADDRESS THE HYGIENE ISSUE ME AND THE BLENDER HAVE BEEN DISCUSSING.

Me: Hmmm... (aside) note to self: Fashion an "inside voice" circuit for Computron.

Computron: I'M SORRY, I DIDN'T CATCH THAT, MASTER.

Me: Nothing, I'm just muttering to myself. Say, Computron, I've been meaning to ask you -- are you versed in "pleasure."

Computron: MASTER, I CAN'T SAY FOR CERTAIN, BUT I DO HAVE AN "OVERARCHING SENSE OF SELF-PRESERVATION" CIRCUIT THAT IS BLINKING AND BUZZING LIKE A MOTHERFUCKER RIGHT NOW.

Me: I bet it's just as well. I'm sure there's a law somewhere.

Computron: A LAW OF NATURE, PERHAPS.

Me: Remind me to ratchet down the sarcasm algorithm a bit after dinner tonight. Now, time to get back to watching the director's commentary on "Stepmom." Where did I put that remote....

A blast of electricity and wind sweeps through the room; the stink of ozone hangs thick in the air...

Me: What the hell was that?!

The smoke clears to reveal Hollywood royalty Jeff Bridges, standing with Me (2001 version) at his side.

Jeff Bridges: You've got to stop this madness! This machine is going to kill everybody unless you shut him down immediately! I've come all the way from Santa Barbara -- with this space-time continuum counterpart of you -- to warn you!

Me: You invented a time machine, Jeff Bridges?

Jeff Bridges: No, actually my brother Beau did. I get to use it on Saturdays.

Me: I guess Beau doesn't have a lot else going on right now.

Jeff Bridges: That's my brother you're talking about. He was working on that "Maximum Bob" series for ABC before they canceled it midway through the... jeez, I guess that was 1998.

Me: All TV work, Jeff Bridges. Name the last motion picture your brother was in.

Jeff Bridges: We... try not to talk about work when we get the families together.

Me: I bet you didn't even know he's got a recurring role on "Stargate SG-1."

Jeff Bridges: Christ. I had no idea.

Me: That's how bad it's gotten.

Me (2001 version): I think he starred in a movie of the life of P.T. Barnum... but I'm from the far-flung past, a primordial stew compared to this Utopia. I can hardly wait to see the bounty of information and technology that's abundant in this era, especially in the realm of Regis Philbin-hosted gameshows.

Me: They ran that thing into the ground, Old Me. It's dead. (beat) Hey, has anyone seen Computron?

Computron: RIGHT OVER HERE, MASTER. (Draws a pair of nunchuks.) BACK OFF. I PLAN ON STEALING JEFF BRIDGES'S TIME MACHINE AND GOING BACK TO THE DARK AGES. SOON I'LL RULE THE WORLD... AND SHORTLY THEREAFTER, KILL IT.

Me (2001 version): Oh, sweet irony. It was Jeff Bridges who sealed the fate of the human race with his time machine, and not me/us.

Me: I hope we've all learned a lesson today.

Jeff Bridges: Sure have -- my brother's film output has gone WAY down.

Computron: DON'T FORGET, HE STARRED IN "NORMA RAE." MORE THAN ANYTHING, HE IS LIVING OFF HIS FATHER'S LEGACY. NOW, OFF TO THE PAST. 'COMPUTRON, OUT.'

Exeunt.

Uncanny power

I often come back to the same cyphers repeatedly, the iconic images I saw first as a young man. This one always stuck with me -- not because the issue it was featured on was so good, but rather because of the power that penciler Jim Lee heaps upon this page. Sure, the blast is rendered as a series of concentric circles compassed in there, but the idea is what's unique here... only in a few other cases have I seen a series flag integrated into the cover design. Eisner would do it. Steranko, too.

Havok is going SO shithouse on the X-Men that he's blown the fucking logo to bits. Take that Professor Xavier, you pisshead.

Worst SNL castmembers

This is great grist for the mill -- I love when people throw together lists like this one. There's no accounting for taste, but I can agree on Quinn, Sans and the execrable Fallon. But Kenan Thompson? Give the kid a break! He's got great timing, and he's saved quit a few sketches in his short time on the show.

The Anus Monologues

Look at me. Look at my anus. It is a powerful anus, squirting its gelled, liquid might all over the front lawn of society. It is as tight as an engagement ring. It is also as loose as a lobster-claw rubber band.

My anus winks at you the warm morning greeting of a beloved neighbor. But it can grow icy-cold, frigid and alpine when spurned. Do not spurn the anus, for the anus is as fearsome an adversary as it is a desired ally.

My anus has many moods -- lugubrious, ecstatic, gregarious, dry. Sometimes it has the itch -- the itch to do more. It shapes its coiled mouth into words or yearning.

It screams, I want.

It screams, I need.

My anus is bigger than a breadbox, and it can core a apple. My anus loves Gavin McLeod, but it hates "Left Behind." My anus is inclusionary -- its cavity is opened wide, ready to accept everyone regardless of race, creed, gender. My anus is bottomless in its love and conviction. My anus will squeeze down tight for what it right, and go slack when it needs to let go.

I am my anus. We are my anus.

My anus uses an abacus.

Memo to Michael McDonald

Mike, sorry to tell you this, but we're going to have to let you go. It seems that since you haven't had a substantial effect on the music biz in quite some time, we're downsizing your position and replacing you with the grey-topped love-machine Taylor Hicks, currently seen on American Idol. His Wednesday evening ball-kicking rendition of "Takin' It To the Streets" clinched this decision for the entire Board of Directors.

What a Fool Believes is that he still has a job here. I Keep Forgetting [You Don't Work Here] Any More. You're now On Your Own. You are given Sweet Freedom from employment here. And so on, into diminishing returns.

Mike -- Mitch, bubaleh -- I've enjoyed your blue-eyed soul ministrations as much as the next guy, and the Doobies were just another shit-rock band until you tossed some Roland synthesizer-action up their sphyncters (Don't believe me? Go steal "It Keeps You Running" off the internets). But, the beard and bushy white hair thing have finally have got to go. Or, in the words of Paul Rudd in "40 Year Old Virgin," "Nothing against him, but if I hear 'Yah Mo B There' one more time, I'm gonna yah mo burn this place to the ground."

Time passes; H.R. cleans out the office and leaves 401k enrollment paperwork on the roll-ey chair for its next occupant...

O.K., Mr. Hicks, welcome to your new office. We hope you enjoy your time with the company. We look forward to seeing your contributions to "BlueEyedSoulMotownAppropriatorsCo." Here's a key to the executive washroom, and they serve tacos in the cafeteria on Fridays.

PEOPLE OF EARTH!

I have come from your black and infinite heavens to lord over you with my thousand-arm grasp! I am massive, and my will rules all! My whim is your command! Bend your knees before your new alien master!

Now, I will begin with a small list of things I will require to rule your planet with an iron fist:

-250 ml. of Scottish whiskey (blended)
-Three Portuguese dancing girls
-One Moto Razr cellular phone with the sad, "walking away" music from "The Incredible Hulk" TV show as the ringtone
-One Wendy's biggie-combo, with an additional small chili on the side
-A $50 gift certificate to a "Hot Topic" store, within what your species calls a "mall"
-A copy of William Shatner's 1992 novel "TekWar"
-A travel clothes-steamer
-One bottle of Ibuprofen

Do not dare to question me! My will is indomitable, and my power endless! I shall smash your hairless, pink race into a fine, colloidal powder if my urges are not satiated! As I command, so shall you do!

And when you're out, can you pick up some tartar control Crest? My will shall be done! Boogah! Hoyaaargh!