I look like a housecat

Really, it's true. I had to go back to real life today after nine day at the Long Island barrier beach of Fire Island, and I disabused the razor while away. It's an experiment, because I have the follicular growth of an 11-year-old. I always hope that my face will look like Burt Reynolds's chest given a few days to accumulate growth, but the reality hews closer to this:


Usually, I banish the scanty growth before I hit the mainland again out of fear that I'll be given a can of Fancy Feast by passers-by.



Back in the bad old days, when I was a fat fatty-pants fat-faced fatty-fat, I used to maintain a Van Dyke because of the obvious fat-guy deceitful employment of facial hair to draw a chin line where there is actually none in real life.


Barring that illusion, what advantage is there to having teh growth? I generally don't think that guys look a whole lot gooder with it than without it, and what I decree is rarely adhered to by John F. Public (see my screed on footwear). I guess the question is only how long I'll keep up this pathetic fallacy.

Am I more masculine? Or do I look like Doogie Howser's friend Vinnie Delpino?


I'm not sure, but the haziness is killing me. Well then, off the fucker goes tomorrow, and I go back to looking like this guy:



Can anyone lend a a sopping sponge of much-needed testosterone?

Election results

Welcome to tonight's news broadcast... I'm Steve Rolston. And now, getting right into our top story: Have the American people made a horrible mistake in electing President Elasmobranch the Unyielding? At least, that's what a lot of people in the area are asking tonight after the new chief executive's inauguration was marred by the tragic death of, well, everyone who attended, at the hands of Elasmobranch himself.

We now go to the live on the scene to our correspondent Luthor Edmiston, who brings us more. Luthor, are you there?

I'm here Steve. It was a scene of carnage in Washington, D.C., today as, mere moments after he stepped up the dais to take the oath of office, President Elasmobranch the Unyielding liquified the crowd with plasma rays emitted from his eyes, followed by a release of some sort of airborne toxin from his palms that infected all the remaining onlookers with a fast-acting putrefaction agent.

The crowd was caught by surprise as Elasmobranch the Unyielding unleashed his terrifying salvo of death, leaving few survivors to tell the tale. I'm seconds away from decaying myself, Steve, so I'm going to throw it back to you before I disintegrate on camera.

That was Luthor Edmiston reporting live, from the capital. Now, people from coast to coast are wondering if there was something that could have been done to prevent this terrible tragedy. We spoke to some protestors today in midtown to hear what they had to say:

We warned you all for months! You didn't listen to us! Elasmobranch said nothing on the campaign trail but "KILL ALL THE HUMANS!" He never elaborated his position on gun control, abortion, foreign policy, the economy... nothing! He just repeated "KILL ALL THE HUMANS!" over and over again!

Elasmobranch consumed human skulls on each campaign stop! You people could have saw the signs! All you cared about was whether or not you could have a beer with him! This monster will kill us all! Run for the hills!

Officials from the "Elasmobranch 2008" campaign have released a statement: "We deeply regret the minor error that occurred today on the steps of the Capitol, and will endeavor to make it up to American public. Watch your mailboxes for a tax rebate soon."

We'll have more for you as this story continues to unfold. But coming up, Nick Drye the Weather Guy will have your five-day "Mediocre-Tron 3000" weather forecast, and Paul will have the latest news from the "boys of summer" at the ballpark, so stay tuned right after these lawn furniture commercials.

Knock-knock

Oh, hey -- It's me! The wolf at your door! I'm having quite a time leaving clumps of fur out here on your mat. Boy howdy, I'll tell ya, there's just so much business going on these days that it's going to take the better part of the afternoon just to get this block down.

I guess your wondering why I'm out here, right? Well, I just finished noisily devouring that neighbor's kid, Jeffy. You know the little bastard -- douschebag used to throw whiffle balls at your car's door panels. Well, don't worry, he won't be throwing anything anymore. *burp* That letter-carrier coming down the block looks awfully tasty, too. Sure, mailman "Rob-Bob" has been dropping off parcels here for seven years, but you know that fucker is only going to bearing a foreclosure notice on this bullshit lean-to you call a house.

I think you're starting to get the picture -- I'm the lupine harbinger of madness, kiddo. You want high gas prices? I got 'em. You want war without end? I can has it. I haven't had this much fun in a long while -- a few hundred thousand folks laid off at GM and Ford the last few years was nothing. I was waiting for the time to be right. I want your house, your kid, your car, your genetically-engineered soybeans, the whole fucking shebang.

Aww, I'm sorry -- were you predatorily lent to? You do realize that a moron night manager at a Wendy's has no business getting any scratch up to own a house, right? After I pick the wishbone out of my fangs when I messily devour you and your family, I'm going to have fun starting a bonfire in here with your shitty album collection. Watch the value of this place finally soar -- as a weenie roast!

No one's exempt, friend -- I just paid a visit to that scarf-wearing panty-waist Aussie tennis instructor from American Idol a few weeks ago. Remember him? Neither do I! I guess he's having a rough spring too... being excreted in a warm coil on your front lawn! Hoo-hah!

I got a full schedule, paying visits to the American voter, the American primary candidates, errant governors, errant secretaries of state, errant attorneys-general, errant quarterbacks, errant actors, errant poets, Lionel Richie... it's gone from famine to feast so massively, I'm thinking I'll have to outsource some of this crazed carnage to Bangalore.

Hello... is it me you're looking for? *CHOMP!* Probably not! The more you people all sit there watching watching Olympic handspringing from Beijing, where my good Red friends take the truncheon to misbehaving journos, the easier it is for me to get my fill. What's that, you say? So long as the horror of systemic misfortune is happening to someone else, you'll have no problem moving to Phoenix and driving a Chevy Tahoe down the driveway to take out your garbage? I think not, jackass. Like the guy from TV says, I always get my man.

Hey, who ordered the umpteenth doughy white-guy comedy this week? I have bootleg copies of all this unwatchable, unimaginative shit in my hip pocket. Yeah, just come closer... closer... it's only 10 dollars, DVD quality... closer... no, these incisors are just for opening beer bottles, you dumb bastard. I am looking forward to a long, hot summer with millions of my closest meals, er, pals -- I suggest you stop the kicking and resisting and let canis lupus do his work. There are no bonus points for putting up a fight.

I have a lot of houses to attend to before this is all over with. This might take a while -- grab a poorly-written book and wait up for me.

Coming to you live!

Hello everybody, I'm Pat O'Brien, and I'm coming to you live from underneath one thousand tons of steaming, twisted metaphor! We got some great stuff for you today, including the story of a high-profile politico that ends in the only manner we're comfortable with -- sexual disgrace knocking him off one of the highest perches in the land! But first, I wanna fucking go crazy with you. You are so fucking hot, and I wanna eat you, and I want you to suck my cock...

So, we continue with the story of one Eliot Spitzer, former governor of New York state, laid low by getting laid, low-down, with a high priced "call girl". We, in the biz, use the term "call girl" -- which doesn't mean a thing -- because we don't like to employ the terms "hooker" or "prostitute". That connotes something sleazy instead of sexy and aspirational. You might find a prostitute murdered in a dumpster in Paramus, but only a "call girl" can knock family man and crusading pol Eliot Spitzer down a few notches -- one for each notch on his bedpost. But, I digress, because I want to get another woman up, and hire a hooker. Let's get crazy, get some coke. I wanna fucking go crazy with you...

So, continuing our lead story, Eliot Spitzer hands in his resignation, prostrating himself in front of the body politic -- and what a body she has, eh, Nancy O'Dell? Where's Nancy? My co-host, Nancy -- where is she? I guess we'll get back to her in a moment. The little lady mixed up in the middle of this political morass is a lovely lass named Ashley Alexandra Dupre, but you would know her better as "Kristen," the $4,000 tempest in a honey-pot. In fact, we've got a fleet of airhead correspondents lying in wait outside of her apartment in Manhattan, all trying to get the first live glimpse of this woman who seduced and slew a political Goliath with nothing more than a crude sling fashioned out of her thong underwear, figuratively speaking. Also, I want you badly, I know you want me... I am so fucking into you. You have to pay attention to Betsy, but let's have fun.

We in the media love to fill our distended bellies with the delightful succor of sexual puritanism, especially when there's an obviously confused young girl at the center of this maelstrom who's stumbled into a life of prostitution because, I'm sure, things were going so well for her beforehand. I think I speak for everyone in this august business of unqualified public commentary when I say where a man sticks his head-of-state has tremendous bearing on his ability to do his day job. You are so hot, I wanna eat you! I'm going to the bathroom. Leave me a voicemail -- look at me and say "yes."

Apparently, we've moved our location to a 10,000 gallon lagoon of fecal hog waste, so I guess that's our cue to sign off today's broadcast and give you a hint as to what's coming up tomorrow -- we've got more, more, more, more, more gubernatorial hijinks on the way, including an exclusive one-on-one interview with the drug store owner who sold "Kristen" tampons in the days and weeks leading up the infamous hotel encounter, just about as close a brush with the vagina that took down the former luminary as the American people can get in a single half-hour newscast/cooking show/economic report/vacuum commercial. Now, stay tuned for "How I Met According to Jim," followed by the woman who scoops up and reads the little lottery balls. I dont know what's wrong with me... I don't do this, but I just want to make you fucking crazy... let's just fucking have sex and fun and drugs, and go crazy.

Blockbuster project

As it turns out, I grew up in a Mormon compound in Sausalito, California. But wait, it gets better -- I was abducted by a sterile woman in a shopping mall in Reseda and raised under the name of "Sponge Bob" from the ages of 9-13. Sounds crazy, right?

Well, get a load of this -- after I was repatriated to my real family, I ran away from home to Tucson, then Galveston, then Laredo, and finally St. Louis, all the while buying and selling drugs. Also, I managed to act as a coyote, smuggling and snuggling hundreds if not thousands of Mexican immigrants from Juarez, Mexico, into America. Afterwards, I finally managed to get some peace and quiet in Gainesville, Florida. But that didn't last very long.

I was forced into sexual slavery by an Croat pimp named Darkan, and survived the diciest 16 months of my life as I was forced to sell my ass on the street and in flophouses (like the one pictured above) to conventioneers and Shriners in the greater Orlando metro area.

After stabbing Darkan in the neck with a sharpened Twizzler, I escaped with only the mesh ball-cap on my head and a tube of Chapstick to Montclair, New Jersey, where a new chapter of my life began. You see, I had to recover from a debilitating addiction to cough drops, rum punch, ScotchGard, SueBee Bit O'Honeys, Crunchberries, Murphy's Oil Soap, Magic Shell, black Kiwi shoe polish, and yogurt. I found my spirit nurtured by the soothing practice of teaching humility to bears (as portrayed on canvas above in tempura and lamb feces) by my fellow commune-sister Moonbeam Daffodil Blatzstein.

But searing tragedy struck again, when I was on sabbatical in New York City just 15 months later and was accosted by the last known man on earth wearing an 8-ball leather jacket. I was forced into an all-Jamaican breakdancing posse, backspinning my way through most of the 1990s in a blur of parks, sidewalks and buffet breakfasts. If it wasn't for the incredible kindness of Pope John Paul Gandhi, I might never have escaped with my soul -- or Adidas shell-toes -- intact.

After I bid farewell to Adnan Kashoggi Gandhi, or whatever his name was, I opened a small bed-and-breakfast in a Polynesian lava flow -- and believe it or not, it was shut down by the Board of Health, not by any lack of patrons. Go figure.

Well, life these days is a lot more boring now than it used to be, for sure -- I have a very quiet life with my wife, three cats, and a job in a UFO factory working for supervisor Michelle Pfeiffer. I tell you what, though -- my checkered past will affect a lot of people's lives if I tell then about it! I mean, it worked for Margaret Jones, James Frey, Clifford Irving, Anna Anderson, and that woman they based the film "Julia" on. I could do a lot of good in the world. I mean, it's the idea of my life that will win people over, if not the actual detail-ish, accurate-ish recounting of events, right?

Astronaut Clown

Between the inky depths of deep space and the outermost bounds of human achievement, you'll find Astronaut Clown!

Astronaut Clown has been working relentlessly for the past seven months, training in the underwater tank and spinning in the endurance centrifuge to build his body up to withstand the rigors of the final unexplored frontier -- transatmospheric travel!

Astronaut Clown has double masters degrees from Harvard in engineering and botany -- plus equivalency accreditation from Tampa Bay Clown College -- all towards his paramount goal of being the first clown in space. He wakes up each morning and applies his creepy greasepaint mask and rainbow wig before eating a high-protein gruel (designed to bolster his physical might and immune system), and then strikes off to the gymnasium for two hours of intensive cardiovascular and strength training. His day rounds out in the sophisticated aeronautical laboratory, wherein he prepares the raw materials for his zero-gravity experiments!

Astronaut Clown: I'm almost ready -- no, the world is almost ready! Once I prove my hypothesis on the sustained velocity of disk-shaped objects in the vacuum of space, I'll publish my findings in the "Journal Nature" and be revered by my peers! Scientists have argued since the dawn of the Space Race that you could not accurately throw a banana cream pie in space, but I'll prove them all wrong. All my findings were for naught until that fateful night I cracked the Euclidean Graham Cracker Crust Ratio and perfected the ultimate throwing pie!

Astronaut Clown: As the Romans would say, ecce dessert! All that's left is to perfect the seltzer-bottle based propulsion method, and I will have revolutionized the very nature of space travel, throwing all conventional wisdom to the wind! Wernher Von Braun... NASA... the Soviets -- all infants crawling around in the blocks of innovation that I, alone, handily stack to create unparalleled achievement. Just the work of the past three months alone is enough to rewrite the most advanced texts on the matter!

Astronaut Clown: Repurposing all this old Russian seltzer technology has vaulted my plans ahead by at least six months -- I'm far ahead of the Japanese and Chinese, and the Americans can't possibly catch up now. Everything I do, I do for the good of mankind -- my discoveries will make me a hero in eyes of little boys and girls everywhere, who'll want nothing more than to follow in my oversized red footsteps and become harlequin-scientist-pioneers themselves!

Oscar®-nominated actor David Strathairn: Um, Astronaut Clown, I know you're busy, but can I disturb you for a moment?

Astronaut Clown: Why, it's Oscar®-nominated actor David Strathairn! You ooze credibility!

O®NADS: It's true, I do.

Astronaut Clown: Of course I have the time for you! What's up?

O®NADS: I notice what you've been doing, and I wanted to take the time to tell you that the world doesn't give one single fuck about any of it.

Astronaut Clown: What?

O®NADS: You've been locked up in this building for so long, the world has passed you by. You could wrap all this bullshit up in an eggroll and ride it in the Breeders' Cup, and no one would care.

Astronaut Clown: You're hurting my feelings! This isn't just a sad clown face, it's real!

O®NADS: Open your eyes, you goofy bastard! That actor guy died of sleeping pills or some shit last week, and that fucking mattered!

Astronaut Clown: La-la-la-la-la-la... I can't hear you...

O®NADS: And what about that loopy broad who sings all those shitty songs? She's losing it too!

Astronaut Clown: I... I see the truth of it now -- my entire existence is meaningless. I've been rendered moot.

O®NADS: It's time to throw this shit away and grow up.

Astronaut Clown: I better turn on the TV, I've got a lot of catching up to do. Thanks, David Strathairn, for setting me straight.

O®NADS: You also might want to "The Bourne Supremacy" on your Netflix, too, while you're at it. And, "Good Night, and Good Luck."

Astronaut Clown: Oooh, look! Pictures of cats with poorly-phrased, grammatically-incorrect captions written over top in blocky fonts! I think love this new world, slavishly and without question!

Dulcet tones

In honor of "Rambo", opening this weekend...

The Return... of Dr. Oetker!

Since me and the shmwife and I are preparing for a big move, we're going through the annals, cleaning up ten metric tonnes of shit. In going through the cupboards, I come across a long lost prize -- Dr. Oetker's Puding, a birthday treat from Erik Seims and Kyria Abrahams two years ago. Dr. Oetker's mirakle muz aromali püding has sat in our cabinet ever since, untouched by human or rodent hands... until tonight!

I boiled the water, added the powder, and chilled the yellowy goo, all in hopes of writing a reasonable review of this wonderful gift. Now, after sampling a teaspoon-sized portion of said püding, I have to say it tastes yellowy, and strongly of bananas. Picture what it would be like if tapioca püding tasted like obnoxious bananas -- and there you have the pride of Dr. Oetker's dark pantry.

I, for one, cannot wait to sample the official Dr. Oetker-brand türkey-flavored butterscotch earwig püding. Mmmm! Sign me up for seconds! Is that a note of tarnished nickels I detect?

Imagine, if you will...

You're traveling through another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound, but of mind. A journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination. That's the sign post up ahead, your next stop... The Twilight Zone!


Imagine, if you will, a feathered creature blessed not only with webbed feet and a bill, but also a pair of twin preposterous protuberances -- human ears -- sprouting from each side of said creature's head. If you ever happen meet such a duck, be careful what you say, because you might just be tossing handfuls of white bread at fowl floating on a pond located directly in the town square of... the Twilight Zone.


Two women talking at lunch:

Katie: So I just don't know if he likes me! I mean, we were out for four hours, and we had a great conversation, and he even kissed my neck at one point, but he NEVER. MADE. EYE. CONTACT. Not once.

Daphne: That's your exit strategy right there. No eye contact means he's either evasive, bored... or ten minutes away from guest-starring on "To Catch a Predator."

Katie: I KNOW! Really, I do, but he's just so cute. I mean, he told me all about this long relationship he had back in the late ’90s and all, and he, like, actually WEPT once! A single tear! I mean, I almost... almost melted. It was SOOO charming.

Daphne: Now you're just being a damn fool. 'Mr. Weepycharms' must have Asperger's or something, because there's no way someone sane and living on planet Notfuckingcrazy does NOT manage to accidentally once look you in the pupils.

Katie: Right, my brain is telling me that, but he was dressed so well! And he chose the wine, like, a Mouton-Rothschild or something. He is so perfect! I wish he made eye contact!

Daphne: You're not seriously thinking of giving him another chance? I see it -- that look you have! You're going to give him another go, aren't you?

Katie: Have you EVER in your LIFE had a man know exactly where to kiss you on that spot on your neck?

Daphne: Sure, and they do more than follow it up with a handshake. What part of NO EYE CONTACT isn't getting through?

Katie: It's too tempting to not try again.


*QUACK!*

Katie and Daphne: [In unison] LISTENING DUCK!

Listening Duck: QUACK!

Katie: Boy, what an incredible coincidence, Listening Duck! We were just talking about something very important.

Listening Duck: QUACK!

Daphne: Listening Duck, she wants to give some guy she went on a date with a second chance after he wasn't able to look her in the eyes, once, the whole time. Please tell her she's crazy.

Listening Duck: QUACK!

Katie: But Listening Duck, it's not like that -- hear me out! He was such a gentleman, like, the old-fashioned kind. I really respond to that. It wasn't a pick-up game or anything! He just...

Listening Duck: QUACK!

Daphne: See? He sides with me.

Katie: That's not what he said!

Listening Duck: QUACK!

Katie: See? He agrees with me.

Daphne: You think he's speaking duck-Spanish? He said I'm right.

Katie: That's such bullshit. You know, you're a bitch.

Daphne: Ek... scuse...me?

Katie: You're fucking bitter because you haven't gotten laid in, like, five months.

Daphne: This is where you want to devolve to? You fucking flaky little nimrod? Who listens to your tired-ass phone whimpering after some guy doesn't call your flat ass back after you sleep with him on the first date? Who always picks up...

Listening Duck: QUACK!

Katie: You know, fuck you, and fuck Listening Duck!

Daphne: Fuck me? Well, how do you like fucking this? [pulls out a gun from her purse and fires at Katie, knocking her over in her seat]

Katie: *Gurgle*... *murgle*... *bluhhhh*... [expires]

Daphne: Oh my god, Katie! What have I done! [kills self with one gunshot to the head]

Listening Duck: QUACK!


Audible Turtles: Yeah, quack, quack quack. No ever gives a fuck about what the turtles have to say -- that fucking duck is all anyone cares about! I hear he's deaf anyway! Oh the irony!


The cruel irony of the situation is that the duck was, in fact, deaf. The ears were nothing more than vestigial appendages, thus giving new life to that old axiom, 'Do not try to intrigue a Listening Duck in matters where one is better off not being.' That's not something you'll find in any waterfowl field manual or terrapin conventional wisdom, so always lunch carefully when you find yourself pondside in... the Twilight Zone!