AmericanCaesar Salad

The Bilge Show begins...

2009-03-25T18:04:00.005-04:00

Citizens, I heed you to watch the first two episodes of The Bilge Show, featuring me and the wife-bot cracking ribald jokes at the expense of popular culture luminaries. Joins the fun and zip off an e-mail to thebilgeshow@gmail.com with any and all thoughts, so long as they're complimentary.

I look like a housecat

2008-06-23T21:20:00.009-04:00

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

2008-04-27T20:28:00.014-04:00

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

2008-04-21T22:46:00.016-04:00

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!

2008-03-12T22:28:00.008-04:00

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

2008-03-03T22:53:00.008-05:00

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

2008-01-29T21:52:00.001-05:00

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

2008-01-27T21:37:00.001-05:00

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

The Return... of Dr. Oetker!

2008-01-20T00:15:00.000-05:00

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...

2008-01-13T16:50:00.000-05:00

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!

BREAKING...

2007-12-06T22:07:00.000-05:00

Breaking news: ABDUCTION

The assailant left only this one clue:

And a note that he'd be back in a little over a week with the remains of the titular commentator of this space. More as we get it in to the newsroom.

The newest shit around

2007-12-05T16:20:00.001-05:00

I've always loved "We Are the World":

God Hates the World - Watch more free videos

Happy Holidays, care of the Fred Phelps Westboro Baptist Church. Christ, I never knew that white people had it so tough.

What the Writers' Strike hath wrought...

2007-11-27T21:24:00.001-05:00

What do you get when you mix a semi-famous coquette cashing in on vast oceans of "China Doll" fetishization in American males plus the lurid, one-sided appeal of two girls kissing for the benefit of men? Well, when you toss said tart in a house filled with lust-crazed fratboys, fame-seeking camera whores, and unstable borderline personalities, you get the new MTV fall sensation:

VOICE-OVER: Let's meet our host, the cynically-named Jinger Jackancoke -- but you're probably already Facebooked to her by now, right? She has over 100 friends on Facebook, making her the obvious choice to anchor a ruinal prime-time series!

JINGER JACKANCOKE: Hi guys! It's me, Jinger! I, like, love love, and I like, love connections, and I'm here to totally make a love connection, because I like you, but I don't love you! Stop frontin', homes! No playa hating!

VO: Huh?

JJ: I've [Ed. note: A team of barely-literate producers whose uncles got them this job] filled this beautiful house in Reseda with the most beautiful people we could find to make a love match! Do you think I'll make a love-connection-match-thingie-whatsits? I hope so! Uh-what-what?! I'm so lonely! I starve for the even the most minimal human affection -- I was confined by my strict parents to a childhood under an upside-down laundry basket until the age of 12, so I'm making up for years of lost socialization in one single reality show binge! What could be hotter, yo?!

VO: Mandatory vaccinations, gout inspection, rubella innoculation, and hepatitis/HIV screenings for all housemates, cast, and crew of this program, that's what!

JJ: Did I mention that I'm BISEXUAL?! No? Well, I am! BISEXUAL! That means I have vaginal and oral intercourse with BOTH genders! BISEXUAL, in case you didn't hear me the first time? I like the men... and the LADIES! WOOT! I kiss ladies on TV! You hear that, mom and dad! So, let's meet my HOTT new house-guests, and see if the sparks fly! I'm very depressed! I need help!

VO: Meet our lucky guests:

Jared Pickleboinger, 22, Oil Executive

JP: My name is Jared, I'm 22, and I'm from New Jersey! I have feelings and shit. I love Dashboard Confessional. I'm not here to make friends, I'm here to get gonorrhea!

Brenda Jae "B.J." Wiggles, 25, Staples Clerk

RB: My last three relationships have all ended in restraining orders and me changing identities and crossing state lines, soi I figured, what the hell?

Skip Dickstein, 25, Self-employed

SD: WOOOOO! FUCKING RIGHT YEAH! SUCK IT! WOOOOO!

Jodie Foster, 45, Actress

JF: There must be some kind of mistake here... my sexuality is a private issue. It has no bearing on my work, and it is of no business to the public.

Peter Braunstein, 43, Fireman Rapist

PB: Me and you could be best friends, Jinger, because I know a lot about fashion, and you love fashion, and I love women, and I love their feet, and I love to look at women all day long because they're so beautiful, and then I start a little -- just a little -- flame outside your door and our games can begin, you know, just a little fun, when I take an offset knife to your ankles, and oh, those lovely feet, lovely, lovely feet, and my rag is so full -- so full -- of lovely chloroform...

Tor Johnson, Actor

TJ: PUH-PUH-PUH-PUM-PER-NICKLE!!!!

VO: Which of these sexy lovers will strike gold and win our negligibly-famous strumpet's heart, that is, if she even has one? Stay tuned for more!

JJ: Jodie Foster? Ewww... I fucking quit!

Bumming around in Jeff Bridges country

2007-11-25T23:13:00.000-05:00

Oh, hello there! I didn't see you come in. You're probably wondering what I'm doing here in duo-chrome, digitized and rendered into bits and bytes on the Master Control Program's famed "Game Grid." Well, I'm kind of here to prove a point. First of all, it was only a matter of time before the discussion in this space turned to "Tron," Disney's 1982 colossal failure of a movie that died on the vine. I, for one, am having a great time hanging out here with Bruce Boxleitner and the gang. In fact, here he comes...

Whassa happenin' over in your area of the grid, home-skillet?

*WHOOSH!*

He fucking fronted on me -- fucking Boxleitner just fronted. That guy hasn't worked since, what? "Babylon 5"? Didn't Melissa Gilbert divorce his ass a few months back anyway? Prick didn't even slow down his lightcycle to wave. No goddamn manners on the Game Grid anymore.

Well, I might as well saddle up and take a spin around here as I natter.

Ah, that's more like it. I love the sound this thing makes... WHIRR! WHIRR! WHURRMP! WHEEEE-WURRR! It's totally shmawesome. Getting back on point, there's a purpose behind things like ol' "Tron" here, and that's to illustrate all the things that are good in life. We have families that love us, comfortable existences, a lot of fun on a daily basis, and no Recognizers dispatched by Sark, sent to de-rez us. That's gotta count for something.

Did someone mention my name?

Hey, it's TV and film's David Warner! You all know him -- he's starred in like, a million movies you've seen but never paid attention to. And barely any of them any good.

I put most of my effort into theatre these days. More nuanced roles.

Yeah, yeah, but what about wearing that boss-ass helmet and going shithouse on Jeff Bridges? That mist have been a real fucking thrill. Even the Coen Brothers in "Lebowski" couldn't manage to do what you did to Jeff in this one!

To be honest I haven't paid attention. I do enjoy their work, but... I can't answer your question for sure.

Dude, I want to hear about Tron! Tron-Tron-Tron! I loved this movie since I saw it when I was eight years old, and...

Is that what this is about? Nostalgia? Are you same kind of fellow who accosts Willem Dafoe on the street and goes on about Spider-Man or something?

No... that's... ridiculous. I just... there's...

My career is larger than this one sci-fi lark I did in Los Angeles in 1982. What are you doing in that damned stupid helmet? Don't you have any humility?

I have plenty of pride! I'm not ashamed of being a hobbyist-slash-enthusiast, or whatever the fuck you'd call somebody who relives his past over and over again, every day, like some kind of adolescent power fantasy!

So, I'm to understand that you've plucked one happy memory and based an entire belief system about it?

I don't have to respond to that line of questioning.

Hey, look over there! It's Ricardo Montalban at a comic book convention! Why don't you quiz him on line-readings with Bill Shatner?

I'm starting to not like your tone, Sark. Before you make me look in the mirror and face my problems again, I'm gonna jet out of here on this solar-sailer simulation.

Well, all the fun's been drained out of this little bit of escapism. A little unironic joy has been bleached clean by some duotone jagoff. It was only a matter of minutes before he unearthed "G.I. Joe", or something like that. It's like, I have a little corner of the world that I try to carve out as a safe-area for my inner child, but everyone has to go and wipe their shoes on it.

Well, I guess that's it. Nothing left to say. Reporting live from the Game Grid, it's me, silently soaking my pillow with tears as I drain a bottle of Hiram Walker brandy. Just let me know if/when you're done diminutizing me, David Warner. I'll be the broken man over here, with the electric-blue bodystocking throwing a digital frisbee at Cindy Morgan. Back to you in the newsroom.

Gift ideas for dad

2007-11-24T17:39:00.000-05:00

Just in time for the holidays, our special filet mignon medallions will be the perfect compliment on your Christmas meal table! We use only the most premium cuts of the finest beef from the farthest corners of the planet Earth, areas unreachable by human travelers, unspoilt by the cumbersome footprint of modern progress, to bring you what is assuredly the most excellent sample of bovine muscle tissue that science and assayed telemetry as we know it can possibly produce, to within human tolerances.

We slice the steaks extra thick using proton-fed boronoscope surgical grade lasers (software version 2.1, accurate to within 11 angstroms) to deliver only the meatiest portions to your house. Thereafter, it's flash-frozen for freshness using a series of high-pressure injection nozzles firing 38.5 PSI of compressed liquid nitrogen, ensuring peak levels of locked-in flavor. Then, we store the meat in Aegyptian-cotton liners soaked through with a porous molecular wax, creating an impermeable, hydrophobic surface that's effective up to 3 atmospheres of pressure. That unit is individually wrapped in a grid of naturally-occurring bamboo shoots and high-grade tensile teflon, ensuring pristine oxygen levels and a minimum of atomic gaseous contamination. That parcel is then placed in a Buckminster Fuller-esque geodesic dome fashioned out of a pure, nonreactive americium and praesiodymium, elements honed specifically for the purpose of transporting your order with maximum freshness.

That platonic solid is then wrapped in a theoretical cross-matrix of hope and fury, all but enabling the package to flourish in an environment of unfettered joy whilst maintaining a grim line of power and righteous anger about the fate of fallen Phoenician kings, and the flesh that shall ne'er again flood their old bones with feeling and purpose.

This quasi-real substance is delivered overnight to your home, or at least what approximates your living space in a semiotic sense, perhaps never quite reaching the dinner table in a paradoxical irony suitable for Zeno himself. It is only at this juncture where the thinker is forced to consider the base nature of consumption -- are you partaking of the flesh, or is the flesh partaking of you? The membrane between synthesis and metamorphosis has never been quite as porous as it seems now, and surely nothing you've ever considered as belief-grounding up to this point can offer any concrete certainty.

Order today -- only $68.95 for two pieces, or $111.95 for four! Supplies are sure to dwindle, so act now!

Le Christmas Bonus

2007-11-23T22:57:00.001-05:00

Ho ho ho! It's the most wonderful time of the year, a marshmallow world in the winter, over the woods and through the river and all that bullshit. Sounds to me like it's also time for a little check-up in the the corporate health of America!

[*applause*]

Thank you, stage directions. Well, as we know, the dollar is sinking faster than tourist cruises in the Antarctic and the economy is as stable as Nick Nolte pushing a three-wheeled shopping cart through the Mall of America as it slides into a massive sinkhole on double-coupon day. What does that mean for yon intrepid workers of the U.S. economy?

[*additional applause*]

No, not yet, stage directions. I need to line up something resembling a punchline first.

[*exeunt*]

No, don't be like that! I swear, if you wait a minute, it'll be the perfect opportunity. Just bear with me.

[*enter, stage right*]

Thank you. So, where was I? Right then -- our own corporate setup here in New York City. Well, after having been under the tight thumbscrews of a mismanaging syndicate of venture-capitalist-hedge-fund-Ivan-Boesky-alikes for the past three years, my company recently changed hands to... another set of faceless white capitalist portfolio managers who all look like B.J. Novak's character from "The Office."

[*crowd ahhhs*]

Yeah, it's a great show, and my topical reference was well-chosen, too. Everybody wins. Now, with said transaction having taken place only a month-and-a-half ago, there's still no inky pawprint of what the new regime will be like as of yet... but, our first sign is in place already:

Who doesn't love a tin of holiday-themed confections? And who doesn't love a job well done? Put them both together, and you get a delicious triumvirate of flavored popping corn, courtesy of our new "friends" at Arlington Capital.

Surely, you're worth caramel, cheesy, and buttery flavored popcorn, right? When you care to send the very best (except raises), as they say...

[*audience hisses*]

Now, now, stage directions... be nice. To be fair, this single tin of popcorn is already more than our previous ownership actually ever gave us in the entire three year span of their ownership -- along with canceling the tradition of Christmas parties and profit sharing, coupled with the one-time 3% raise they gave us to cover cost-of-living increases... ah, I can go on and on. What may seem like an afterthought from Harry and David here in the ol' workplace is, in fact, what we might call a good start. My co-workers and I are like the battered wife who begins to grow warmly fond of mental cruelty and neglect. You kind of wonder how you ever did without it.

So, what do you say, stage directions? You think the economy is going to hell on a tramp-steamer based on what you're seeing go down in the kitchen at work?

[*lights flash on and off again, as if to signify a storm*]

What kind off bullshit answer is that? It's always so fucking oblique with you.

[*a sandbag drops from the rafters, missing the narrator by mere inches*]

Fuck Me? Fuck you! I'm tired of dealing with your dousch-ey exclamations -- never making any sense! I've carried your fucking ass for far too long. You want to take easy shots at? Is that right? Why don't you get the fuck out and see how ling you last. Get out. Get the fuck out.

[*exeunt*]

And stay out. Always with a head of steam on. Always fucking grousing. Sick of it.

. . .

So lonely. So cold. So lonely. I'm sorry, I was speaking from a place of anger, and I get spiteful. I'm so sorry, stage directions! Please don't go! I'm so alone! So alone! I can't stand it -- it feels like the sun has been blotted out! I can't take it when you're angry at me! Oh god... ohgod ohgod ohgod ohgod... my chest is getting tight. I can do this... calm down... I can get through this. Stage directions will come back. Stage directions know how much I need them. Please please please please come back... please come back. I'll make it up. So lonely... so alone. So cold.

Arithmetic, or a self-conversation

2007-11-18T23:10:00.000-05:00

Stepping into the men's room in a Greenwich Village restaurant, Saturday night...

OK, let's see... is anyone else in here? No? Great! I can't stand using the pisser if there's anyone else in the head. They make these goddamn things so snug that it makes me feel like I'm fucking Larry Craig if I just want to get to the hand dryer. What are my options here? One urinal, and two stalls -- one regular, one handicapped.

I've watched too much "Curb Your Enthusiasm" to even try the bigger one out... there's no comedy left in that transaction. Too bad, because I really appreciate the extra room in the handicapped stall. Makes it easier for me to flush with the toe of my shoe, so I don't have to touch a goddamn thing in this haven of horror.

I swear, rubbing your open eye on a baggage cart handle at the airport in Kinshasa, Zaire, is safer than fucking with a toilet lever in Manhattan. I'd rather eat a moist butterscotch that's been picked up off the floor of Grand Central with a damp bar rag from a Times Square Sbarros than actually place finger on metal in the head, even at the Waldorf Astoria.

All I have to do now is slide into the stall here, without touching anything -- and I mean ANYTHING -- except some T.P. to wipe with. Yes, there is a need to wipe on a No. 1 call. What the fuck are you going to do about the drip? You can squeeze every last bit out, but that fucker still has its last little dangling, ammoniac droplet wavering at the tip, with all that fucking surface tension... or cohesion... or whatever the fuck Mr. Remkus told us it was back in the 8th grade.

Nudges the door with the tip of the shoe, and it swings open.

Good news so far. There's not a fucking Katrina of human waste flooding the stall. I loathe the bastard who treats the head like his own personal SuperDome, wee-ing all over the seat and floor. Or worse, someone leaves that ugly fecal-gravy behind in their tracks, like some kind of fucked-up episode of "CSI: Bunghole" -- but the less said about that contingency, the better. I don't want to have to think about breaking the Presidential Seal on those protocols this evening.

I'm almost in place for the...

Suddenly, the back of the left calf brushes against the tile wall near the stall door as clearance is made for the door swinging closed.

What? FUCK! Motherfuck! Now what the fuck to I do? Abort mission? Bail? Can't now, I've had, like, three glasses of that Italian champagne... what do they call it? Progresso? Fucking "Prosecco" -- that's it! Italian bastards fucked me up with their diuretic beverage. Goddamn Don Ho with those tiny cocksucking bubbles.

Who built this stall? Those fucking lanky aliens from the end of "Close Encounters"? You literally have to be two-dimensional to fit into here in the first place, much less without touching any surface. Does fucking Frank Lloyd Wrong really think I want roll around on the cold tile, making contact with four walls, every time I go to use the pisser? Luke had more room in the trash compactor on the Death Star, for chrissakes.

I'm committed to the bit, I have to do this, but what about the pants? I just put these jeans on yesterday. They have one-and-a-half wears in them this washing cycle, and I'm loathe to drop them back in the hamper before their time. But what choice do I have? I'm forced to make all this fucking arithmetic up on the fly in my head within this Fuller-esque geodesic bacterial nightmare the restaurateur calls a quote-unquote "men's room," goddamn it!

Starts the business.

OK, calm down. There's only one option, and it's clear as day -- let's finish this thing off and walk out of here, cool like cucumber cats, acting like nothing happened, letting on to exactly ZERO weakness or disadvantage over this situation. Although I'd like to see Sun-fucking-Tzu try to turn this anthrax scare into good news. The edict from up on high is to isolate the contaminated pantleg from the rest of the operation and ostracize it vis-a-vis all contact from here on out. No leg crossing, no calf scratching, none of that bullshit.

Exits stall, washes hands.

Strict attention must be paid to the location of the area. Can't let the jacket dip down while I'm slipping the one sleeve on, allowing the other sleeve to brush the left leg. I watch those stupid bastards on the train who put on/take off their winter coats by allowing them to drag on the floor of the car. The fuck is wrong with those people? Why not just dip a ladle in a Dark Ages water well that they've been drowning plague-infected rats in?

This is going to require as much discipline as I can muster for the next few hours, but I have to get this right -- everything is counting on it.

Checks shirt tuck, leaves the bathroom, and never patronizes a public restroom ever again.

Lies, lies, lies, yeah

2007-11-07T22:20:00.001-05:00

Black Man, White Lies, originally uploaded by americancaesar.

I've haven't lived long enough to find fruit in this statement, but what I think is more interesting is that a Pinkberry is close to opening up on the corner of 6th and 14th, just down the road from Stately Scurve Manor.

Why don't we disabuse all our notions of color, and instead fixate on what flavors of frogurt we'll want to sup on?

I Love New York

2007-11-07T22:02:00.000-05:00

We now join "I Love New York, Season 2," already in progress...

NEW YORK: I see y'all, looking fine up there... it just makes my decision even harder. You see I have a box of chains down here, but I only have enough for seven of you. That means I have to say goodbye to one of you tonight.

NEW YORK: I'm gonna just skip right ahead to the hard part, because I made a real connection today on our dates with all y'all. And at this late in the game, each cut is harder than the one before it.

NEW YORK: There was one thing that happened today, that made me think hard on one of you in particular. Real hard. I think you know who I'm already talking about. Can you come down here, CMF?

BILL SCURRY: Sure, Tiffany. Er, can you tell me again why my name is "CMF" again? I kind of forgot...

NEW YORK: That's what the fans on the website wanted to call you.

BILL SCURRY: Yeah, but what does it mean, I guess, is the more salient question?

MIDGET MAC: It means "Cracker Mother Fucker," son. What're you, dense? Midget Mac told you that like, six times.

NEW YORK: Now, CMF, you know that I have a soft spot for you, right? I really got the chance to bond with you on our date at the In 'n' Out Burger. But there were some things that did not add when I went back to my room afterwards.

BILL SCURRY: Oh, sweet Christ. Here it comes...

NEW YORK: Well, I was first put off by the way you kept stealing my fries. Then, you asked me -- four times, I think -- where my mother bought her weave from. Then, you kept asking me if I liked "pumpkin ravioli," for some damn reason. You... just... kept... asking... me. I don't know what happened to you when you were a kid, but apparently, this is a big issue for you.

BILL SCURRY: We can work past that, Tiffany New York. New Tiffany... Tiffanork. New Tiffany, I mean. We have respect and trust, right? A true relationship is based on trust and respect -- those're the building blocks, right there!

NEW YORK: Yeeeaaahhhh... but, if only that was the end of it. You started an entire conversation about "Star Trek"... actually, you talked for 40 minutes about the guy who played that Russian guy, and how his son in real life played Kirk Cameron's best friend on "Growing Pains." You didn't even notice when I went out for a cigarette break. Twice.

BILL SCURRY: I thought it would be interesting to talk about... a lot of people don't know much about the actors who played the bridge cast on original "Trek."

NEW YORK: Okay, but I don't give a shit. That's that part you don't get. Buuuuuut -- that wasn't the worst of it.

BILL SCURRY: You liked it when I paid for the meal, right?

NEW YORK: Listen to me. Are you looking at me? You talked about your FUCKING WIFE the ENTIRE RIDE HOME!

BILL SCURRY: I knew that was bad. Gaahhh... oh, I knew that was bad. So stupid. Tho thtupid! I'm tho thtupid!

THE ENTERTAINER: THAT RIGHT THERE! STOP THAT SHIT! Enough goddamn voices! You think they're so damn funny -- they're just FUCKING DUMB! We're so fucking tired of that retarded shit!

NEW YORK: I have to agree, CMF. The little characters you do are wearing me thin.

BILL SCURRY: New York, baby! You've gotta gimme a chance! I can save this! Always remember what George Santayana said: "A man is morally free when, in full possession of his living humanity, he judges the world, and judges other men, with uncompromising sincerity." I am that man! I stand in front of you, in front of all these men, laying myself bare so that you can see the very contour of my soul. I offer myself to you without compromise, without a mote of impurity in my ability to live and to act, a fully-functioning vessel of potential in this all-too-short lifespan we enjoy. If you would like to soar with me, high above the plains of awareness, with nothing but our dreams as propulsion, take my hand and choose a future with me. As Jupiter decreed to the Romans upon their fabrication of that great city of antiquity, Rome, His ego nec metas rerum nec tempora pono imperium sine fine dedi, or, quite literally, "For the affairs of these I set neither cycles nor periods, I grant them empire without limit."

SISTER PATTERSON: . . . .

BILL SCURRY: What if we go to Carl's Jr. next time?

NEW YORK: You have to go. Now. We're running out of tape. Do you still have love for New York?

BILL SCURRY: Mmpphh... boobs...

BUDDHA: That's a good man right there... damn... *sniff*... a good man. We're all poorer for losing him from this house.

IT: Fleeble gurble, mingle bingy donut. Pipe cake humma humma Germans jit-jit-jit.

NEW YORK: I know. I miss him already, too.

Giver

2007-10-28T21:02:00.000-04:00

I'm a giver. I love to give. I love when people take what I give.

I was in a rarified position today to give to a friend in tough position, and they accepted heartily. It's not money, or things, that I'm talking about -- it's love. The emotions. The real thing.

My friend is going through a tough spot, and me 'n the ’Balm were there because they asked for help. That's all it takes to get me to give. It's easy. Really easy.

I am a born extender -- that is to say, I really do try to cater to people, because I either have a natural empathy for other people or I'm a massive codependent. I suspect it's it's a bit o' both. Whichever it is, there's nothing quite like the feeling of offering love and hugs to someone in pain. And if I go out of my way to offer this service to, say, 10 people, all I need is one, maybe one-and-a-half to reciprocate to complete the feedback loop. That's a good rate of return, peoplefolks.

Don't ask me for money. I don't have any. Don't ask me for favors. I get bored and easily resentful.

DO ask me for help and love, and DO be appreciative when I effuse the stuff.

This sounds like a threat as I read it back in my head, but it's really just a helpful guideline.

What you want to see

2007-10-22T22:58:00.000-04:00

What kind of film do you want to see made? I haven't seen a ghost story worth a damn in a while. "Poltergeist" was the last one that scared the shit out of me. I thought some of the recent J-horror would tickle my fancy, but "The Ring" was a confusing mishmash of styles. Same for that crop of haunted house flicks from the late ’90s: "The Haunting" and "The House on Haunted Hill" were warmed-over nice-tries. It seems like they lost the touch when it comes to making the real thing.

"Poltergeist" was made in 1982, a Tobe Hooper/ILM effort. It was fantastic -- Stephen Spielberg was the exec producer, and he knew that Hooper would kick a ghost story in the balls. MGM got a lot right.

Going earlier than that, I have to cite the oeuvre of Dario Argento -- he united the gothic horror sensibility with the slasher film and gave us "Profundo Rosso," "Suspiria," and many other diamonds. The gothic part is what he did so well, but not necessarily plot. And there didn't have to be a supernatural force at work, what with enough twisted-ass sinister people on the job.

Go back further, twenty years or so, and we get the Hammer films and their ilk, a true renaissance of gothic horror. Peter Cushing, Christopher Lee, and Vincent Price were three of the standard bearers of the time, starring in adaptations of Poe and Lovecraft, or rolling out new creations in a similar vein. I love "Haunted Palace." I love "The Abominable Dr. Phibes" (so much so I wrote about it a few months back).

There needs to be more, again. This is a filmic artform that has been neglected, only because people have forgotten how to make flicks like these. I am not detracting the current idiomatic oeuvres of James Wan and Eli Roth, but a spooky-as-shit ghost thriller is a fine use of 1 hour and 40 minutes time.

Hell, my favorite Disney World ride is "The Haunted Mansion," simply because they got the sensibility so goddamn right.

I've always been looking for inspiration, things that help the little wrinkly imagination-gnome inside of my pancreas do his jumpy, runny little thing. I should always write more; I watch an obscene amount of TV and movies, as well as consume hectares of mags, newspapers, and comic books, all raw materials for creative synthesis. And this mode is the kind of thing I want to see. This is what I should do -- make it for myself. I want to rediscover Vincent Price and rediscover gothic horror, circa 1960.

Want to see what I'm talking about? Watch this -- it's filking amazing:

So much longing, so much romance, so much deliberation. Gorgeous.

[Art by Daniel Horne, used without permission.]

Greatest show on Earth

2007-10-21T20:18:00.000-04:00

So... there's this:

Me and teh shmoop had the extreme privilege of spending a week in the most beautiful place on Earth, the Virgin Islands. In particular, we stayed on the gloriously uninhabited St. John (below, right).

Out in the middle of nowhere, especially in the off-season, this is the perfect place to keep from killing all the neighbors (or Estonians, if there are no neighbors handy). We flew into the big island of St. Thomas (left) and disembarked from a cross-channel ferry in the harbor town of Red Hook.

The boat chugged off on a 15 minute ride to St. John, accessible only by boat -- no airports, and shit, barely any roads, either.

This is Janice riding high in life on the top deck, moments after the crew brought us some rum. The people to our right, from New Jersey, were already nattering about unimportant bullshit, apparently impervious to the natural wonder around us.

The resort is built on an entire fucking peninsula, which is to say the grounds were huge. Rolling hills, palm trees, mangroves, all sorts of greenery -- the fragrance was amazing. The Caribbean is an entirely different world. You know, some people say you have to see Hawaii. Fuck Hawaii -- there's the Virgin Islands. Talk to me about the Great Barrier Reef if you want me to fly for 18 hours...

Here's our daily walk to breakfast, like a morning stroll through goddamned paradise, 90º by 8 a.m. and drenched in hot, hot sun. Butterflies kept buzzing us, like something out of Garcia Marquez.

We don't go to relax, however -- we go to snorkel. We swam miles each day, practically mapping the seafloor of all its coral, fish, and crustaceans. This shot is a place called Leinster Bay, a remote beach inaccessible by car, so you have to drive off-road for a quarter of a mile on a washed out road and hike into the jungle for another mile-and-a-half just to get to the beach.

Here's Janice, preparing our snorkels on the hood of that neat lil' Jeep Wrangler. This bay, like all the others, revealed an orgy of tropical sea life, from parrotfish, hawksbill turtles, southern stingrays, sergeant-majors, triggerfish, barracuda, and tarpon. (Sorry, no underwater camera to document evidence of those claims).

This little unassuming cut is a place off Grass Cay called "Squidville," the first place Janice and I ever scuba dived. The only way for us to suck up any more grandeur of the USVI's beauty was to go under, and we gave it a shot with incredible results. We have to get certified, immediately if not sooner.

We always stopped to smell the musk of the cooling sea grape trees that grow seaside, sheltering the sugary beaches from the hottest part of the day. A hammock was in order for that chill-out.

Each day at 4 p.m., they threw an afternoon tea where you could eat scones and slurp Earl Grey as non-native mongooses (mongeese?) skitter around your ankles trying to steal crumbs of the sweet treats.

The last sunset -- so beautiful, so sad, that you'd weep into your Cruzan rum thinking about flying back to New Jersey the next day.

Totally relaxed and mellowed, here are two loving marrieds glum at leaving but feeling that we throttled every last bit of life we could squeeze out of the Caribbean... this month. Watch for breaking news in this space about how I'm quitting the publishing biz and compelling the wife to wait tables in a scallop shack in Charlotte Amalie, St. Thomas. Those'll be some good times, begging for PayPal donations to keep my snorkeling-while-rummed-up addiction afloat.

Buh-buh-buh-buh...

2007-10-04T00:11:00.000-04:00

Hello there folks... it's your uncle Bing! Welcome to the Gates of Hell. Bub-buh-buh, ho-ho-ho. That's right, Hell, step right up. Ho-ho-hum, buh-buh-buhb.

I'll take your tickets right here, and enjoy the sulphurous lakes and searing, white-hot barbs of penitence. Buh-buh-buh.

Ho-ho, ho-ho, prepare for centuries of suffering, buh-bub. Thanks for coming!

Homosexual agenda

2007-09-30T01:02:00.001-04:00

Taste a cum, originally uploaded by americancaesar.

Seen on the Long Island Rail Road earlier today: From my vantage point, this sign was an advertisement to "TASTE A CUM." Is this a subliminal message from the semen flavoring industry (henceforth known as "Big Load") to get us to buy some of their fine novelty products? More importantly, I hardly think it's acceptable to go around advertising to children (who are the future, in case anyone missed the song) that they should get a good shot of reproductive jam on their tongues just to give ejaculate a chance in the old "sexual preference" department?

For the record, it was TERRIBLE. I can recommend it to no one, and don't make the same mistake I did today... or, for that matter, last week, when I saw a sign on the N train that said "PUT YOUR FACE IN POO, JACKASS."

Why Swedes have better programming options than we do

2007-09-24T18:47:00.000-04:00

Writing on the wall

2007-09-23T23:10:00.001-04:00

Fuck men, originally uploaded by americancaesar.

Interesting only because it hadn't rained for about two weeks up to that point, here was a dirty car with the classic bromide "FUCK MEN" written across the hood. It is attributed to a person named "Mon que." I don't know who that is. I do, however, wish this was like a lost episode of "Turbo Teen" wherein the titular hero meets up with a grouchy Toyota who has read too much Susan Faludi. There would be no magic and no adventure, just a six-cylinder tired of earning 78 cents on the dollar to every buck a man makes.

And isn't the auto right, after all?

Hatespeech

2007-09-12T18:12:00.000-04:00

Kathy Griffin won a Creative Arts Emmy the other day for her little shingle she runs over at the E! Network -- good for her. However, in her acceptance speech, she got all smartass-y (which we like) and said:

"A lot of people come up here and thank Jesus for this award. I want you to know that no one had less to do with this award than Jesus. Jesus can suck it! This award is my god now!"

Like clockwork, William "Cakehole" Donohue of the Catholic League came out a-swinging:

"Kathy Griffin's remarks are vulgar, in-your-face brand of hate speech.... and we call on the TV academy to denounce Griffin's obscene and blasphemous comment."

Obscene and blasphemous comment, you say? Oh, Griffin's bit wouldn't sound anything like these, would they?:

I will stake my reputation on it right now! People will be paralyzed when they see this movie [The Passion of the Christ]. They will be breathless. It will bring people back to the church, and it will be a good thing for Catholics and Jews. And the people who are clamoring this -- this rhetoric, this cacophony against Mel Gibson, boy, are they going to have to pay for it when it's all over!
[CNN, Paula Zahn Now, 2/4/04]

The fact of the matter is the media elite have an aversion to religion. Some of them even have a phobia and some of them are obviously anti-religion. ... They want Tom, Dick, and Harry to get married. They want "under God" out of the pledge of allegiance. They don't want anybody to see The Passion of the Christ. It's all tied together.
[MSNBC, Scarborough Country, 2/24/04]

After all, 15-year-olds, they go to abortionists. They get their babies killed without parental consent. The new Puritans [those criticizing The Passion of the Christ] don't seem to worry about that. They like gay sex. They like [the film] The Dreamers, a brother and sister who bathe together and stuff like that. The same people in The New York Times who say this movie, I don't think it's not really right for kids, they have no problems when it comes to sodomy. It's smoking they don't like and Catholicism.
[MSNBC, Scarborough Country, 2/25/04]

Name for me a book publishing company in this country, particularly in New York, which would allow you to publish a book which would tell the truth about the gay death style. There are certain things that the left won't tolerate. They are censorial at heart. Indeed, the signature appetite of the left has always been power. Now, they are running up against the American people.
[MSNBC, Scarborough Country, 2/27/04]

Well, first they said it [The Passion of the Christ] was anti-Semitic. That didn't work. Then they said it was too violent. That didn't work. Then they said it was S & M. That didn't work. Then they said it was pornography. That didn't work. Now they're saying it's fascistic queer-bashing. That kind of language would ordinarily get somebody taken away in a straitjacket and -- put you in the asylum. I don't know what about -- the queer-bashing is all about. I'm pretty good about picking out who queers are and I didn't see any in the movie. I'm usually pretty good at that.
[MSNBC, Scarborough Country, 3/12/04]

There's nobody in the United States Senate who has a more radical voting record on abortion than John Kerry. He's never found an abortion that he couldn't justify. ... Well, first of all, the guy [Kerry] is an idiot. He doesn't even know there never was a [Pope] Pius XXIII in the first place.
[MSNBC, Scarborough Country, 4/12/04]

Well, no. I'm saying if a Catholic votes for Kerry because they support him on abortion rights that is to cooperate in evil.
[MSNBC, Hardball, 10/21/04]

We've already won. Who really cares what Hollywood thinks? All these hacks come out there. Hollywood is controlled by secular Jews who hate Christianity in general and Catholicism in particular. It's not a secret, okay? And I'm not afraid to say it. ... Hollywood likes anal sex. They like to see the public square without nativity scenes. I like families. I like children. They like abortions. I believe in traditional values and restraint. They believe in libertinism. We have nothing in common. But you know what? The culture war has been ongoing for a long time. Their side has lost.
[MSNBC, Scarborough Country, 12/8/04]

This same guy [Dean Hamer] came up with this idea of the gay gene. I remember when that conversation was going on. Gays were all of a sudden worrying if people would start aborting kids when they found out the DNA suggested the kid might be gay or God forbid, we'd run out of little gay kids, so all of a sudden, they became pro-life.
[MSNBC, Scarborough Country, 12/14/04]

What Bill Donohue wants to believe is that it's OK to pillory queers and hymies, but you can't lay a hand on good ol' fashioned white Catholics now, right? Because they are an endangered species as far as cultural phenomena go these days...

[Ed. note: Research c/o of MediaMatters.]

Steve

2007-09-05T18:26:00.001-04:00

I need you to do me a favor, Steve. I want you to peel a few hundred dollar bills off that wad in your back pocket and buy a fucking tailored sportcoat, you douche. While you're out, can you buy a decent pair of black leather loafers too?

The man who invented the iPhone doesn't get to wear a Gap floor-person's uniform to keynotes.

It's NYU move-in day!

2007-08-27T22:24:00.000-04:00

OMG! I can't believe summer is, like, OVER ALREADY! OMG!!11! So here I am, walking on the sidewalk of a NEW YORK STREET finally, since I first dreamed about it like 5!! years ago!! I SO WANTED to go to school in NEW YORK, OMG, and I made it my first application, after MSU, UT, Carolina, Sarah Lawrence, Berkeley... and, oh yeah, Tallahassee Junior College! OMG, and I totally GOT IN! On the first try! W00T!

My essay totally helped, because it was about the poor body image stereotypes TOTALLY projected by THE HILLS on MTV, and not only because it's like my favorite show (guilty pleasure you guys!) but because I REALLY, really, believe cutting is BAD!!1! I had a fat friend in seventh grade named Meghan and she was fat and a cutter, and she totally moved away from school because she kept getting PICKED ON by some other BITCHES at school. She was pretty boring, and it was probably a good thing that she moved because no one really EVEN LIKED her. So I P/M wrote the same assignment the school guidance counselors made the FIVE OF US all write in detention for a week. It's not like we were even the ONLY ONES to tease that fat cow, and it was TOTALLY Jenna's fault anyway.

So, OMG!!1 Here I am! The first thing I WANT TO TOTALLY DO is go get some New York pizza from S'BARROS you guys. I even think I saw a black man over there, and he KIND OF looked like SEAN KINGSTON (OMG) but it looked like he was in sandals, you guys! Totally GROSS and I was creeped out by the way he kept looking at MY MOM! The career counselors said I should BE CAREFUL about PEOPLE in New York (especially PUERTO RICANS! OMG it's so racist of me to say BUT IT'S true!!), and not talk to anyone. I'm so glad to see that girl over there with the same jeweled FLIP-FLOPS as I have that I got from ABERCROMBIE back home. OMG!! I wonder where SHE'S GOING TO LIVE! OMG, this is so exciting! I'm so glad dad gave me a CREDIT CARD while I'm here! I don't know how I'd be able to buy those SEVEN FOR ALL MANKIND jeans I need, totes.

But OMG, you GUYS, I'm TOTALLY gonna miss you!! For SEERS! You guys! I'm going to MISS you, Lizzie, and Madison, and Nevaeh, and Nina, and Mary-lynn, and Alexandra, and Hunter, and Skylar, and and Karoline, and Kelleeieeiie, and Stepheniee, and Luxor, and Dendur, and you too, Hrothgar, and Balleen, and Encephalopod, and Tranquilizer, and Metastasis, and Calypso, and Ion, and Valtrex, and Hu Jintao, and ALSO TOTALLY you, Donald SUTHERLAND! W00T W00T! OMG!!11!1!

I'll never forget you guys, not even in 3 weeks when I'm into giving a COERCED, THANKLESS handjob to some drunk guy with acne from Palatine, Illnois, who's wearing an eyeshade in the back of a dorm laundry room! OMG!! I'm going to have SUCH MEMORIES, these are TOTALLY the best years of my life! I'm totally going to go CLAIRE DANES on this place! Watch out Empire State Building and Mayor Giuliani!

Civic responsibility

2007-08-25T21:54:00.001-04:00

Jury duty @ 111 Centre Street, originally uploaded by americancaesar.

And what a burden it is -- reporting to 111 Centre Street to decide someone's fate under the best of circumstances. I know I do my best jurisprudential contemplation at 8:45 a.m. on a Wednesday in Chinatown.

Can't think of a better time to whiz someone's fate as a free man in front of me to see how I feel about it. It's not like I'm missing a key day at work or anything. I'd send Mr. McFeeley to the gas chamber if it would get my ass out to lunch quicker -- fuck your voir dire.

When you have a wood-paneled room (circa 1978, as my Carbon dating revealed) full of restive people all reading that new Stephenie Meyer vampire book itching to get to a face full of dim sum post-haste, I can't imagine for the life of me why life in HBO's "Oz" penitentiary wasn't more of a wacky, laugh-filled, everyone-learns-something romp.

By three p.m., I was begging for Comet Kahoutek to slam into the Earth's crust at my locus and call an adjournment to all court proceedings for the day. And I wasn't even picked! I just sat in the jury room ALL DAY surfing for German scheisse-videos on my iPhone.

I fear for Mumia Abu-Jamal if he finds himself in the defendant's box across from my weary, Henry Fonda-pretending ass. If they can seat a party of two at Doyer's House of Vietnamese in the next 15 minutes, then it's off to the needle, sucker! I gots a date with a shrimp summer roll and pork-over-cellophane noodle. Hah hah!

Take that finger-bang, Lady Justice. I just hope you look like Betty White under that blindfold, or I'm in big trouble.

My fellow citizens...

2007-08-15T18:18:00.000-04:00

For a long time, the citizens of this fair city have enjoyed a high standard of living envied by other metropolitan areas across the county. Our streets are safer, our roads smoother, our buildings higher, our students smarter, and our institutions more prestigious. As we all know, we owe these wonderful blessing to the fact that our city was, in fact, built with rock and roll.

It has been this way for the greater part of the century, but as we know, all great things cannot last forever. We stand on a great precipice, with the change of the future all but laid out in front of us. As your mayor, I have made the sole concern of my administration the diversification of our rock and roll-based infrastructure towards other more modern and sustainable materials.

My administration has been investigating options in ska, reggaeton, dancehall, trip-hop, acid house, tribal, bluegrass, and even Baile funk from Brazil. We know that one our sister cities has been built -- or, perhaps we should say, rebuilt -- with rap and spoken-word, and so far, so good for them.

I'd like to assure our populace that there is no danger of our rock and roll-based infrastructure degrading any time soon, and thereby becoming a hazard. We should merely aspire to be at the vanguard of all great societies when it comes to progress. As a cautionary tale, just look at what happened to Minneapolis' Interstate 35W bridge -- that project was built not with rock and roll, but instead with Leo Sayer. You can all plainly see what occurred there.

-His Honor, the Mayor

1400

2007-08-05T23:38:00.000-04:00

That's how many people showed up for a bridge collapse memorial that killed five people. In other news, another HUNDRED OR SO IRAQIS WERE BLOWN TO FUCKING BITS and no one cared.

Overheard

2007-08-02T18:21:00.000-04:00

Moments ago, in the men's room, where the pinhead CEO was talking to an unbalanced, lower-level employee:

ULLE: "In fuckin' Germany, they just piss on the walls. When I was there in 1979, they just have water flowing out the wall and a drain below, and you just piss on the wall. We were like, 'What the fuck?' "

PCEO: "I was in Germany from 1976 to ’77. I have a soft spot for the Germans."

Arrested development

2007-08-01T23:58:00.001-04:00

Me and the wiffé went to see The Police's opener at Madison Square Garden on Wednesday night... and it was FUCKING AWESOME!

I wish I could have seen The Police back on the "Synchronicity" tour, but I was only nine. Zut alors... I get to make amends in 2007. They were in fantastic form, rocking the shit for two-plus hours; not bad for a bunch of old zillionaires. They hit all the highlights:

Message in a Bottle
Synchronicity II
Walking on the Moon
Voices Inside My Head/When The World Is Running Down
Don't Stand So Close To Me
Driven To Tears
The Truth Hits Everyone
Bed's Too Big Without You
Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic
Wrapped Around Your Finger
De Do Do Do, De Da Da Da
Invisible Sun
Walking
Can't Stand Losing You/Regatta de Blanc
Roxanne

Encore 1:
King Of Pain
So Lonely
Every Breath You Take

Encore 2:
Next To You

Strangely, there was also this tableau:

For some reason, a deaf person came to the concert. Isn't that like a decaptitation victim shopping at a haberdasher?

And on the way to getting some water, the local deli featured this dual caveat:

That's right -- no drink beer in the store, AND no outside food allowed to be eating here. Talk about an infringement of personal liberties... someone call FoxNews.

The night was perfect, but I would have substituted "Synchronicity I" and the kickass "Murder By Numbers" into the mix for "Driven to Tears" and "Walking in Your Footsteps." But no one asked.

The hard way

2007-07-30T23:25:00.000-04:00

Guy under the bricks: "I feel like we live in a New Yorker cartoon with no caption."

Guy on the left: "That's some existential ennui."

Guy with the hammer: "I hate penguins, and I'm depressed. Can I have a bank loan?"

Me and Dick Van Dyke

2007-07-21T02:01:00.000-04:00

Me and Dick Van Dyke are out to fuck up the shit. DVD calls me and says, "Hey kid, are you busy?" And I say, "No, sir." He says, "What's say you and me go have some fun?" And I say, "Boy howdy, Mr. Van Dyke! Would I ever!"

And sure enough, 45 minutes later, DVD pulls up to my house in a 1998 Porsche Boxster, in great condition save for a nasty gouge trailing across the passenger side.

"Gosh Dick, how did your car get so messed up"

"Never mind that, kid. We're on a tight schedule. We've got to get to Atlantic City."

"WOWWEE! I love Atlantic City!"

And I did. And I was excited that DVDizzle was at the wheel, driving so fast down the Jersey Turnpike that light was bending in the glovebox. As we passed the last rest stop, Dick gave me a bit of sage advice.

"Now, you know I'd never get you in to any trouble, right kid?"

"Sure, Dick. You've always been just swell with me."

"Right -- now I'm going to ask you to do something tonight that you might not be comfortable with, but I'm gonna ask anyway. Is that okay with you, kid?"

I loved when D-to-the-V-back-to-the-D called me 'kid'. He could get me to drop out of the fourth grade if he prefaced the request with 'kid'.

"Sure thing. What can I do?"

And at once, Dick reached into the console and pulled out a blade -- real nasty one.

"Now kid, this is a gravity knife. Not a toy, right?"

"Right, mister."

"Good. When I say the word, I'm going to need you to give this little old thing a strong toss at an old friend of mine, who owes me money. Want you to drive it right into his brainpan, from a distance of three meters. Can you do that for me?"

It was an honor. An honor -- this was Dick, after all. Dear ol' Dick Van Dyke. The childhood hero to millions was asking me if I could throw a blade into the forehead of my fellow man. Of course. Anything for DVD. Anything.

We get to the Borgata, check in at 3 a.m., drop the overnight bags in the player's suite and make our way down to the floor. We're gonna fuck the shit up. Dick makes sure the parking attendant doesn't stash his whip somewheres we can find it in a hurry, should we need to.

We see Willem Dafoe. He waves at Dick, and Dick pretends not to notice.

The Dream Team, the Team Supreme, the Taco Supreme, we get to the wheel -- and it's fucking dead. No action, no luck. Same thing with the dice -- motherfucker is crapping out, left and right. The kind of luck Dick had in El Salvador in ’80.

Looks like we're about to fuck off, when the drink lady appears -- all legs and hair, with a smear of fucking mascara somewhere up where she sees out. Dick gets a blended whiskey with one cube of ice, and I get a rum and grapefruit juice. That's right -- a "Van Dyke." It's no coincidence. My whole life's been leading up to this point.

Without needing to be told, I take the knife out of pocket and drop in into the center of the broad's dirty drink tray. Dick gives me that look... that one look that says Kid, you've done alright. Really, you have. If I had it to do all over again, I'd make sure to take you to that one duck pond for sure, instead of to Milwaukee.

He doesn't have to say it. I just know.

Dick balls his left fist and trembles, ever so slightly, before driving it up into the stomach of the croupier. Dick's right hand belts the barmaid, knocking her over into the sleepy, smokey players to the right.

"Gee whiz, Dick, don't you think they've had enough? You sure gave 'em what's for!"

Dee-Viz-Diz lets a grin lift the corner of his mouth. "You're gosh-darn right. I suppose I have!"

What comes next is seminally important in mine and Dick's night -- fucking-off the bags upstairs, we get his whip out the garage and back over the attendant as he returns to the key closet. Poor bastard moans as Dick spins the wheel up on his upper thigh, reducing it to god-knows-what. I didn't want to look. Poor bastard. Poor bastard.

"Looks like I just made a real boner, huh kid?"

"A real aksey-dent, were there ever one."

"What's say we go home?"

I nodded, but he wasn't looking for my approval. Was I looking for his?

Not this time, no. Certainly not. But we lost the knife, just as we set out to do. And it filled me with such happiness when Dick made that little double-click with his tongue, that he does, as we backed over that kid again, and drove off into the black.

What's wrong with this picture?

2007-07-17T19:06:00.001-04:00

"Rev." Epstein?, originally uploaded by americancaesar.

As Lisa Simpson once said, I understand the words I'm seeing but not in that arrangement.

Giant boobs

2007-07-16T18:48:00.001-04:00

Janice and the giant boobs, originally uploaded by americancaesar.

Janice has giant boobs on her shoulders. I so aced this shot.

Featured in the media

2007-07-07T23:58:00.000-04:00

Tony! Toni! Toné has done it again: My domeshtik partner, Janice Erlbaum, is featured in a neat interview at Gothamist. We are all preparing for the next big book, Have You Found Her, to strike next year, so we're just getting started.

Note: The image above has nothing to do with books, Janice Erlbaum, or Tony! Toni! Toné. Thank you.

One shall stand, one shall fall

2007-07-07T22:04:00.000-04:00

Omigod, "Transformers" is the greatest movie of 2007. The human stuff -- get rid of it, and give me more punching robots. This was the movie I've been waiting for since I stepped out of the theatre in 1983 after having finished watching "Return of the Jedi."

Optimus Prime is the closest thing I have to a father. He taught me about right and wrong; he taught me about when something is worth fighting for... worth sacrificing for. No organic person has ever done that for me.

When Prime and the Autobots reveal themselves in their robot forms, a tear dropped like quicksilver down my craggy, care-worn cheek. The interchange between Optimus and myself was wordless -- a single lachryma was my way of thanking the Autobot Commander for a life well-spent in the service of those who can't stand up for themselves.

Kenn may not agree, and I can only imagine what Jeff will say, but this was a moment for us all to think of all the things that really mattered, and the chances you've earned. This is an important day in the continual project of character-building... my apprenticeship with Optimus.

Glimpse into the future

2007-07-04T15:35:00.000-04:00

Come... step into my dark demesne, traveler. I am Phibes -- Dr. Anton Phibes, and I have seen horrors so unimaginable you would curl up and perish at the mere suggestion of them. I have carried around a darkness in my heart, so black as obsidian coal, since the death of my beloved wife, Victoria. Countless nights have passed as I tread the oak floorboards of this very domicile, scheming revenge on those who botched my wife's medical care and sealed her fate. So long have I been tethered to this gothic aerie like a jessed falcon that I have forgotten the touch of sun on my skin and a smile on my lips.

Those times are over. There can be only one purpose in my life -- revenge. Revenge on those who stole dear, dear, Victoria from me.

Would you allow me to make myself more comfortable, traveler? I wish to remove this mask I wear, which obscures my scarred visage...

ffwwwiipp!

Ahhh... much better. Yes, the sight of this pitted face, denuded of its flesh, puts men off their food, to be sure. But it serves as a constant reminder of my narrow purpose... sweet revenge.

Or, at least that's what the fates had in mind for me until I received a revelation of glorious counter-purpose. While stepping out of my dank marble crypt on a provision run last Saturday, I dropped by the local telephony merchant in the mini-mall nearest, hoping to get a mere peek at that infernal device the man on the crackling radio signal called the iPhone. Gods, what a device!

I extended my coin purse to purchase the largest complement available, and decided upon the largest minute plan upon activation. Now, you'll catch me using the SMS feature to text my brittle, cold assistant, Vulnavia, as she wanders the endless halls of my stone manse. Also, it's nice to have a two-megapixel camera affixed to the rear of the device, so that I may document the rictus in the faces of the damned -- the nine, who robbed me of lovely Victoria -- as I send them off to excruciating demises. I can post the photos immediately to an RSS feed off my blog. You've got to see this thing in action. So elegant.

So it seems my circumstances have changed, however slightly, these days. Whereas I once solely dreamed of vengeance while banging madly on the keys of my pipe organ, I now find the time to mix other pursuits in, like decoupage. I can't help but notice that iTunes does not feature a full range of "Mott the Hoople" albums. Hmm... perhaps I'll have to add a TENTH name to my list of damned souls. Heh heh heh...

The state of terror

2007-06-30T17:32:00.000-04:00

Well, hello there, friend -- I'm Winston Churchill, former Prime Minister of the English Empire. It's been a while since we've talked, mostly on account of my being dead for over forty-five years. Nonetheless, let me get a glass of Johnnie Walker Red in my hand... and... aahh. Perfect. Just like the old days. When I still drew breath.

My countrymen, the Britons, have faced many a foe throughout the centuries. And, as I have always said, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender.

But I have to say, that the fight looks pretty good so long as the bad guys are only lobbing burning Jeeps though sliding glass doors. For a minute there, we had a problem on our hands with the Irish. Nasty bit of business, that. Now a pack of sodding rotters from Bangalore are filling up Daimlers with petrol cans and forgetting to detonate them? This sorry lot makes those cabbage-mouthed Irish bastards look like Ghurkas in comparison. What's next -- water balloon assault?

Take it from Uncle Winnie -- I think we stand a good chance of seeing Trafalgar Square make it through this latest bit of international intrigue in one piece. The Gerries had their buzzbombs, and the Jutes had their berzerkers... we can handle a few irate rug merchants with subscriptions to "Popular Mechanics."

Pip pip, then.

Copier warning

2007-06-26T23:38:00.001-04:00

Copier warning, originally uploaded by americancaesar.

I enjoy good intentions, really. But I enjoy mangled language even more.

If anyone wants to offer me absolvement, I stand willing to accept it humbly.

Today I am a man!

2007-06-14T23:48:00.001-04:00

DSCN1853.JPG, originally uploaded by americancaesar.

Happy 13th birthday to me, Shmuley Ben Smuley, the dopest pink-shirt wearinest guy who has a cake in front of him.

Why do I have to gesture like that? It makes me look fat. Can I not go a minute without hamboning it up?

Coming this fall...

2007-06-11T18:20:00.001-04:00

"The Walnuts"! A new spinoff from the Sopranos!

Real life finds... strange but true

2007-06-04T17:53:00.000-04:00

Ohhh... I see ye have found me! Well hello there! I'm Seamus O'Rufus McGarnicle Bailey, the last living leprechaun on the green face of God's lovely earth! Since ye've spotted me, it looks like ye will be wantin' that famed pot o'gold they're always sayin' I'm totin' around.

And soon enough ye shall have it! But first, there are a few things we've got to go over to get this fine, fine pot of shiny coins! Thingie number one that this leprechaun must ask you is whether or not you like to eat corned beef sandwiches. Well, do ye? And how do you feel about eating one at a table across from a closet where a wee, supernatural Irishman shall be pleasurin' himself with a handful of Crest toothpaste? And what if, on that closet door, there was a poster of Christopher Atkins, he of "The Blue Lagoon" fame, with its eyes poked out for said wee masturbatin' viewer to peer out of?

What do ye mean, "I'm a freak?" Don't be hatin', player! It's not like I'm some kinda pervy little creep! Who's the bigger arsewipe anyway -- the little self-gratifyin' green man, or the greedy gobshite who hunts around for twee goblins so's that he can steal their gold?

What do ye think about this shank? That's right -- who's the big man now? How about I cut ye? Would ye like that? A little slice across the thigh -- leprechaun justice, we calls it. No rules in the moor and dale other that what we make! Not so smiley once ye've been stabbed! Wait until I get some of me hard, pipe-hitting leprechauns to work over the homes here with a blowtorch! Startin' to get dizzy, are ye? That'll be the steady trickle from the femoral artery. Yer field o' vision will start to get fuzzy in a minute, just before you hit the ground hard.

Remember this wee face, jagoff -- I'm after ye lucky charms now.

CNR

2007-05-28T14:48:00.000-04:00

Charles Nelson Reilly is gone, a vibrant character who we haven't seen nearly enough of in recent years, beyond his most interesting turn on the "X-Files" as Jose Chung (look up "Jose Chung's 'From Outer Space' " if you don't know what I'm talking about).

It seems the only appropriate thing to do is show the man at the peak of his skill on "Match Game":

Plus plus plus

2007-05-26T01:12:00.000-04:00

TV On the Radio + "Zardoz"...

Kill it

2007-05-25T21:56:00.000-04:00

From the "crackers killing shit with revolvers" file, we have this story of an 11-year-old boy in Alabama who was engaged in a hunt with his dad and some uncles when he happened upon a 1,051 pound, 9 foot 4 wild hog.

And what to do when you discover an anomaly of nature, a wonderful quirk of genes and environment, such as this? Kill it, of course. A lot:

"It feels really good," Jamison said in a telephone interview with The Associated Press. "It's a good accomplishment. I probably won't ever kill anything else that big." Jamison, who killed his first deer at age 5, was hunting with father Mike Stone and two guides in east Alabama on May 3 when he bagged Monster Pig. He said he shot the huge animal eight times with a .50-caliber revolver and chased it for three hours through hilly woods before finishing it off with a point-blank shot.

Gee, sounds like a good clean hunt, eh? All you have to do is pick away at the creature with a hand cannon for hours until the thing bleeds to death on your shoes.

Good work, kid. I think I just saw something moving out of the corner of my eye. Was that a walking shark? Or, maybe it was an old lady. You should unload a whole magazine out in its belly just to make sure.

Can you believe it?

2007-05-25T21:50:00.000-04:00

Sweet, huh?!

Candidacy

2007-05-23T00:03:00.001-04:00

Hi! I'm Maximillian, the psycho mute robot from Disney's not-so-successful 1979 space opus, "The Black Hole," and I'm running for president!

This promises to be a long, drawn-out affair, so I'm appealing to you, the ardent supporters, for your help in spreading the word. Your volunteer efforts and your tax-deductible donations will mean the world to my campaign. Once we get the message out to our base -- the hard-working Americans who make this country great -- that a cold, steel talon-tipped homicidal death machine is running for the highest office in the land, then job will be to win over swing voters... hearts and minds, and all that. And once that crucial group, the so-called "undecideds", are on board with voting for an emotionless, crimson instrument of harm, then we'll have the momentum to overturn the traditional party politics and actually change things in Washington!

My opponents have already started slinging mud in this early campaign -- they spread lies about me having hacked Anthony Perkins' insides to pulp with my spinning handblades, and that I intended malice towards the human and robot crew of the Palomino, including VINC.E.N.T. and Ernest Borgnine. Well, to those detractors, I heartily say... actually, those stories are true. I killed Perkins at the behest of my master, Dr. Hans Reinhardt, and I daresay I would puree any of those that the master said was a threat to our experiments aboard the Cygnus.

So, I ask, my fellow Americans, if you are looking for a change from the "business as usual" politics of Washington and its swelling bureaucracy and partisan gridlock, there is only one name you need to remember come November 11, 2008 -- Maximillian, the relentless killing automaton! Let's send a message to the Senate, and the American people, that only together can we successfully dismember interfering scientist-explorers down to a viscous slurry with our razor-sharp arm-rotors.

Let's make a difference! Maximillian in 2008!

Cultural anthropologist

2007-05-21T23:02:00.000-04:00

It's time for our favorite game, "What's in a Coworker's Drawer?" Our contestant this week is Tom, a dude who works in the office a few cubicles over from me. Tom is that guy who is very gracious with his stash of chewing gum, because a three-martini lunch capped off by a pair of highballs can give your mouth a certain stink you need to conceal. Luckily enough, you have Tom's drawer to assist. But, let's go further...

How can you not be fascinated by someone's desk drawer? It has to be a reflection of his or her character, right? All the objects contained therein must betray the life of the stasher. What does this area tell us?

Well, for one, this might be the last sample of "Extra" chewing gum left on planet Earth. Somewhere between bits of "JuicyFruit" encased in amber and a stick of that vile, pink gum that used to come packed in trading cards falls this cultural artifact. Surely as flavorful and texturally lush as the eucharest, "Extra" delivers chewing pleasure for minutes on end. Adjacent to it is the bandolier of Wrigley's Spearmint, the very gum we were looking for in the first place, so we shant say a bad word about it.

Another thing makes itself painfully apparent -- the last known cassette walkman in existence outside of Almaty, Kazakhstan. Convenient that the batteries are near it, just in case someone wants to break out that cassette single of Journey's "Lovin', Touchin', Squeezin" we all keep in our desks and give it a good rocking. I thought that technology this outmoded had a self-meltdown code written into it, like Ethan Hunt's weekly message. I guess the walkman's drive to live on and play Will2Power's "I'm Not In Love" shall keep it alive many more years into the future.

The hairbrush is also a nice touch -- not quite a comb, not quite a bristle-haired brush, but rather the stiffest, most uncomfortable thing you could rake across your scalp. Moving on...

And here we have a "travel-size" Vapo-Rub, the sweet nectar of the sternum area that alerts all around to the fact that you have both a sinusoidal infection AND a clever new solution in the cologne department. I can't for the life of me come up with a good reason why Axe Body Spray hasn't tried to emulate the ’Rub. Chick magnet. Or, more fittingly, pharmacist magnet.

We don't speak ill of our fellow man, but rather, we appreciate all that they do for us. Also, I'd be so busted if someone cracked my drawer open and found the 20 oz. bottle of J.W. Red I keep in there for cold nights. In the summer. I should watch for coworkers bearing cameras... sneaky little fucks.

Middle Eastern Mouse!

2007-05-09T23:10:00.000-04:00

ALLAHU AKBAR! Hello boys and girls, I am Farfur! I am the mouse icon of humble purity in the eyes of God! ALLAHU AKBAR! I have come to show you wonderful little children the golden path to God, in God's eyes, by God, the one God for whom the blashphemers and Jews shall be crushed! Yay!

Now, I know some of your parents expressed some misgivings over the "controversy" stirred up a little while ago over my former show on Al-Aqsa TV in the Occupied Territories. Well, I'm proud to say that we've changed networks to Allah's Martyrs Brigade Public Broadcasting Service, and all of that controversy is now over. God is great, and God shall destroy the ones who contributed to our low time-slot shares and overall poor ratings. ALLAHU AKBAR! And, Allah, we could use a higher ad revenue rate this upcoming season. I mean, there really aren't a whole lot of TV's in Gaza tuned to us at this time of night, mostly because there aren't a lot of TV sets left... or electricity... or houses... or viewers.

So, kids, what does Farfur the faithful mouse servant of most holy God who protects the strong and repels the Jew from his land have in store for today's episode? Fun and games! Now, since fun and games are strictly forbidden by God's word, we shall have to make do with what we have in front of us. Gather round and watch me play this board game, "Chutes and Ladders and Jews." Watch as the Jew puts a ladder up on the crib-room of a sleeping faithful Muslim infant and drinks its blood, remaining only long enough to scoop up whatever valuables that Jew may sell to its Zionist cohorts in the United States of America in exchange for rockets and bombs. Watch as God uses the chute to strike the Jew down. ALLAHU AKBAR!

OK then, that's quite enough fun... it's time for learning now. Our last lesson ended just as we got to the part where the American Jew president Ronald Reagan bombed the marine barracks in Lebanon to retain the favor of Zionist co-conspirator Great Britain and its hawk-beaked harpy Jew leader Margaret Thatcher. As we know, after that Ronald Reagan created the movie of "Rambo" with American Jew actor Stallone and put it in our heads that American force will shoot us all with a heavy gun while sweating a lot through a thin shirt. The faithful martyrs of the one God answered this call by striking the World Trade Center back in 1993 in an act of self-defense. ALLAHU AKBAR!

Alright, now the history is over. Time for arts and crafts as we go to commercial. All the faithful children, the strong, you will now play with the pieces of a Kalishnikov rifle and see just how fast you can reassemble it while beating whipped with metal cables. And when we come back after the break, there will be heavy stones cast at the whore who read that book last month. Stick around, we'll have more "Farfur" show right after these messages from our sponsor, Taco Bell!

Think globally...

2007-05-01T19:33:00.000-04:00

How am I going to change the world? Easy -- one person at a time. I plan on starting with Thomas Jane.

Fossil fuels are contributing to catastrophic buildup of greenhouse gases in the atmosphere, causing heat to be trapped! Society and industry must come together to find a solution to this problem before global warming alters the temperature profile of the planet. What kind of steps can we take to ensure that this happens? Make sure that Tom Jane is comfortable. Get the guy something to drink. Maybe he's thirsty.

A spate of shocking violence has struck our culture -- gun violence, rooted deep in the fears of the American psyche. As many people want to see firearms restricted as have them remain uncurbed, and while people squabble, nothing is getting done. How can you soothe a terrified nation and come to a reasonable compromise? Ask Tom Jane if he's satisfied with his mobile phone carrier. I can only wonder whether he goes through his minutes all upfront in the month, or if he has a friends and family circle that gives him a break. Plus, does Tom Jane pay a dime for each text message?

What about Thomas Jane's feelings on Darfur? Or about the war in Iraq? Or what about North Korea's nuclear capabilities? Maybe he has something to say about the woeful state of our public schools? I don't know myself, I'm just asking Thomas Jane.

Why did he take "Deep Blue Sea"? That movie sucked, but admittedly, he was the best thing about it. Does he buy his groceries himself, or do he and Patricia Arquette have a staff to take care of things like that? Will he let his children believe in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny? I'm sure that he must have an opinion on "30 Rock". I bet Thomas Jane watches "30 Rock" every Thursday, or at least he TiVos it. I don't think he smokes, but maybe he once did.

He's definitely not Ed Asner. I would bet that he owned a bicycle as a child, and that he still might ride one today. Perhaps, Thomas Jane and I could hang out like buddies who haven't seen each other in a long while and catch up on old business -- sports scores and the like. We could grab some steaks and reminisce about his varied career, and some of the dope roles he's snagged. Then we could even discuss how there's only room in Hollywood for EITHER him or Aaron Eckhart.

Please call me back, Tom. I mean, I know I never called you, but maybe you can initiate and call me? I think we could be good friends. More likely, you would be repulsed at the elaborate fantasy life I've constructed for us and our non-existent friendship. And that would be alright, really. I know I'm a monster. Who goes through the cast of "The Sweetest Thing" looking for someone to complete the painful, dark chasms in their personal life, anyway?

Please don't go, Tom.

You have left me no choice

2007-04-20T23:31:00.000-04:00

I have tried not to go down this path, but you have forced my hand, and now there is no stopping it. There is blood on your hands, that you can not wash away, and it is your fault it is there.

All of the people with your debaucheries like marijuana cigarettes and your expensive vodkas and table service, and your thin models who pretend to like you just because you are a successful hedge fund manager at Lehman Brothers. I have tried to avoid all this, but I can no longer do that.

I sit here and read about all of your flagrant abuses and fouls, such as your low-post double-teams and your setting of picks that are unsportsman-like and detrimental to the fundamentals of the game. Now, My soul is scarred and my choices are shattered.

You have forced your garbage down my throat and have closed the local brand of Quiznos, with their toasted submarine sandwiches and amiable customer service. I have tried to overlook these offenses, but you have forced my hand. No longer will we get free refills, but the beverage of truth is ready to be quaffed by the cupful.

My soul is torched, and my conscience is scarred by your lies and deceits... and also by debaucheries, as outlined in an earlier segment (refer back to that passage for more details). Now there is a different time at hand, a time where I am forced to write like I am a 15-year-old dousche who just finished listening to his first Morrissey album, and issue a warning to all the major news media -- except Jim Lehrer, because I don't watch PBS -- about what I am going to do that will change everything.

I'm going to shoot people, pretty much. Yeah, I guess that's it in a nutshell. Wanna read a play I wrote six months ago?

News of the Times

2007-04-17T15:08:00.000-04:00

As everyone's heard by now, there was a horrific tableau yesterday at Virginia Tech University -- a gunman kills 32 students over the course of a few hours. It has been called many things by the news media -- "bloodbath," "tragedy" -- but the New York Times front page leaps out at me the most. "Rampage." A very specific term that brings me back to another tragedy a few years ago.

The Virginia assault is the deadlest rampage in American history, to be sure, but in this dark hour of loss I want to remind us all of the second deadliest rampage in American history, lest we forget.

May the survivors of that forgotten tragedy find the peace they deserve.

Ask the Romance Guy!

2007-04-15T12:08:00.000-04:00

Ron Garrity is the nationally-syndicated columnist "The Romance Guy," and his work has been translated into thirty different languages. He is the author of four books, the latest of which, "Getting the Most Out of Your Marriage," has just been released in softcover.

Dear Romance Guy,

A touchy situation has arisen in my sexual relationship with my husband -- he has expressed an interest in anal sex, and I have no interest whatsoever. I told him that I experimented with it once in college, and found it to be an unpleasant experience I didn't ever want to go through again. I love my husband (we just celebrated our eight-year anniversary) and will do just about anything to make him happy, but I can't do this. How can I put the issue to rest for good?

Sincerely,
No Poke in Polk City, Iowa

Dear Poke,

When one partner expresses interest in a sex act that the other can't fulfill, feelings are invariably going to get hurt. You obviously love your husband and care for his needs, and you're going to want to express that sentiment in the pending conversation. But, you have to take a firm line about what kinds of sex acts you feel comfortable participating in. Hopefully, your husband will see that your needs are important as well, and he will understand that this is a topic that's been taken off the table, in the most caring, direct way that each of you can express to one another.

* * * * *

Dear Romance Guy,

My wife isn't interested in anal sex, and I feel like it could add some much-needed spice to an eight-year-old relationship that could use a little invigoration. She seems very cold and unreceptive to the idea, so I don't know how to express to her my desire to do something new. How can I approach her so that she'll listen to me?

Signed,
New Poke in Polk City, Iowa

Dear New Poke,

My advice to you is to find an internet pharmacist, preferably one in Mexico or central America, and find a heady dose of gamma-hydroxybutyrate and chloral hydrate for a reasonable price. If possible, drive across the border to procure some so you better know the dealer and purity. Then, what you want to do is insinuate a large portion of the drug into her food or beverage saving some for incremental re-dosing later on. The best way to mask the taste of the chloral hydrate is with a stew of root vegetables, so take that into mind when preparing the meal. The effects of the drug will take hold within ten minutes (give-or-take for her body mass), rendering her in a pliable state akin to the so-called "Twilight Sleep" your dentist offers you. At this stage, the mind is unable to process what is happening as it enters a dissociative state where memory is not recorded. You now have your window of opportunity, so enjoy!

("The Romance Guy" appears every Thursday in this space... should the charges filed by 12 separate State Attorneys-General be successfully defended in court.)

The greatest movie never made

2007-04-07T01:47:00.000-04:00

Monday marks the 30th anniversary of what was perhaps the greatest failure of the Hollywood studio system: Gulf + Western's dismantling of the shoot for Sidney Lumet's "Strike of Midnight," a romantic thriller set in the world of high-stakes gambling. When you look at the pedigree of the movie as it was planned (and very nearly executed), you have to scratch your head and wonder why G+W considered pulling the plug on this project, or much less followed through with it.

The aforementioned Sidney Lumet was coming off the monumental success of "Network" and was looking for another great script to sink his teeth into, and found it in the form of a script floating around, "Strike of Midnight," from a first-time screenwriter named Horace Weems.

The reclusive Weems was coming off a particularly bad run of luck in the late 1960s with his literary fiction pursuits (some had even suggested he was a chemical casualty of the Summer of Love), but he poured all his effort into creating this one lasting document -- which was subsequently greenlighted on May 3, 1976. Casting began a month later, and turned up a formidable lead in George C. Scott.

Scott had won -- and famously turned down -- an Oscar for "Patton," and his name was at the tip of everyone's tongue. Weems, in the one interview he gave to the Los Angeles Times in the summer of 1977, offered that the part was, "written with Scott in mind. Or, George Jessel."

Shooting started in August of 1977 with cast and crew experiencing early creative tensions. Castmembers Robert Vaughn, Ernest Borgnine, and Leon Isaac Kennedy, pictured above, clashed with Lumet over key decisions, including how best to have Borgnine's military police character treat Kennedy's ex-con/lounge singer character. Lumet wanted to see soemthing akin to Wilder and Pryor in "Silver Streak," but Vaughn thought it was a disingenuous portrayal.

Worse yet, late-in-the-process studio notes introduced a separate plot threat not planned by Weems that seemed to be a fusion of sci-fi theatrics and "Osterman Weekend"-type suspense. The casting of song-and-dance man Robert Preston as "Billy Wiggums," a cardsharp who thinks he's from Saturn, did not ease tensions on the set.

Towards the end, 1970s cheesecake icon Adrienne Barbeau groused endlessly about the interminable amount of scenes in which she was either bathing or chained to a concrete wall. As it turned out, those scenes were not in the original script, but rather were hand-scribed by Borgnine himself, an error that would not be discovered until a month after shooting ceased.

Shooting had proceeded contentiously through the winter and into the spring. Finally, R. Smirthwaite Hanover, Gulf + Western Company's financial majordomo, put an end to a tortured motion picture experience with only 56 rolls of film in the can and an estimated 34 pages of script yet to film. From what those few eyewitnesses who saw clips and rushes say, the existing footage is celluloid gold -- the incomprehensible script, coupled with the softshoe of Preston and the decolletage of Barbeau, created what surely would have been one of the seminal 1970s films. Alas, it was also to be a treasure trove never seen again.

We can only wonder how the entire film would have played out. In the words of Warren Beatty, in an offhand comment to writer Robert Towne at the "Heaven Can Wait" opening night party, "If Lumet had managed to wrap 'Midnight' you could have closed the book on the ’70s three years early." Indeed.

Bad job by you

2007-04-03T16:42:00.000-04:00

This is an open letter to the guy at work yesterday who walked straight from the toilet stall to the door of the men's room without passing go, collecting $200, or washing his fucking hands (we'll call him "Shmarc Shmattenberg," just to keep things anonymous): The next time you're going to take care of a deuce in the old communal workplace loo, please have the good sense to not walk past a guy diligently washing his hands merely on account of touching his own face, and not some other deeper sanitary issue, without doing the same yourself. If you are going to fly the coop without applying a little tallow lather and water to your e.coli ridden palms, do it on your own clock, and not when I can clearly watch you bug out of the toilet without making things right on behalf of your fellow door-handle users.

Seriously, next time why not just stinkpalm my phone receiver and Bluetooth mouse while you're at it, because I don't think me and your digestive system have been all that thoroughly introduced to one another. Until then, I'll just be over here with the WalMart-size jug of Purel, liberally dosing any and all exposed surfaces with glorious, gelled alcohol.

Remember that botulinium that accounts-payable was suffering from en masse? Thank me for stopping its scorched-earth march at the copydesk. As Patrick Stewart once yelled, "We must draw the line HERE!"

The Brit birds

2007-03-31T00:59:00.000-04:00

All good things come from the U.K. -- first there was the House of Commons, then there was U.K. itself, and now we get to enjoy the supercool songs of Amy Winehouse (top) and Lily Allen (bottom). What's ironic about this dual mentioning is that supposedly they're at each other's throats... but the music is fine with a capital "ph."

Winehouse sounds like she just stepped out of a lost Shangri-Las album and sings with melancholic, booze-tinged precision. She sounds like she's enjoying every minute of what she's doing, and that kind of enthusiasm is infectious. I usually don't roll with the flashy female solo vocals (i.e. Nelly, Rihanna, Beyonce, etc...) but Amy does it for me. She's dope and new -- and, frankly, she sounds like she could gut my ass with a shattered Bass bottleneck in a barfight, and I like that in a broad.

Lily Allen is another solo-female-vocal thing going on, but again, there's some kind of statistical-nullifier that elevates her above Stefani or Fergie. Her tones are so light and sweet, almost like listening to a petunia; the trick of setting her off to a neo-ska thing is perhaps the one forceful shove she needed to enter my brain. When I saw her do her single "Shine" on SNL a few weeks back, I was convinced of her live vocal prowess. After all, she could have been just another studio-created monster (looking your way, Kelis).

Sample these tunes at will, buy the rest of the damn albums. Especially Winehouse -- her "Back to Black" album is reaching for something different, and I have to throw some bucks the bitch's way so she can keep on doing it.

Winehouse: "Rehab", from "Back to Black"

Allen: "Friday Night", from "Alright, Still"

The Briefest History of the Universe possible

2007-03-28T23:15:00.000-04:00

I'm pleased to announce that, through a long chain of backroom deals and impossible promises, AmericanCaesar Salad is now the exclusive home of the official Stephen Hawking Podcast.

Hawking, the Lucasian Professor of Mathematics at the University of Cambridge, has taken time out of his busy schedule of doomsaying and moldering to contribute a bit of op-ed content to the World Wide Web, and the ACS editorial board wasn't going to let this unique opportunity pass us by.

So, without further ado, we present volume one of the Stephen Hawking Podcast. Enjoy!

Left Coast

2007-03-27T23:58:00.000-04:00

Jeez Louise, I love me some New York, but there is nothing like my annual pilgrimage to the West courtesy of Rich Mele's couch.

Imagine a place where it's global warming every day, and all the chicks are hot and in bikinis all the time, and it's perpetual summer all the time. Well, if you don't mind being gridlock'd on the 405 for hours at a stretch, there is a place called Los Angeles for you to live in sedate happiness. As a New Jorker, I shouldn't confess to such thoughts, but after a shitty, sleety winter, some high-ass mercury was just what the dermatologist ordered.

Did I say chicks in bikinis? They're everywhere... all about. Clothing is so goddamn optional, it's delicious. And that shot's just at Hermosa Beach, one of the very small beachy communities outside L.A.

Venice Beach, where my host lives, has a gorgeous boardwalk of note that features a selection of crafts, including this bomb-ass full-scale scrap metal Predator. Awesome.

The view from up on the hills is breathtaking... there are plenty of high points in Manhattan, but none that overlook sheer ocean and volcanic bluff. The gap between mountain and coast is gorgeous, where all civilized life teems in Los Angeles County.

But, when in L.A., why the fuck not take that four-hour drive through the Mojave desert to Las Vegas? We did it on a spontaneous lark, and upon arrival on the Strip at 2 in the A.M. we were greeted by a mirage of phantasmagoric light in the scrub desert.

How can I not go to my birthright and try to claim a bit of my heritage from the capitalist usurpers? Here I am with my namesake, the Gaius, at the door of his casino. Before I was ejected, I tried to claim his $50 chips as my own, but the pit boss wouldn't hear of it.

As I explored the labyrinthine corridors of Caesar's Palace, that boorish, Viagra-filled pig Hef was signing Playboys with those tits-on-a-stick he calls girlfriends. The hat, Hef -- Why? Are you sailing home from Las Vegas? Dousche...

Praise be to my host, Rich, for stashing me on the couch and swinging the doors of L.A. wide open. I plucked every last morsel of meat from those red crustcean legs of hedonistic joy, and I go back home a changed man. Los Angeles unlocks each man's pleasure, be it a line of coke on a model's hipbone or a handful of taco at Tito's on Washington Place. I live for the five days each year I get to live in Fantasy-Candy-Boobie-Summer-Land. Only 363 more days to go until 2008's trip...

On the tizzown

2007-03-26T23:03:00.001-04:00

On the tizzown, originally uploaded by americancaesar.

Oh, we had quite a time. The annual swing to the City of Angels was marvelous, not least of all because it included my first-ever roll through Lost Wages, Nevada. What a fucking town -- Disney for adults. I didn't get chance to drink a drop nor was I into gambling so much, but I still had a kickass time.

It was inevitable

2007-03-18T23:53:00.000-04:00

The World's Shortest Podcast About Clowns.

A coat of paint

2007-03-18T22:18:00.000-04:00

...is just what this bitch needed. Welcome to my abode -- come in and enjoy the babka.

As an aside, I just got done watching "The Amazing Race: All-Stars," and I'll be damned if there's a genre-show that's quite that entertaining week after week. Phil Keoghan, you're my current T.V. dad, and I just want to run up on the finish mat to make you proud of me. Will that do it? What do you need to hear from me, Phil? Answer me! TELL ME! These are REAL TEARS! Whatever I do is NEVER enough for you! Want me to dance on the edge of a volcano? Would that make you happy, FINALLY!

Oh god... oh god... what a breakthrough... guh... guh...

(By the way, that guy's name's Maury Chaykin. He's a really talented character actor, doing solid, if greasy, work for decades now.)

My story

2007-03-15T22:38:00.000-04:00

I sat in on one of my wife's lectures on memoir writing at a local bookstore recently, and participated in the exercises she concocted for the attendees. Here is "my story":

I crossed the threshold into the viewing parlor of the Giove Funeral Home in Selden, New York. It was a steamy July day in 1986, a year that was pregnant with change.

The parlor was filled with broad-bodied, black-clad Italians, sniffling and weeping the mascara off their eyelashes. But even before the sight of mourning struck me, though, I was invaded by the smell of it -- the sickly florid perfume funeral homes employ to mask the stench of chemicals.

What happened to me after the scent grabbed me can only be described in a series of staccato memories: Walking up to the casket, seeing my great-grandmother embalmed and tugged from within, feeling woozy, sobbing and crying, and finally my mother asking my aunt to get me out of there.

When linear memory returned, I'm sitting with my brother watching Oliver North take the stand on daytime TV in the Iran-Contra hearings.

I don't know who was feeling worse -- me, or Ollie.

More things you might not know

2007-03-12T23:27:00.000-04:00

My middle fingers are crooked on both hands -- it's true. It's some kind of thing I was born with. It's weird.

I loathe celery... I hate it! It smells nauseating, and it will turn me off of any food just by being around. The same can be said about any fish-flesh, for that metter. Those are the only things I won't eat.

I'm terrible at math. Awful at it! I have no mathematical ability whatsoever. I can't figger out a tip to save my life. I let TurboTax do my year-end returns because of how afraid I am of numbers. However, I have an overdeveloped memory which has more than made up for that shortcoming.

I once killed a man with a squid.

I am afraid of five dollar bills. I will only use ones, tens, twenties, fifties, etc. No fivers. Ever.

Turns out, I don't have middle fingers after all.

I was the inspiration for the feature film "Syriana." The character of Bob Barnes was based on my work in (what was then called) Transjordan as a "spook" in the 1960s.

I found a way to bring that aforementioned dead man back to life. Using only a copy of "Passages" and a can of Hunt's pureéd tomato sauce. And 80,000 kilowatts of electricity... if you're counting.

I successfully ran the 1964 presidential campaign of Lyndon Baines Johnson. I was the subsequently made the Secretary of Tapioca for the month of September, 1965.

I have been mistaken for furniture. By other furniture.

I am featured on the five dollar bill, ironically enough, in Guinea-Bissau. I am also pictured on a defunct series of stamps there from 1995.

I consumed Guinea-Bissau in a series of 13 non-consecutive meals over the course of my time as a seminarian.

I am an atheist, and I only ever attended religious education because it enabled me to leave school via so-called "early dismissal."

I always have a favor -- always -- that I can cash in with Pierce Brosnan.

I have been mistaken as a mailman. By other mailmen. Then, they mailed me to Brunei where I was opened by an oil-rich family and put out on display for a month in their summer house.

I am not -- not -- Arthur C. Clarke. I cannot state that any clearer.

I know where I am going to, and I like the things that life is showing me.

Leading cause of workplace harassment

2007-03-08T23:26:00.000-05:00

In a few weeks, we will be filling an open position at the ole' office with a new hire, a great asset to the department, to be sure. The new employee will be a woman joining a department that is male, with no exceptions. The truth of the matter is that I do work in an anglo-male-heteronormative workplace, so a lil' diversity will be a good thing for the place.

My problem is this -- there goes all my A-list material. Bamf, most of my greatest-joke-hits, jettisoned right out the airlock. So many topics off the table: Urinating clowns, masturbation, masturbating to imagery of urinating clowns, abduction of urinating clowns, masturbating to imagery of abductions of urinating clowns... that kind of thing. Also, any and all jokes pertaining to constant masturbation. Certainly, no callbacks to Indian Thriller. For shame.

I have to weigh the pros and cons -- this new person might be the most qualified person I've ever had a hand in hiring, certainly a great thing to burnish my reputation as a manager. Also, her acumen will make my job tons easier and make the paper look pantloads better. Buuuut... I'm sure that she, as a reasonable human being in a comfortable new job, will not appreciate my constant prodding on topics ranging from a Buckminster Fuller-esque geodesic-domed "Masturbatorium" (patent pending) to unceasing character assassination of fellow coworkers as drunks, rapists, milquetoasts, and deviants. Hmm...

In discussing this pickle with my immediate department, I was told that I have to "act like a manager," and that I need to "set an example." Pish-tosh, I say. I do my best managing through comedy. Like David Brent before me, I am an entertainer first, a friend second, and a boss third. Should I find myself handicapped from being the most provocative and forthright entertainer I can possibly be (and that means a constant dialogue of keeping urine-soaked clowns bound and gagged in a dank pit under my house in the woods), then my effectiveness in leading a department has been compromised.

No impersonating Henry Kissinger fellating the page designer to my left in a drunken 3 a.m. interlude; no detailed plans for drying, tanning, and stretching the C.E.O.'s skin into lampshades for my house; not even a single mention of forcibly fisting anuses. Nothing. What are we left with?

I've decided to focus on the "happy" surrounding the hire. I have no interest in getting sued, and it is generally a fairly permissive workplace, as these things go. But I just want to state how much less funny it is going to get... that is, if by funny you mean discussing how we would each assist Lindsay Lohan when she exits rehab in a quasi paternal-sexual-inappropriate fashion.

Just want people to be aware of what I sacrifice for my craft.

Final scorecard

2007-02-26T21:54:00.000-05:00

Wot's this, then? Ellen was at best "low-key" and at worst "tacky"? She did an awesome job hosting the Oscars! She was a delight every time she was onscreen. Her bits in the crowd were ten times better than Chris Rock's/Jon Stewart's shoehorned schtick was in the past two years. I have to say that Ellen was a high water mark for the ceremony, ranking amongst Steve Martin's and Billy Crystal's best efforts. Certainly, she kicked Whoopi's ass.

I had the awards mostly right, only losing my way on "The Departed" for Best Adapted Screenplay and Alan Arkin for Best Supporting Actor.

Arkin? What the shit?

Did anyone see this movie? He was in it for fifteen minutes. In that time he ate friend chicken, snorted heroin, growled, and died. Herloh!? Anyone out there? In a weak-ass flick, his might well have been the least rendered role of them all. But then again, me and Ken Watanabe are sick and tired of all things "Little Miss Sunshine."

Note to Laura Ziskin -- fewer montages in the first three hours, and mo' awards.

Watch it, comment on it, share it

2007-02-26T11:12:00.000-05:00

My wife put together this trailer for the paperback edition of her book "Girlbomb" with the directorial assistance of the marvelous Katherine Fitzgerald, and it kicks the total ass. Rate it, share it, comment on it, view it, and buy the book. We need your money to go to Belize this year.

Prognostication

2007-02-24T23:05:00.000-05:00

People are saying the Gay Super Bowl is hard to handicap this year? Bullshit, I retort. Watch me ace this fucker:

Best Picture: The Departed

Best Director: Martin Scorsese

Best Actor: Forest Whitaker

Best Actress: Helen Mirren

Best Supporting Actor: Eddie Murphy

Best Supporting Actress: Jennifer Hudson

Best Original Screenplay: Little Miss Sunshine

Best Adapted Screenplay: Borat - Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan

Best Animated Film: Cars

Best Cinematography: Pan's Labyrinth

Unlike past years, the fields seem more locked-in than ever before. The so-called "wide open races" that people are predicting are a fantasy. In fact, the one race I'll say there could be haziness is Best Actor, because of the massive sympathy that Peter O'Toole will garner in this one.

Other than that, we can compare scorecards Monday morning. Good luck Ellen!

Unsee

2007-02-23T22:59:00.000-05:00

Because Warren Ellis put this in my brain, I've no choice but to think this poison into others. But at least we now know what Tom Sizemore is up to these days.

Sort of tells its own story

2007-02-22T23:42:00.000-05:00

Dave: So, you mean to tell me that this hobby horse can fly me into my dreams?

Steve: Pretty much. It's a magical hobby horse.

Ralph: It's magical. That's how it works.

Dave: Hmm... feels right. It feels... sorta magical.

Steve: Magic, right there in the seat.

Dave: That's an awful lot of money for this magical hobby horse, fellas.

Ralph: That's fair market value for a magic horse. How many others you seen today?

Dave: Err, none. Can I take it out for a spin? Y'know, to see just how magical it is?

Steve: Can't do that, broseph. How do we know you'll bring it back?

Dave: You do have a point. But, won't a grown man on a wooden hobby horse in this parking lot look strange, even if it is magical?

Steve: It'll draw stares, alright -- stares of awesomeness! Everyone will be so envious of you!

Ralph: Right! Imagine it! Now, I hate to insist, but we have other interested parties -- so you want it, or what?

Dave: Alright, alright -- it's a deal. Fifteen magical beans for this enchanted hobby horse.

Steve: Done... and... done. It's all yours, bud. Happy flying!

Ralph: Heh, heh, sucker...

Dave: Heh... suckers...

[Editor's note: The wooden horse is magical. The value of magic beans, however, has depreciated in the withering magic bean-related commodities market slump. Dave, in fact, got the better end of this transaction. Thank you.]

What's in the workplace refrigerator?

2007-02-21T21:13:00.000-05:00

That's a good question, and it's one that I asked myself this afternoon as I ambled into the workplace kitchen.

Zounds! Bullshit! Fucking Diet Sunkist!? Seltzer? What, is this my grandmother's fridge? Where's the goddamn Tang?

Those buzzards I call coworkers have drained every last drop of ginger ale. All the Dr. Pepper is gone. There's not a single can of Diet Coke with Lemon. You can forget about finding a can of Nestea. Looking for Pepsi One? Fuck that shit.

Nothing. Not a damn thing. Not even a Mr. Pibb for your troubles. By the looks of it, the six-pack of diet orange was hit pretty hard, suggesting that someone got desperately thirsty enough to drink that chilled bathwater.

And the funny thing is, I don't even drink soda.

Sympathy for Mr. Boston

2007-02-19T23:37:00.000-05:00

Is this a meritocracy or what? Does a man who puts the honest work into a task not deserve a fair grab at the brass ring?

I'm talking about Mr. Boston.

I'm talking about a double standard... or at the very least, declining standards.

New York is keeping on such dimwits as 12-Pack, Chance, and Whiteboy around -- but no love at all for Mr. Boston? That dude won in every way a guy could possibly win in a single episode! First, he scores huge points with the little girl party thing, and then he made mad-crazy romance with New York on the date he earned out the former. Then, in the boxing match with that wiry little malcontent Chance, he got the shit knocked out of his nose and took it like a man.

And his reward? New York gave over medallions to lesser men. Mr. Boston, you are out. Out-zo. Out-erino. Out-ington. Out-a-palooza. The Greater Out-Ford Area Chamber of Commerce Annual Potluck and Community Raffle held for thirteen years running in the Our Lady of the Sacred Outs Church basement.

If I know a thing or two about VH1, it's that their shows are all about HEART. Big, dedicated, beating HEART. The hero wins, the good guy gets the girl, the bad guy is vanquished, the one chick horks a huge loogie all over the other. There's no reason to see a good man take a fall just so a gay stripper like 12-Pack can move on. And seriously, how many more episodes will it take for Chance to stab someone with a lobster fork?

I'm just saying that a mistake has been made, and it took until the first commercial break of Studio 60 to get over it. I spill some Strawberry Quik on the carpet for you, Mr. Boston, my homie no longer here.

Family reunion

2007-02-17T01:12:00.000-05:00

Oh my god! Uncle Larry! Is that you? It's been at least a decade since I saw you last. How are you, you old so-and-so? I guess you lost a little bit of the mane up top, huh? I guess that all the men in the family... PUT YOUR FUCKIN' HANDS UP! PUT EM UP, ASSHOLE! GET EM THE FUCK UP! I'LL FUCKING CAP YOU! I'LL FUCKING DO IT! GIMME THE FUCKING MONEY! GIMME THE MONEY NOW, ASSFUCK!

Aunt Betty! Dear lord, it's so nice to see you too! I know, I have gotten big! The last time I saw you was just before I left for college. I have filled out -- of course, I do hit the gym a lot. How is cousin Rachel? Mom told me like, two year ago, that she had a son, right? I'LL FUCKING CUT YOU! GIMME THE FUCKIN' MONEY! EMPTY YOUR FUCKING WALLET IN THE BAG, YOU CUNT! I'LL FUCK YOU UP! HAND IT ALL OVER! HAND IT OVER GODDAMMIT! YOU WANT TO FUCKIN' DIE? YOU WANT A FUCKIN' HOLE IN YOUR HEAD?! DON'T FUCK THIS UP!

Roy! "Little Roy"! Roy Fields! What are you, like, 16 now? I know, not so little. What's that? All-County Greco-Roman wrestling squad? Geez, that's higher then I was able to roll. Man, that sounds awesome, Roy. It's great to hear that you've already been accpeted to ’State. What a real honor, dude. HAND IT THE FUCK OVER! DON'T FUCK THIS UP FOR EVERYONE, ASSHOLE! YOU WANT AUNT MARY TO GET FUCKIN' BRAINS ALL OVER HER COBBLER? I'LL FUCKIN' DO IT! DON'T FUCKING TEST ME! HAND OVER THE FUCKING MONEY! EVERYTHING FROM THE WALLET, TOUGH GUY! I WILL FUCK YOU UP SO HARD THEY WON'T BE ABLE TO IDENTIFY YOU! FUCKING TEST ME! I DARE YOU!

What's that grandma? Dad's done grilling the wings and ribs? Sweet! I could eat a whole rhino I'm so hungry. FUCKING DO IT, YOU OLD BAG! I'LL PUT A PILL IN YOUR LID AND FUCK THE EXIT WOUND, YOU OLD CRONE! GIMME THE GODDAMN PURSE! DON'T FUCKING FIGHT BACK, YOU BAG OF SHIT! I'LL FUCKING END YOU! I'LL DO IT!

Interlude

2007-02-12T23:08:00.000-05:00

Konichiwa! I am Ken Watanabe, an actor who you may recognize from such films as "Tampopo," "Batman Begins," "The Last Samurai," and the Oscar-nominated "Letters from Iwo Jima." It is great to be having an impact on the films of the United States, a place which has given such inspiration in my life. I love the films of America, from Gary Cooper and Clark Gable all the way up to Billy Wilder, Spike Lee, and Francis Ford Coppola. I attribute my own success in film to those first motion pictures I watched in the Niigata prefecture of my childhood -- the attraction was inescapable, and my destiny writ. I am now here doing what I have always dreamt of, this humble child of a working-class family in Japan.

All of this is prelude to the wonderment I'm filled with -- no wait, perhaps that is not the best word. My English is still very new. I mean to say, bewilderment over the Academy Award nomination of the recent motion picture "Little Miss Sunshine." This, I cannot understand. I have watched this film, as a screener given to me by the Academy, and all I can say is that if this is what makes an Oscar-worthy picture in the minds of voters perhaps they should wait for the sequel to "Dude, Where's My Car?" At least that holds up under the scrutiny of repeat viewings. I have started watching many American television programs ever since I purchased a home for myself in California, and while I enjoy thirty minutes of slapstick and broad humor as rendered by Charlie Sheen, I have no wish to see such things stretched into a feature-length format. Where is the human drama? Here, there is only melodrama. Where is the character? I see only caricature. To think, the film "Dreamgirls" would most likely have been nominated otherwise. I have developed an appreciation for curvy black women since moving to Los Angeles, especially those who have failed to compete at the highest levels of your televised talent contests.

Perhaps my next film project will pair me with that American film favorite Madea, another voluminous black woman who stirs my blood. This might also have a fair chance of Oscar success, provided a great deal of the picture features she and myself pushing a yellow automobile in hopes of starting the engine.

Just dropping you a note

2007-02-03T00:18:00.000-05:00

Dear mom and dad,

Seeing as to how I got to Phoenix six months ago, I realize it's been a while between letters. I just thought I'd write to tell you about how things have been going for me in the big city.

Well, I'm making a lot of friends here... it's just as I thought it would be. People are really welcoming to newcomers, I suppose because Phoenix is pretty much a city full of emigrants from other parts of the country. As soon as I got an apartment, I started to meet my neighbors... and their roommates, and their roommates' friends... and so on. I feel like I've been here for years with the network of folks I've met.

Even better, my job at the Barnes and Noble is a lot of fun. There's this girl I work with, Sammy... suffice it to say I'm interested, but she is my manager. I remember what you always told me, dad, about workplace relationships -- especially with superiors -- so I'm taking it slow. You'd be proud of me... I think you'd both be proud of me these days.

Yeah, so, things are going really well here. It's always summer, it seems, and people always have smiles on their faces. Well, gotta go. Give my love to Uncle Conrad and Aunt Ginny. Make sure you take your pills dad, and don't give mom such a hard time about it.

Sincerely,

Erik "Thunderwing" Braunsen,
Southwest Regional Competitive Buffalo
Chicken-Wing Eating Champion, 2006

How to adequately explain this...

2007-02-01T00:11:00.000-05:00

What's creeping me out

2007-01-25T21:06:00.000-05:00

As soon as I walk into work on Wednesday, I'm greeted by a strange sight at the far end of the hallway -- a man frozen seemingly mid-gesticulation. I can't understand why he's not moving. He starting to make me worry.

Someone got the brilliant idea to take a piece of marketing collateral and install it at the back of the office. So, now, whenever I get up out of my chair, I'm greeted by the two-dimensional life-size cutout of a man enjoying himself, way too much.

I feel like I'm constantly being watched.

Cinque

2007-01-23T00:45:00.000-05:00

OK, Dura-Log, tag me with a viral meme, will you? Thusly, it's on.

1. I have an irregular heartbeat that has been more or less described to me as not worthy of treatment.

2. My father passed the time on a trip to the beach back in 1979 by throwing my favorite teddy bear, Teddy, into the surf and making me cry. Correlative: Whenever I dropped or bumped Teddy, I used to kiss him where I thought the boo-boo was. Further correlative: I still keep Teddy to this day.

3. I have no great love for the Beatles, and I'll add that their cultural phenomenon is generally overbaked.

4. I met Steve Perry in 1995 and got his autograph. It was the most star-struck I've ever been to date.

5. I won a radio station-sponsored spelling bee at the Smithaven Mall on Long Island in 1985 by spelling the word "coagulate." The prizes were a $50 gift certificate and a copy of Elton John's "Ice on FIre." On vinyl.

Following the modified rules of engagement, I tag one Smart Centipede, Tina Coleslaw, and the aptly-named Central Content Publisher. Git!

Ummm....

2007-01-20T10:23:00.000-05:00

Fer rills?

Marginalized voice

2007-01-17T22:07:00.000-05:00

"What? Oh shit, not again. I'm so tired... can we wait a few weeks this go-around? I'm still poisoned with Malibu rum from the last time. Couldn't you get a fucking bird, instead, and leave me alone? I have calluses."

Inspire

2007-01-17T21:51:00.000-05:00

Hello there! I'm a talking mince pie. My name is Brice!

What a novelty, I know. A speaking pie! I always get quizzical looks from people who ask impertinent questions like, "How good is your vocabulary?" Or, "What did you score on the SATs?" There's even, "Do you need to go to a dentist?"

First, my vocabulary is very good, probably better than yours... I do like to read a lot of Steinbeck. Secondly, I don't have to take the SATs; I am a pie after all. Thirdly, I don't have a mouth, so no.

But you can see, right? Irrelevant questions all.

I grapple with larger issues -- what to say. I'm stuck for words. If a talking pie isn't talking, he's just a pie. No more, no less. Sink a utensil in me and dine away.

It's not like I have to talk -- pies aren't expected to do a whole lot of anything, anyway. But it's always a bonus to get a talking pie. As far as I know, it's just me and Nigel out here. Everyone else -- wordless. And Nigel is a kidney pie, no less.

I haven't the foggiest what to do about it. Worked hard to cultivate a unique voice amongst baked goods -- I wonder where it's gone?

I'll just be over here, cooling, should you need me. Try the sweetbreads first.

Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick...

2007-01-08T21:23:00.000-05:00

And now, Andy has a few things to get off his chest about what he sees on television...

I like to watch the news on TV before I got to bed at night. I turn in early, around 9:30 reliably, so I watch some news on cable before the local broadcast comes on at 10 p.m. Now, I'm used to seeing some pretty frightening things during the news, what with Darfur and Iraq recently, and going back a while, the Vietnam war.

It seems that the tide of frightening things on my television -- I mean truly frightening -- is spilling over into the commercial space during programs. Now, I'm an old man. That much is plainly obvious, for certain. As an old man, a lot of things scare me -- pirates, for instance.

I can't turn my damn box on without seeing pirates plastered all over it. Pirates live on ships for long periods of time, they don't get enough vitamin C, and they have hooks for hands. Also, the state of their dentistry is quite poor. Horrifying.

But that's not even the part that's got me in such an uproar these days. The worst part, is the cavemen.

Some blasted insurance company is using cavemen to sell their auto policies during prime time. Like I said, I'm an old man. I'm scared of cavemen, perhaps more than even dinosaurs, wolves, or Belgians. When the damn commercial comes on, I have to ask my wife to change the channel as I pull the covers up over my head.

Do the wizards up on Madison Avenue think it's a good idea to advertise their wares by scaring the bejeezus out of an old man just as he's getting ready to push off into sleep? I'll remind the world that sleep is the closest an old man comes to dying on a daily basis. It's a wonder I make it through the night as it is.

They're damn near killing me!

I have a suggestion for those same ad wizards, with their Gucci loafers, their Brooks Brothers suits, and their fancy mayonnaise packets: I'll give you an exception on pirates, and even on giant spiders, should you want to use them for a stock brokerage commercial.

Can you just stay away from cavemen?

A nice wummer day

2007-01-07T23:55:00.000-05:00

What's wrong with this picture?

OK, you really can't tell just by looking, but this is what a perfectly beautiful summer dusk looks like. The problem is, of course, that this is January 6. And it's 72 degrees in New York.

My interest level is in "Jeopardy"

2007-01-02T18:55:00.000-05:00

Let's meet our returning champion...

His name is Bill Scurry, and he's a newspaper designer from New York City. Can you tell us something about yourself, Bill?

Sure, Alex -- I've been sitting in an uncomfortable chair probably purchased in 1993 stuffed with flat, dead foam in a room where the air conditioning is spotty since 11:45 a.m. this morning, working at a job that would seem to indicate that no one of any consequence is at the wheel making sound and informed decisions... or even trying to make it seem as if there's any regard for the employees.

That's all under the heading of T.M.I., my sniffly friend...

Oh yeah, Alex, I forgot to mention that I've been ambushed by a cold, like something out of "Tom Clancy's Splinter Cell." Seriously, one minute I'm fine and the next minute I'm gobbing all over the carpet.

Um, if you're finished with your pity party, it's time to pick a category.

Alright... how about... "Japanese Comic Books"?

The answer is, "This comic features the adventures of a large-eyed wage slave who looks vaguely like a supporting castmember of 'Naruto' trying to avoid the C.E.O. of his company on the way into the office kitchen on his way to make some green tea, because he's trying to drown his bacteria-ridden sinuses in anti-oxidants."

What is, "Happy-One Tentacle Porn Guy From the Seventh Floor Cubicle"?

That's correct. You pick again.

How about, "I'm bored."

The answer is, "This is what you're most disaffected by in the workplace."

IknowitIknowitIknowit... what are "Stultifying workplace conditions and a general disregard for the work environment by corporate masters"?

That is correct. You pick again.

I'll take "My Busted Ass Career" for $1,000.

The answer is, "Thousands of years from now, archeologists from the planet Saturn will be scouring the remains of this dead industry you work in and find your dried, dusty skeleton propped up in an uncomfortable chair in front of 1997-era technology, like that scene in 'Raiders of the Lost Ark' where Harrison Ford busts through the wall of snakes and has to pass by all those creepy mummies."

Um... hmmm... what is.... "How will my contribution to my chosen industry be remembered?"

Right again. You choose the category.

I'd like "Murder My Coworkers."

The answer is, "There are countless numbers of these located in your personal folder on your computer."

What are, "Microsoft Word documents containing detailed fantasies about how I boil select coworkers in Cornola while forcing them to watch reruns of 'Blade 2' on Spike TV."

That is correct. Quite a hot streak you're on. Now, let's see if you can keep it all in Final Jeopardy. Our category today is, "Taking My Pants Off In Public."

The answer is, "Society forbids the modern day practice of this particular act, because of common decency and a general desire of passers-by to retain their hope for a better tomorrow." Write your response and wager down now.

Boo-bee-dee-boo-dee-bee-doo-boo-dee-bee-dee-boo!

OK, let's take a look at how you answered. Your response was...

I wrote, "What is unbuttoning my tan corduroys, dropping them to the ground, giving them a good toss to the left so they wind up on the marketing lady's desk, and then dance on top of the stack of aluminum cabinets in my socks until they shoot me with a fire extinguisher full of mustard and tell me to take that beef brisket off my head, it's needed for lunch elsewhere," Alex.

That is correct! You win no dollars and you lose the respect of all around you! Any standing you had as a functioning member of the community has been set back a decade, at least. You should reconcile yourself with a life of minor accomplishment where members of even the most backward of cultures retain the ability to poke fun at your insignificance!

Thank you Alex, thank you world... I knew I could do it. I'd like to thank a disinterested public school system, which provided next to no guidance. I'd like to thank a college education that was essentially a waste of $45,000 for the privilege of reading no books and pretty much assaulting the "Street Fighter" machine in the cafeteria. And I couldn't have done this without an awful job market where the most meager of opportunities are constantly spirited away from me by the combined pincers of a contracting industry and the chummy, advantageous connections that others seem to have over me.

We'll see you, our returning champ, on tomorrow's episode of "Your Career Prospects Are in Jeopardy." Bye-bye!

Assessment

2007-01-01T23:21:00.000-05:00

The problem with "Ugly Betty" is that Betty is not ugly. And I would know, having watched five consecutive episodes on ABC Family mid-day on New Year's Eve.

The Uglies Betty on international versions of this show are GASFACE! SO STANK! They know what it takes to truly ugly up a bitch. In the States, the best they can do is cast a cute, curvy chick and figure that NORMAL WEIGHT is halfway to making her incredulously hideous-looking. That's not the only flaw of the show: There's the cute boss (Eric Mabius) who doesn't seem to be good at anything... or DO anything at all, for that matter; the mincing queen office-guy who minces up a mince-pie storm each episode as he over-the-top-gays-up the show, repellently so in the most gay-Uncle-Tom-ic fashion imaginable (Message from Hollywood: It's still safe to laugh at queers! Signed, Bob Iger. P.S. -- Send more gays.) Also, the distance between Betty's house in Rego Park, Queens, and her office on midtown is portrayed as being, like, 15 minutes away from each other. It's at least 20.

I don't want to make it sound like I'm a grouchy dousche who can't plug in to a popcult phenomenon ("Heroes" is mirthless, by the way). America Ferrara is great, a very capable comedic lead who long-deserved a shot like this. Salma Hayek's English is still "charming," and her cleavage has been described by no less than the late George Plimpton as, "being awed by it -- the uniqueness and nicety of style -- and I suspect I was a bit jealous because we were more or less of the same generation." I just don't think there's enough to make me add this to my appointment TV docket. Not when the first 15 minutes of the episode is spent pratfalling, only to have the final 15 spent mawkishly resolving the emotional hurt of said pratfalls to tinkling piano chords.

I gotta scram... a double-header of "Shark" and "8 Lbs" is coming on.

Dick Clark's Awkward Rockin' Goat-Fucking New Year

2007-01-01T00:27:00.000-05:00

I hope your 2007 will be as shweet as can be. Let's start off with a joke -- why did Saddam Hussein tell a knock-knock joke on his way to the execution? Because he was a fan of gallows humor. Tee-hee. American death toll is now 3000, if you're keeping track.

Is Gerald Ford dead yet?

James Brown's Last Will and Testament

2006-12-26T23:32:00.000-05:00

I, James Brown HAH! being of sound UH! mind and body, do OWWW! HIT ME! Get up, get on up; get down, into the ground! HUH! HIT ME!

I hereby bequeath my SEX MACHINE! OWWW! to the citizens of New Orleans (New Orleans!), Detroit City (Detroit City!), Dallas (Dallas!), Pittsburgh P.A. (Pittsburgh P.A.), New York City (New York City), Kansas City (Kansas City), Atlanta (Atlanta), Chicago, and L.A.!

I no longer FEEL GOOD! HAH! HIT THIS! Thusly, on the occasion of my passing, I would like to establish a financial trust to COUNT IT OFF! ONE! TWO! THREE! HIT ME! HUH! OWW! OPEN CASKET! GET UP!

IN THE SOIL! DIG IT! ROCK TO ROCK! ASHES TO ASHES! DUST TO DUST! LEMME HEAR IT NOW! OK fellas, when I count down, let the undertaker GET FUNKY! Super highways, coast to coast, easy to get anywhere on the transcontinental overload. OW! HUH!

Smokestack, fatback, many miles of railroad track HAH! UHH! HIT ME! Rolled-up ham and various COLD-CUTS at my wake! OWWW! AHHH! GET BACK NOW! My wishes are such that I require two days of public viewing in ATLANTA! HEAR IT NOW! BREAK IT DOWN FOR ME! EYE TO EYE! COAST TO COAST!

In summary, my estate retains proper remuneration to provide for all known heirs and we're gonna HAVE A BALL sure as you're born. I'M GONNA DANCE, DANCE, DANCE DO THE POPCORN!

Signed, witnessed, and legally attested to,
James Joseph Brown, Jr.

Just about the funniest damn thing I've ever seen

2006-12-23T16:55:00.000-05:00

This is Charlie Callas, an American master, telling a joke whose punchline doesn't really matter by the time you get there.

I lost my shit on the pantomime rotary dialing, and never found it again.

Last minute gift ideas

2006-12-21T23:32:00.000-05:00

With any respectable person celebrating Christmas in a matter of days (sorry Jews!), I'm sure that many are looking for late scores when shopping for gifts at increasingly-stripped mall racks. Looking for a cashmere muffler? Go fucketh oneself. Interested in a Nintendo DS? SsssssssSUCKA! Shoulda got here a fortnight ago, Michael Richards!

What is one to do? Well, I asked myself that same question, thinking about all the poor bastards out there facing shoddy Christmas present options. That's why I decided to do something about it.

In the course of my research (read: a superfluous glossy circular that fell out of my morning paper), I have discerned that the most heavily hawked items this Christmas season turn out to be celebrity fragrances.

Take Sarah Jessica Parker's "Horseface," for instance. I mean, the list of themed scents goes on and on, but what that list tells us is that middling cable actors want Macy's shoppers to smell like they're married to a barely closeted man-boy.

Rather than adopt an adversarial tack this year, I've decided to give in to the pressure and license out the Bill Scurry/AmericanCaesar brand vis-a-vis a delightfully cromulent new cologne for men.

I like to call it... FEET.

Now don't sweat it, it doesn't actually smell like feet... although it doesn't smell much better than feet. In working with ConHugeCo, my go-to multinational conglomerate that handles all fossil fuel-based transactions for AmericanCaesar Enterprises, we decided to go down any number of alternative routes that "Big Aroma" dares not tread. ACE's "FEET" contains the following scents/smells/noxious fumes:

-Notes of bacon
-Hints of goldfish
-A sour, penny-like taste
-Basil... I guess
-A tincture of Dristan
-Wesson
-Matchheads (spent)
-Envelope glue
-Oh yeah, and feet.

The MSRP on this bitch is $89.95 (yanqui dollars), but you do score a three-quart paper carton of the stuff for your money, in a container not altogether unlike what you buy 2% milk in. In fact, we're experimenting with running photos of missing children on the side. Only as a joke -- the kids will be making funny faces. It's all good, we're not heartless here.

Dick in a Box

2006-12-19T17:40:00.000-05:00

This is the new shit from the guys who cooked up "Lazy Sunday," Lonely Island. This time, Justin Timberlake plays along, and I have to say that this kid has a great sense of humor. The two best SNLs in recent memory were the ones he's hosted.

I deny lunch

2006-12-15T23:33:00.001-05:00

I just got back from Tehran a few days ago, where I was a keynote speaker at the two-day conference on refuting the Holocaust. In addition to bringing up the fact that we just don't know what those gas chambers in Poland were actually used for, I also asserted that perhaps all Hitler and the German army were really interested in was delivering bundles of pretty, aromatic flowers throughout Europe. But, that's not what I want to talk about today. There is something much more serious that begs discussion, something most of the so-called "intellectual West" won't even begin to touch with their "enlightened viewpoint" and supposed allowance for equal time on all subjects.

I'm talking about lunch. I deny lunch.

There's no factual basis that it ever happened. All we ever hear is that it was served on plates and it was accompanied by a cream soda. Now, this is the narrow view of a select group of people for whom it serves an overrriding interest. In order to maintain a certain, how shall we say, world climate conducive to their aims, these same groups perpetuate the myth that there was a folded napkin wrapped around a knife, fork, and spoon accompanying lunch service.

But we know better than that. We know that there is no record of a knife being present at any lunch, especially one that was not served in the first place. This is base intellectual dishonesty and pure pish-tosh, the worst kind of smokescreen these interests generate to avoid the truth on the issue.

There was no delicious, crispy pickle on the side. The wheat bread was not toasted to perfection. The turkey club sandwich was not served in four sliced wedges, each with a decorative sword toothpick through the top. The scoop of potato salad was not the option over a handful of fresh potato chips, and it was not made with skin-on russet potatoes.

These are all lies that people have been fed for decades.

To whit, there was not a sprig of parsley intended as a garnish on the margin of the dish. Also, we did not remove a packet of Equal sweetener after the meal was finished and fold the rumpled trim into various shapes. And by no means was the waitress tipped in excess of the 15-percent gratuity because she took the time to refill the beverages again and again.

Prevarication. Apocryphal calumnies, all. Why is the world so afraid the stand up to these people, these lunchers, and say We Will No Longer Believe Your Lies? Why do I and my intellectual brethren have to travel to that Denny's off the 405 to be heard? Maybe we're hitting a nerve.

Accordingly, the slice of Reese's Peanut Butter cheesecake was not exquisite, and it wasn't served with a scoop of rum raisin ice cream.

Fun: A work in progress

2006-12-11T23:42:00.000-05:00

One hell of a trip to Walt Disney World. Notes along the way...

The big landmark castle was almost constantly being fussed with by a giant crane. I think Mickey has a more concerted rebuilding plan than the morons in charge of the World Trade Center rebuilding effort.

The mirth was obvious and abounding. And so forth. Janice's head looks very funny while adorned this way.

It's a shmoopie sandwich, and Pooh's the meat! We ate at so-called character breakfasts as often as we could rob other families of their reservations, and were usually the only childless folks in the house. That made us the only people in the room who still have sex and piles of that cash we "childless-by-choice" folks use to promulgate abortions on teenagers.

At the same breakfast: this portly dude behind my pumpkin-like cranium was awesome -- he was traveling solo, about 40 years old, with a shock of white hair, and each day we saw him he was wearing a different New Wave tee; first Depeche Mode, then the Smiths, and so on. We named him "Evan."

When I misbehave, I get pilloried for all to see in the center of town. Consequently, I must also put the lotion in the basket, or I get the hose again.

Taking a break with my imaginary improv pipe, waiting for my steamboat to pull in.

Our favorite place, the closest thing there is to church for godless bastards -- Space Mountain.

Taking aim at passers-by outside of Tom Sawyer's fort...

"Oh, hi! You've caught me in the middle of an assassination!"

Things were going great during the meet and greet under the Ewok village until...

I must have said something to tick the Lord of the Sith off, because he got a little frisky with me.

The wife was pulled out of the crowd at Epcot the participate in a little wacky street theatre with the Brits.

The nightly parade was wicked... how do they do this twice a night?

Central Florida isn't a very Jewey place to begin with, I realize, but this was the ONLY bit of recognition that there are other faiths on planet Earth.

The "Fantasmic" show, 25 minutes of special effects like broadcasting movies onto waterfalls and setting a lake on fire. On fire?! It's water for chrissakes... how do that do that?

Hanging out on the roofdeck of the Contemporary, watching fireworks from 20 stories above.

Expedition Everest, a fairly awesome new coaster at the Animal Kingdom. Foreground: the man who rides it.

Janice finally made a monkey out of me.

Why come back home? Life on the dying world is only bearable so long as I have a belly full of Haribo gummies and a Splash Mountain fastpass in my hand. Someone feed me some sleeping pills and applesauce! I'm coming home, Marshall Applewhite! Where are my black Nike high-tops?

I have heard of a kingdom....

2006-12-10T23:04:00.000-05:00

There's nothing better in life than doing things at the age of 31 that you were supposed to have done at the age of six. More to come, including me getting choked by Darth Vader.

Stick around folks, we have a great show for you tonight.

Gotta git

2006-12-01T23:45:00.000-05:00

Off to the Happiest Swamp On Earth... back 12/10. Stay off my lawn, you kids.

Does this Mercator Projection make me look fat?

2006-11-28T23:35:00.000-05:00

I may be your home learnin' globe, but I'm dealing with some serious issues -- body issues. I'm suffering some serious dismorphism. Have ya seen me lately? I'm huge!

Everything would be OK if you went about business a litle bit differently, like, if I was a map. Then, I'd be all laid flat on a wall, or framed -- mostly just two dimensions. But you need to have a globe -- you're killing me! Do y'all have any idea how unflattering lines of longitude are? It's a real bitch to look at Ecuador, or Slovenia even, and see these parallel lines running all over me. See the Tropic of Cancer?! A huge sign on my midsection that screams, "Look at the oblate spheroid!"

I can't take it anymore. I do everything I can, really, but I just can't seem to lose an inch. It's always there, a constant 360º all the way around. I figgered that if I could have shaved the Svalbard off, or maybe the Ross Ice Shelf, then my self-image would be inproved. I'm talking massively. No amount of spinning in this cheap brass mount seems to be working on dropping the weight.

This Mercator Projection makes my ass look huge. And you already know about longitude... I don't see any horizontal-striped shirts in your damn closet. Some giveback latitude is supposed to be. Urrnk! Sorry, wrong answer! Tell them what they don't win, Bob! They all bow out from only two poles. Is that supposed to help me? My Borneo-Celebes look ginormous.

I wish I was never born. I wish I was an atlas.

Self-congratulation

2006-11-26T22:10:00.000-05:00

Huzzah.

On the occasion, or near, the occasion of this space's one-year anniversary. Way back on November 8 of 2005, I decided to add to the congested bandwidth of this nation's ailing internet with a thoroughly disposable sounding board consisting of nothing but facile, poorly thought-out opinions and, more often than not, pure calumny.

I say again, huzzah. There is microwave pizza up front, served on festive napkins featuring characters from the 1998 computer-animated flop "Antz," because those particular napkins were marked down at the party store. Also, there are three bottles of crystal Pepsi, although I know them to be flat. Help yourselves to it.

Anyone want to make a call? My rotary phone is up front. Please keep it to local calls.

Everyone having fun? I knew that this particular group of people would lead to some interesting anecdotal conversations. I shall move across the room to raise the volume of the music a bit now, to add a more festive mood to the party.

Why, this is a cassette of Journey's last album, "Raised on Radio," in fact. You might remember that album yielded the hits "Be Good to Yourself" and... maybe another. After side two, I put in the soundtrack to "Jurassic Park."

Save some room after the pizza, because there is a half a crumb ring on the kitchen counter. There are also some jordan almonds in the glass bowl on the coffee table.

Having a good time? Did you meet so-and-so? I thought you guys might hit it off.

GET OUT! GET THE FUCK OUT YOU FUCKING MOTHERFUCKERS! GET THE FUCK OUT MY HOUSE! HOW FUCKING DARE YOU! YOU FUCKING MUTTS! HOW DARE YOU! JUST GET THE FUCK OUT! I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU WITH THIS KNIFE! FUCKING LEAVE! NOW! FUCKERS! I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU! ALL! I'LL FUCKING CUT ALL YOUR BELLIES OPEN! COCKSUCKERS!

A fork up their ass?

2006-11-21T09:58:00.000-05:00

There's this:

You have got to wonder what happened. I think that Michael Richards was bombing, got desperate, and decided to go out there to handle the people talking during his set. Why the whole n-word thing? There's sufficient reason not to go there unless you're Chris Rock, Will Ferrell, or a similarly competent entertainer. If the thing you're best known for is opening a door wackily, I suggest you stay away from racial material at the Laugh Factory. But the remark about being upside down with a fork in your ass -- is that some kind of harkening back to Jim Crow/segregation bad-old-days? I never read about the Klan doing that to anyone.

I can't wait for Jason Alexander to go up at the Improv and start insulting the Koreans in the audience.