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. 
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!
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.
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.
But that's not even the part that's got me in such an uproar these days. The worst part, is the cavemen.
They're damn near killing me!
Can you just stay away from cavemen?
What's wrong with this picture?
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!
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.
Is Gerald Ford dead yet?
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.
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.
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.
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'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.
One hell of a trip to Walt Disney World. Notes along the way...
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?
Stick around folks, we have a great show for you tonight.
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 360ยบ 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.
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!
