Jesus.

One of My Guys, Gone

During the summer between 5th and 6th grade I stumbled upon reruns of The Carol Burnett Show, and ever since I’ve known that if I could choose one show and era to magically transform myself to, that would be the one. That 70’s looseness, anything can happen feel, the principals cracking up (mostly Harvey Corman of course.) They seemed (and have since professed) to be having the time of their lives. Christ, the mere thought of Corman and Burnett showing up on Mama’s Family made that show watchable. Plus, I’ve always had a thing for Carol Burnett. Any fan of these pages knows why.

RIP Harvey. Don’t worry, Tim Conway will be there soon enough to crack you up again ☺

Friday Night Videos

KILL ROCK CITY

Fryday Fun!!

Because The HMIC (Head Manny in Charge) has two clients now, I have a double stroller. How funny would it be to stroll down the street with only one kid in it, the other seat empty while I flail my head around desperately screaming "Reggie!! Reggie where are you!??!?!?! Oh my god, REGGIE!!!!!"

Oh right, I'M going to hell. I'M a bad guy!!!

And Do the Duck!

This has been stuck in my head for 5 days now. relentless. Fucking love it.

And eff Bert - fucking nerd!!

For Mamalizza

Who a few days ago said "Couples never fight in the delivery room, do they?"

:)

Over-parenting + White Guilt = Another Freakin Pussy

While trolling the easternets for the snake picture below, I stumbled upon this gem:



What the fuck? How fucking sensitive do parents hafta be these days? "Honey, is there a book that could help us explain to junior that there will be someone to clean up after him and feed him anytime he wants? Is he gonna be okay with that? Poor baby!" What the fuck is next? "Mommy, Why is Our House Appraised at $2.7 Million Dollars?"

Course, I guess it's still better than the "good 'ol days."

JFK Day

Today is JFK's birthday, which made me think of three things:

1) We are a year away from there being as many years from the year of his death to 

the present as there were from his birth to his death (46)

2) How could it be I never noticed his intials could stand for Just Fucking Kidding?

3) Were it not for one day in Dallas, there'd be a 91 year-old dude hobbling round 

getting more ass than me today. Dodged a bullet with that one, didn't I?






"That's not funny."

Kid's Books

Kid's books can drive me bananas cause apparently the single most important thing a kid can learn nowadays is the sounds animals make. This is all we seem to want them to learn. Wtf? Cow goes moo, cat goes meow. Hmm. I don't know why this is so important - is this ever gonna come up later on in life?

Dean Wermer: your SATs are amazing, your GPA is a 4.0 and you were in every extracurricular activity at your high school.
Kid: That's right.
Dean Wermer: you have a letter of recommendation from Lee Iacocca.
Kid: That's right.
Dean Wermer: So lemme ask you something...what noise does a sheep make?
Kid: (draws complete blank)
Dean Wermer: I see. Hmm. Yeah, I'll keep your application on file (deposits into paper shredder, kid walks out and into the world of community college.)

And then another thing I don't like is that in every book, there's a big fat snake that's supposed to be friendly. Hey look, fluffy happy puppy looking for a hug. A sweet duck looking to help, splashing around. Oh, and sliding down from a tree? A 19-foot long boa that looks like it just swallowed a golf cart. What the fuck? Oh, but the snake is supposed to cute and cuddly and just wants to be "one of the guys!"

I don't want my little guys to be scared of snakes. But I don't want them thinking it's okay to go up and fucking hug one either, you know? Wtf. Why not have "happy, jolly drug dealers" too? Drippy chlamydia-riled Mexican with open sores? Just wants a hug, wants to be friends! Camon!!!!











"Heeeeeeeeeeey buddy! Come a lil closer, I just wanna be good friends! That's it...liiiiiiiiiiiiiittle bit closer..."

J to the Oba

I can see both sides of the Joba thing re: starter/8th inning stud. But I'm about to snap listening to Fatcessa bloviating over and over about how it's gonna be IMPOSSIBLE!! UNTHINKABLE!! to even dream about finding someone to replace Joba as a reliever. You know, a year ago none of us knew Joba even existed. No idea. So for all we know and for all our crying, maybe his replacement falls into our laps again. Or he won't and the Yankees collapse and go 79-83. Either way, to scream thatyou for one know for certain that it's IMPOSSIBLE!! to replace Joba is ridiculous. Camon.

Dudes: Call Me!!

I see the state of New York is looking to make me and Gordon getting together legal. YES!!!

The interesting thing to me about same-sex marriage is that to this day nobody has issued a real reason against it, much less a coherent argument. People get all worked up and steamed about it and throw out platitudes et al, but in the end have actually said nothing with rationale or logic. You get the tried and true "it devalues the unity between man and woman!!" credos over and over. Hey, you know what else does? The almost 60% divorce rate. If you wanna spend your time fighting for something that is failing miserably then go work for the NHL. Then you get a string of generic "oh, it's amoral, blah blah blah" stuff. Which is funny, cause a century and a half ago we could actually own other people; do we have a problem with our "morals" changing over that one? Then as a last gasp you get some chutterfuck yammering that the Bible says homos can't get married. I'll make a deal with you: if you can bring me a snake that talks, I'll dedicate my life to making sure boys can't kiss each other.

Guess what? Shit changes. People change, societies evolve. To quote my friends from a little movie The Short Bus calls "MOUSE! MOUSE! MOUSE!!!!":

Django: This is the way things are; you can't change nature.
Remy: Change IS nature, Dad.

Yes, I understand this means that millions of gay men will now be swarming into your house to desperately try to break up your own marriage, but luckily you've got your gun collection to blow them away, don't you?

The Manny Tapes

Just now The Short Bus and I were watching Sesame Street, and The Count started singing one of his counting songs. You know that shit, like "ONE! TWO! I LIKE YOU!! THREE! FOUR! MY HYMEN IS TORN!!" Anyway he's bopping along to it, and then I start singing along with the numbers and he cuts me a look. Turns out the kid is annoyed that I know my numbers, and he doesn't. Which is funny, cause it's never bothered him that I am 5 feet taller than he is, or that I can read, speak English, vote, get my own food and don't need another person to wipe my own shit off my ass. But me knowing numbers before him? That pisses him off. Hmm.













"HAHAHAHAHAAHA!!!! That's okay, let's take a wild guess at which one of us is gonna get laid next, you sorry fat fuck!!!!"

You Call That "Strolling"?

I think one more example of what a rushed, frantic society we are is the jogging stroller. Who came up with this shit? "Boy, I really need to go for a jog...but I also have this 3-month old baby I have to take care of...I got it!! I'll combine the two!" Sounds safe, right? Put the kid in a cart with wheels and then take off sprinting down the street like a bat outta hell. Hey, nothing can hit YOU; the baby and stroller, like my penis at the Pizza Hut Porn Awards, are a good 3 feet in front running interference!

Why not just shoot the kid out of a cannon and then sprint to try to catch him before he hits the ground? Christ.


ps - I actually image-Googled "baby getting shot out of a cannon." Hmm.

Because Imeem Sucks: Swallow My Pride

Because Imeem Sucks: Everytime I Eat Vegetables, It Makes Me Think of You

Because Imeem Sucks: Something to Believe In

10 Reasons to Love The Ramones

SATC

Thanks to the Daily News, this morning on the train I was asssulted with the 32,119th article this week on the Sex and the City movie. Ugh. But two things jumped out as I scanned the thing:

- "Big" has cold feet during the run-up to the wedding? Really? Did the writers run out of time; are they SURE they could'nt come up with anything more cliched than a cold-footed groom? Chandler Bing much, assholes? According to Wikipedia Big is knocking on the door at 50 years old and Carrie is 43. They've dated off and on for a decade, and it's been over four years since the last episode, when we were to believe they finally realized yes, they were truly meant for each other. This isn't some sorority girl getting lavaliered - in other words, you're both old and have known each other forever. Nobody's crossing their fingers "We're rooting for these kids!" Fucking christ - either fucking get married or don't, we don't give a fuck. But noooo, we gotta roll out the fucking "nervous groom" nonsense. Ugh.

- the other thing that bugs me is the line "The best reunions begin with nostalgia and end with hope for the future, and "SATC" is bursting with both." Yeah right; the "hope for the future" is Hollywood-ese for "hope we make $300M and can get started tout suite on a sequel." Camon. All the characters are at "personal crossroads"; lemme guess - all the loose ends get tied up...except one, leaving the door open for such a sequel et al. As the article says, "hope is always around the corner." I guess we'll never get closure on these clothing hamsters; there will always be some time when they "need each other more than ever!!!"

My advice? End it. Have Carrie wake up, the last three seasons were all a dream. She calls up all her girls "It's such a clear, bright September morning!! Let's all go to the top of the World Trade Center and look at our REAL best friend, New York City!! Yaaaaaaaaaaay us and NYC!!!"

KA-BLOOEY!!!! 4 lives, wrapped up with a fucking bow. NEXT!!!












"You guys hear that?...like a plane?...no?...aight, let's go in..."

My 2008 Brushes With Celebrity (so far)

Email buddies: Andrew Sullivan, Tommy Ramone

Cell phone pals: Chris "Mad Dog" Russo

Met: Gordon Ramsay

My Two Books for the Week

Old: The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket, Edgar Allen Poe
New: An Unfinished Life: John F. Kennedy, 1917-1963, Robert Dallek

That's right: last week's books. A miserable, fat, do-nothing lost week of loserdom. AAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Hmm. What Do You Know,

I've been searching for this "liberal media" for years myself. Turns out it never actually existed. Gee. What a mystery!

Thank God!!

Dunkin Donuts got busted for using the greatest of all the Jihad tools: Rachel Ray. Finally! We kept our eyes on the prize, we are so much safer now, and we may now consider this whole thing to be:
































Of course a certain SOMEONE is thrilled, seeing his potential sales going up.

Inevitable

A few weeks ago I was bitching to someone about this, and now it's started to happen: the first in what will be a long series of tell all/please forgive me! books from the Bush Administration. How Bob McNamara of Scotty McClellan to be the first to get things started! In the next decades as the ones who pulled the trigger(s) reflect with guilt at what they've done (or, more likely, wanna make a ton of more money while clearing their names), we Americans will be sprinting to Barnes & Noble to throw more money at these people and allow ourselves to do that which is the most American thing to do: forgive somebody simply because they're famous enough to be able to write about their sins. Of course my instinct is that the founding fathers of this war should not be allowed to profit off their wrongdoings (haven't they already made enough from them?) But instead of course we'll have mothers of dead soldiers buying the paperbacks at airports and weeping "oh wow, poor Dick Cheney, he's so sorry! he's an amazing American!!" etc etc. Talk show circuit, some crocodile tears on Larry King and we'll all be barking and clapping like seals as we revise history in our own minds. This practice from this Administration will become the Celebrity Rehab of it's day. You can fucking book it.

Memorial Day with the Fellas

Short Bus: “Say, Lil Bear, here’s a question for ya…did you NOT mention to Husky that we, you know…aren’t skinny dipping?"


Xmastime, Lil Bear, Husky, and…my pursed, creepy gay lips. Ugh.
Ohoh...Husky spots somebody else eyeballing the popsicles in the freezer. Shits about to get FOR REALZ.


“That better be a candy bar in the water, Xmas!!”
Short Bus knows the truth.


Xmas and Lil Bear play another rousing round of “Look, We Have Hot Dogs!”
Husky: "I really gotta get a new gang.”


“Which one of you mothafuckers got my Newports wet?”

Are We Fighting Retards?

Over the years my nose has scrunched up in doubt/wonderment whenever I'd hear about the months and months we were taking to train Iraqi troops to fight for us. "Oh, everything's taking so long cause, you know, we have to train the troops." What the fuck, I'd think, how come we train a Marine for 13 weeks and then send him anywhere in the world with an M-16 and a copy of Club International, but we're taking months and years training these people?

Then I see this today. Tragic I think, fucking atrocious. Poor kids. Unreal. But then, I can't help but notice...they've been training for a month? For a suicide attack coming up in about 2 weeks? Really? And it's not like you can say well, "they're taking 6 weeks to brainwash them" cause none of the kids mentioned seemed to be really into it. 6 weeks? Really? What the fuck is wrong with these people? We've been in a war for 5 years and spent billions of dollars and thousands of lives with people that need to train for six weeks on how to strap on some TNT and walk into a pizza parlor? What the fuck - yet another reason to get the fuck outta there; apparently the whole region is just a bunch of Barney Fifes* walking around into each other!!!


* Fives?

Xmastime Meets The Fashion Herald Meets 34th Street

The first (of many!) installments of our Fashion Herald internet joints may be found here. I believe sometime this summer the talented dudes at 3Knights Media will be launching an internet tv channel, which we're excited to be a part of. Enjoy our first one - obviously they reigned me in at the editing table cause they cut out all my squirrels fisting bits! ;) Enjoy, and be on the lookout for Episode 2 in a few weeks!

The Gout

The gout is an easy disease to make fun of, a la "Well you drank all that beer and ate a bunch of hot dogs, serves you right you fat fuck." And it's a tuff disease to defend, a la "Well I drank all that beer and ate all those hot dogs, serves me right you fat fuck." I understand the eyeball-rolling "what an idiot" guffawing as I come hobbling up. Have your fun, I get it. But it's also no fun sitting in a car service and having to start fishing the money out of your pocket about 5 blocks before you're home so you can adjust your whole body in a way to affect as little amount of excrutiating pain as possible on your ankle. Fuck.

Veni, Vidi, Voice

I had never watched it before, but the other day I stumbled onto about 10 minutes of the HBO show Rome. Some dude's yapping with his girl, and all of a sudden I'm like... is that a pseudo British accent? Hmm, I think, is that how Romans spoke? Lilting British accents? Then it occurs to me...how would we possibly have any idea how the acient Romans spoke? Are there tapes laying around; did we find an old version of YovTvbe? I mean, for all we know the Romans shouted at each other at the top of their lungs "HI REMUS HOW ARE YOU!!!" "JULIUS I AM FINE!!!! YOU ARE LOOKING GOOD!!" Or maybe like Buford Pusser. "Et tu, Brutus? Aw heck, giton outta heya now boy, I'm fixin' a die!!"

So then who's the wizard deciding "you know, I bet they spoke THIS way..."? It's not okay for us just to say "you know what, we have no idea how ancient Romans spoke, so everybody's just keeping their normal fucking voices"? Or hell, if it's a bunch of Italians, wouldn't the default accent be like this guy's:







"oh eh, oh yeah, manus manum friggin lavat, yo!"

I Mean, Camon!

If you call another dude "Turd Blossom," should it be legal for you to oppose gay marriage?








"You look nice today...did I tell you you look nice?"

How Is It Even Possible...

...that there can be a show on tv featuring four women and I'd only wanna fuck one of them? In a word: wow.

Abe Again

I just read that one of the things found in Abraham Lincoln's pockets when he died was a Confederate five dollar bill. Seems ironic, no? Like Tippor Gore dying with Dee Snider's wig in her purse, I guess?

Dreaming

As I bemused here earlier, I'm not a big fan of signs, or omens, or astrology or reading into dreams. All a buncha hogwash, in my head. Even though in college I wrote a paper on numerology in Le Morte d'Arthur.*

But last night outta nowhere I had a dream wherein I came upon a baby sleeping peacefully in a sink filled with water. All of a sudden the water drained, the baby awoke kicking and screaming and I had to pick it up to comfort it.

Which means that if this kid drops today, I'm gonna be f r e a k e d out!!!!

Though happy! :)


* "in college"...as if, like experimenting with homosexuality, I would have any other reason to be doing such a thing. Camon.

Abraham Hussein Lincoln

I may be the last one to the party here, but I just realized that Obama's first few weeks in office will coincide with Abe Lincoln's 200th birfday. Nice.

Madden '08

Am I still high from that pot brownie I ate in 2004, or are Paris and Nicole - once bff*, then sworn enimies, then frenimies, and now possibly bff again - with identical twins? What the bff???!!!








"ummm, Paris...which one is this one?"

"No idea...keep smiling!"












*for some reason while typing "bff" I am compelled to add an "s"; I guess it feels plural cause "friends" is? Or maybe I should be compelled to not write as if I'm a character in The Babysitters Club?

The Last 7 Search Terms That Have Brought People to Xmastime

xmastime
rub a dub suds
sex fuck
bubba hooker
sinbad fraternity
phylicia rashad legs i masturbate
kim kardashian fucking photo

Hmm. Little more sophisticated than I imagined.







"Xmas, call me! I love to phylicia rashad legs i masturbate too!!!!"

7

I've been obsessed with watching the HBO Mickey Mantle doc over and over. Christ, is a more compelling baseball/human story even possible? Born into the Dust Bowl with a life of the lead mines looming, a big country aw shucks hoss straight outta central casting showing up at the most storied sports team in the world in the biggest city in the country, coinciding perfectly with the halcyon days of New York City baseball. Even his name sounded made up, TOO dead on for the role. Brought in to replace a living legend, the revered DiMaggio. Becomes known as the greatest of teammates; idolized by teammates for both his play and his loving being one of the guys. Misses his first World Series due to the first of many injuries, stuck in a hospital bed next to his father who waits to die of Hodgekins at 39 like all the males in the family. Plays entire career in pain, with 17 surgeries and some duct tape barely keeping his body together. With the sceptre of dying young always on his shoulder, hits NYC nightlife like a Mack truck, therein belying his amazing Hall of Fame career with a stadium full's worth of "what ifs?" Worshipped by an entire generation of boys who would grow up to be men who never gave up their adulation. Set adrift after retirement in a sea of boozing, culminating in a stay at Betty Ford. Becomes sober, has a son die. Devoted to sober life, born again, then boom! cancer. After all this, after so many lifetimes of home runs and standing ovations and sadness and loss, may have made his greatest play of all, looking at the cameras after his liver transplant and telling kids "This is a role model: Don't be like me. I blew it." Becoming one of the greatest of all time, all while on the run from the inevitability of early death and then spending his last years feeling like he let everyone in the world down. All while simply being Mickey Mantle. Jesus christ, is it even possible this actually happened? Unreal.

Sigh. Life.

I'm not a good-looking guy. That is to say, no woman is gonna take one look at me and instantly fall in love with me, craving to be with me every second of the day. To achieve this affect, I will have to trap a woman into my company and then spend months and months making my case. I'll have to show her my personality, my sense of humor. My kindness. I will have to roll out how sensitive I am, yet how tough I am, all while showing her that I am the most brilliant person she's ever met. I will need to save at least one kitten stuck high up in a tree, and I will hafta let her know that about my blocked extra point against Lancaster and my gw-rbi in the 1990 NND championship game. I will have to spend every moment of our days together being at my absolute best for her to fall in love with me.

Meanwhile, yesterday on the train at a stop I casually looked out the window and saw a pair of beautiful, long, tanned legs walking by with a white pleated skirt dancing about 8 inches above the knees walking by. Stunned, I sprung (cough) across the car to get a better look, to see what face came with these legs. No luck, lost in the crowd. I knew absolutely nothing about this person, not even what the upper half of her body and face looked like. But if presented with the opportunity, I would have thrown everything in my life away to make a mix tape for her and love her til they put me in the goddam ground.

Spring Dreaming

I've said here several times over the last year or so that I had zero hopes of our country electing a black man president in my lifetime. Or anytime soon, at least. Now with Obama about to come shooting out of this log flume of a Democratic race, it looks like I'm about to be proven wrong. And while I'm still frustrated that it looks like about half the country will still insist on voting Oliver Twist-style for Bush III, and my cynicism reminds me that it took an absolute wrecking ball job of things by Bush to get a lot of people to say "fuck it, I'll even take a black guy," I find now is the time to turn myself over to a little bit (a LITTLE bit!) of optimism, a la the UG. Fuck it, it's finally warming up outside. It's refreshing to think that soon we will have a President who may be the smartest person in the room and yet tries to fill the room with even smarter people, no matter their party lines or "loyalty." IE "frat buddies." It's refreshing to think of a President we won't have to be prepared to wince with embarrassment while he's trying to speak in public. It's refreshing to think about having a President you don't hafta worry about using the only-for-display towels in foreign country bathrooms. It's refreshing to think about getting the biggest spring-cleaning job in the history of the country.

Of course my pessimism (and zero faith in the American voter) comes creeping back when I think of this video below, how back in 2004 I thought music (and musicians) could literally change the world. And we blew it. Now I'm trying to look at it all over again with refreshed eyes, thanks to Obama. And it's working, some rays of optimism are cleaning out my own pores...when all of a sudden I notice, for the very first time after having seen the thing 25 fucking times, that Eddie Vedder is wearing, of all things, a Johnny Ramone t-shirt. Not a Ramones tee, but a Johnny Ramone one. Johnny. The biggest George Bush lover of them all. From the grave, they're trying to get us!!! From the grave!!

Aw, fuck 'em all - open up the windows, hit "play" and then close your eyes: spring's coming in only 8 months!

Deja View

I like the human element of baseball. For example, I hate that Questec or whatever it's called computer shit that grades umps on balls and strikes. Figuring out every ump's strike zone on a daily basis has been a part of the game for 100 years. There's a lulling rhythm to such a thing. Also, I'm of the mind that such over-the-shoulder questioning of every pitch would somehow make umps WORSE. Fuck that; if we have computers and lasers and Darth Vader calling balls and strikes with 100% accuracy why have umps at all? One or the other, for fuck's sake.

However, I absolutely think that MLB should allow instant replay for questionable home run calls. (Yes, of COURSE this has EVERYTHING to do with my Yankee boyfriend losing a homer to this. So Yankee haters save your stupid comments.) The unfortunate thing is umps will bristle at the mention of replay cause it makes them look as if they need it cause they're not doing their jobs well. But to me, this is different - it's not blowing a call cause you had a brain fart, or momentarily forgot a rule etc etc etc. I think you can be the best ump in the world, and if you're standing 100+ feet away you're looking for a tiny white ball in sometimes bad lighting against a fence and a post and clothing on fans of many different colors, you just may not be able to see where a ball lands. I don't think that makes you a bad ump; I think it's okay for you to say "gee, I couldn't see that at all, can we look on it on tape?" This to me is different than, say, blowing a call at home plate you're right on top of. That, you just blew, you're an idiot, tough shit, you deserve whatever shellacking you get. But if there's a problem because you literally cannot see what happens such as a home run, that's different. To me.

And of course the ump then has to stand there and live with a call he's just half guessed at while there's 14 jumbotrons around the stadium letting the fans see up close what happened, so now the poor guy can get booed at and shelled with plastic beer cups by 50,000 people. It's like having a wide-screen with George Clooney making sweet love to some lady on the ceiling of the bedroom while you're flop-sweating away on top of your woman: it's not fair. Camon MLB - FOR ONCE IN YOUR LIFE, get something right!!!

Brody..Call Me!

I find the fact that Brody Jenner, at the age of 24, refers to himself as a "kid" very interesting. Almost as interesting as the fact that I saw a headline that said "Brody Jenner is Respectful to Women" and thought well, of course I need to click on this and read the article. Hmm. (My next "interest"? ballsonmyface.)

I've said it many times on these pages: no one is more immature than me. I have the mind and emotional wherewithal of a twelve year-old. Yet while I shake my head at what a fucking child I am, I would never refer to myself in public as a "kid." A guy maybe. A man, depending on the context/tone. But even back when I was a 24 year-old, I knew that while I ACTED like a kid, I wasn't SUPPOSED to act like a kid. Certainly not supposed to be okay with being young and irresponsible. Maybe 24 really is the new 14. Hopefully 36 will be the new getslaideveryday.

Ticker Tape Charade

First of all, let's all agree that that's my best post title in months. Secondly, how worked up am I supposed to get about there being a ticker with betting lines up in the visiting clubhouse in Yankee Stadium? Like the fact that Steve Sanders was 38 when 90210 started, nobody noticed this for twelve years? Really? And NOW we're supposed to get worked up about it?

I think there should be an R. Kelly rule for this kind of thing. If the "crime" is older than whoever R. Kelly's fucking, then it gets a free pass. We'll call it "The Statutory Rape of Limitations." Ticker in the clubhouse? Safe!

Chris Rock (sound it out)

Watching the Eddie Murphy clip below made me think of an argument I've had with my friends over who's funnier, Eddie or Chris Rock. I've always said Eddie. Rock had a great HBO special about a decade ago, and hasn't said anything funny since. Then I thought about the movies Chris has chosen to do - here's the last dozen he's appeared in:

Bee Movie
I Think I Love My Wife
Madagascar
The Longest Yard
Paparazzi
Head of State
Bad Company
Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back
Osmosis Jones
Pootie Tang
Artificial Intelligence: AI
Down to Earth

Looking at this list, I guess my question is...can Chris Rock read? I mean, what goes on when he's given these awful scripts? "Pootie Tang? oooh, HELL yeah!!!" "Pizza delivery guy in a flick with Daniel Baldwin AND Tom Sizemore?!! Look out, I'm going to acting school, people!!!"

I don't think the guy can read. I think it's more like:

Agent: so. take a look at the script last night?
Chris Rock: ummm...oh yeah, yeah...I'm in!
Agent: (surprised) really?
Chris Rock: totally. great script man, great.
Agent: well. okay. and you're cool with the part, playing the, uh....
Chris Rock: ...(taking a shot) wise-cracking black guy?
Agent: ...who delivers pizza?
Chris Rock: yes!
Agent: in one scene?
Chris Rock: just get me in the damn movie.
Agent: oooooooooooookay....

Maybe it's not Chris' fault; can someone teach him how to read so he can stop being in the worst movies in the world??

Buttered Toast...mmmmm

Ah goody, I was worried we were gonna go a few days without the media hyping up another "blunder" by Hillary into complete hysteria. Welcome to RobertkennedydiedGate.

Find yourself having trouble getting super-fired up over this one? Ohoh...you must hate America! My first question is, if she's apologizing to anyone, why is it to the Kennedys? Did they not know RFK was murdered 40 years ago? There are entire books and movies made about his assassination; I doubt the Kennedys are so thin-skinned the mere mention of RFK's death sends them into a weekend of Snackwell cookies binge-eating. If she needs to apologize to anyone, IF the sentiment was in fact "well, he might get shot cause he's black," wouldn't it be to Obama? Maybe that wasn't what she was saying anyways?

But what really chafes me is the gleeful piling on "ooooh, she's done it now!! NOW she's toast!!" nonsense. Like this fuckhead here. Oooooooooooh, this is it!! The last straw!!! Hmm. Really? Problem is, every single one of these jackasses are these same ones that have screamed "she's done! that's it!" every three days for the last five months or so. At every misstep, every primary, that's it, she's toast. If she's as buried as they would've liked us to believe starting all those months ago, why am I supposed to get so worked up in a lather now? She's pretty much already lost anyways, and now you're gleefully tapping away at something like this? Really? Who cares? I understand this having to do with race gives you an opportunity to slather on extra layer of indignation in your columns/tv shows, but gee, lemme guess, it'll be about 6 days til she says or does something else and we're gonna hafta have another round of "oooooooh yeah! she did it again; this time she's REALLY finished!!!!" So proud of yourselves to be declaring somebody dead that you've already declared dead 10 times before. Wow. You're AMAZING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

A side note from Eddie:

I Just Noticed.

Big Brown is the 6th horse in the 10 years I've lived in NYC that is one win away from winning the Triple Crown. Seems incredibly high to me. Could it be...they know what kind of woman I like, and are desperately trying to impress me out there?

Why I Love America, Part VXLAGH^

Now this one I love: McCain lashing out at Obama for being FOR a bill to increase veteran's benefits. According to the Washington Post, McCain is against the bill (along with, of course, Dubya.) Obama never served in the military, so he I guess has no right to wonder why McCain, Mr. War Vet, Mr. Military, would be against such a bill. McCain is offended!!

Which is brilliant, cause I promise you Joe Public American out there will hear this and be furious someone is against McCain on, of all things, military spending. "He's an American hero!! A POW, how DARE you!!!" Meanwhile of course McCain is simply trying to reduce veteran's benefits for what, 8th, 9th time? Have we lost count? Boy, for a coupla guys (McCain & Bush) who pop their hammies to jump up and cry on and on about how brave the troops are, how they're all heroes, they sure like to fuck them in the back room, don't they? McCain in particular is like the father of a kid who gets offered a college scholarship and responds with "Who the fuck do you think you are, you don't know my kid!!" And then makes the kid stay at home and sweep floors for $5/hour. Thanks dad!! You're the best!!

You know, if McCain's gonna be our "Safety Daddy!!!" hard-ass protector president, he's gonna hafta do more for the military than repeatedly hammer on us about his stay at the Hanoi Hilton. Just because you were once a (brave, no doubt) prisoner of war does not mean I'm not allowed to wonder if you know how to actually run a war; being a prisoner of war makes you no more of a military expert than lying in a hospital bed makes me a surgeon. (Yes, I know I'm going to hell for saying that. But someone has to, no?)

My last sentiment was more eloquently written (surprise) in last weeks NYTimes mag here.

There is a feeling among some of McCain’s fellow veterans that his break with them on Iraq can be traced, at least partly, to his markedly different experience in Vietnam. McCain’s comrades in the Senate will not talk about this publicly. They are wary of seeming to denigrate McCain’s service, marked by his legendary endurance in a Hanoi prison camp, when in fact they remain, to this day, in awe of it. And yet in private discussions with friends and colleagues, some of them have pointed out that McCain, who was shot down and captured in 1967, spent the worst and most costly years of the war sealed away, both from the rice paddies of Indochina and from the outside world. During those years, McCain did not share the disillusioning and morally jarring experiences of soldiers like Kerry, Webb and Hagel, who found themselves unable to recognize their enemy in the confusion of the jungle; he never underwent the conversion that caused Kerry, for one, to toss away some of his war decorations during a protest at the Capitol. Whatever anger McCain felt remained focused on his captors, not on his own superiors back in Washington.

Why Women Should Run the Country

This morning on the playground.

Mamalizza: 40 weeks pregnant, ready to pop at any momment - sliding down the slide with kids, running over excitedly to announce a possible fight down the street.

Xmastime: desperately looking for any chair in sight, slipping the kids warm milk and turkey tryptophan roofees. "Tired? You tired, wanna sit down?"

Sigh.

I'm a Toenail-less Hippy (Chapter 1)

Along with the folks over at the UG and Mamalizza, I've been waiting for the arrival of Xmastina Roberta Montgomery Time. I've been amused in particular with Mamalizza's many "signs" re: she's coming. "what a hippy!" I smile to myself, bemused. But then, I think everybody that doesn't work for NASA is a hippy, so.

Last night in bed somehow a toenail caught on something (don't ask...even I was too scared to look)and the whole damn thing tore off. Holding the little nail in my hand I caught myself saying "This is it! It's a sign, she's coming!!"

Sigh. I'm sure she'll be thrilled to one day find out her very existence was once associated with a toenail by her Godmother (that's right - just like race, I don't see gender.)

Meanwhile, had a heart-to-heart with Lil Bear on the playground today. I sat him down and asked if he was excited about his sister coming. He pointed past me and started shouting excitedly about the loud garbage truck that was rumbling by. "Good enuff for me," I said, patting him on the head and getting back to knocking him down to the ground over and over. Job done! :)

Xmastime Hearts Likeforeverdawggy

My buddy over at Like Forever has posted a few things she's not in love with this week. Me being me, I thought it only right that I chime in with my two sense.

1. people who cut you off (in a car) and don't do the obligatory hand wave

I don’t like the obligatory hand wave; it tells me the person was aware of what they’re doing. I like to think that to have the gall to cut me off, they must’ve been driving shitfaced. “BETTER fucking be drunk!” I’ll say as I see a beer can fly out the window.

2. holding the door open for people who then briskly walk through without so much as a 'thank you.'

I don’t know this one. Nobody breezes into a building I’m holding the door open to without asking if I live in the building, who do I know in the building, do I have somewhere else to go, etc. You may know these people as “cops.”

3. cops (unless they are stripping or singing)

Those are the ones.

4. big toe hair (do i shave it?)

Yes, a cameltoe joke writes itself here, but like I said the LF is a friend of mine and I respect her, so you won’t be getting the joke here. Though as usual you “Xmas Insiders” who are paid up through this month may email me for the riff I would’ve used (Platinum Members – your Fleshlights should’ve arrived in the mail by now, contact me if they haven’t.)

5. muffin tops

If this is a tasty euphemism for “fat chicks”, I’m with you here. (also tasty: “fat fucking pigs.” Mmmmm.)

6. weavers (people who walk painfully slow and weave in and out of your path as you attempt to pass...."hurry it up grandma!")

ah, you Motherfuckers on the Sidewalk. It happens EVERY FUCKING TIME I LEAVE MY HOUSE. But especially if I’m running just a liiiiiiiittle late and kinda wanna book it to the train; this is when the “Total Fuckwad Bat-Signal” goes out and people swarm the sidewalk to slow me down. But it’s not the number of people, it’s how they somehow cleverly fill up the sidewalk JUST enough so I can’t pass them. They’ll spread out 3 or 4 wide, seemingly passable, slooooooowly dithering along as I’m bobbing and weaving behind them, looking for a hole. Four hipster motherfuckers looking around like it’s the first time they’ve ever seen bricks and windows, and I’ve gotta be fucking Gale Sayers to get by them. They’re really brilliant – I try to go left and they JUUUUUUUUUST ease over to the left so I can’t get by. At any step I’m perfectly, geometrically hemmed in by any combination of trees, garbage, cars and fuckwads. Unreal. The hand signals these people must have. “He’s going right!! Use the Happy Hour sign to cut him off!” Takes 20 minutes to walk two blocks, and by then I’ve actually walked about 18 miles, darting back and forth left and right trying to pass these motherfuckers. Unreal. Bravo, fuckwads.

You super-fans may recall this from here.

Ooooh stealing from myself; how Fogerty! So fucking sue me, I need the publicity.

7. the term 'bro'









"Excuse me?"






8. delivery folks who don't bother to buzz even though you are home and purposefully waiting for the gotdamn package.

What are you doing at home during the day? Jesus Christ, do white people fucking work?

9. nyc bus driving

Really? When do you find yourself driving a bus in NYC? Do you live in a Die Hard movie?

10. bikers who scream "share the road!" and then cut you off to run a red light (see item 1)

I’m with you there, bikers are fucking worthless. “The devil’s oven mitts”, one may say.

11. people who get in the elevator ahead of you and HAVE to push their floor button at the expense of anyone getting on in a timely manner, then standing directly in front of the button panel as you attempt to make your selection all the while acting disgruntled by your need to reach around them to select a floor. fuckers.

I like these people; if it’s a woman, it gives me a chance to “accidentally” hit some chest fat while trying to reach my floor button. If it’s a man I'm probably getting off on his floor with him anyways since hey, money is money.

12. cellulite

Is it me, or is it ironic that the last 4 letters in “cellulite” are “lite”? Who comes up with these names? Cruel fucker! (tho prolly not a fatass)

13. bugaboos

Those things do suck. Christ, look at it – where the fuck do you put your empties? No thanks.

14. bugaboo moms

Oh, I’ll still do them if(in) I(the) can.

15. the fact that i can't afford a bugaboo

So you’re unemployed, poor, and drive a bus around the city for fun. Interesting.
16th question: "Are you a sitcom character? Yes or no?"



16. the olive garden commercial where the "grandson" treats his "grandfather" to a meal. "grandfather" doesn't look a day over 46.

Maybe “grandma” was the town slut & got knocked up at 15? I dunno why, but that just reminded me of the fact that the last date I ever went on with my first girlfriend was at the Olive Garden. Interesting.

17. golf umbrellas used as everyday city umbrellas. not the problem. the fact they DON'T THINK TO LIFT IT ABOVE YOUR HEAD or move around you as they "share the sidewalk" is a problem. assholes.

Sorry, but if you know the difference between a “golf umbrella” and an “everyday city umbrella,” you might be an asshole. :(

18. not getting my US Weekly delivered in a timely manner (every Thursday mr/mrs postperson!!!)

This, I'm on board with.

19. street spitters

Better than sidewalk nose-blowers. All trumped, of course, by chicks who take umbrage cause I’m looking at their tits to read their t-shirt that reads “CRAZY 4 (picture of a chicken)” Excuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuse me, Grandma!!

20. Baked Lays....you get 3 chips to a bag. fraudulent.

Ugh. These baked fucking things, they taste like wood. Without the flavor. The only thing worse than 3 baked chips is 4 - like another dick in your own bedroom, it’s always one too many.

21. my hubby's ass in the morning.






"I'm listening."

Hey, I Like To Have Goals

I love it when restaurants tape a menu onto a front window, right over top of a table where a couple may be dining. And the fancier the restaurant, the better. Next window/table I see this occurring, I'm walking right up to the menu and staring at it like I'm trying to split an atom with my eyes. Hovering above the unlucky couple, inches away and seperated only by a thin sheet of glass. One minute. Two minutes. Three minutes, just staring at the menu while the couple gets more and more uncomfortable. Nothing silly like pulling my shirt slowly up, just super-earnestly acting as if I'm reading every word of the menu with extreme interest. Finally after about 5 minutes I start to walk away, but at the last possible second I snap my head back as if something on the menu I had missed caught my eye, and I come right back to stand and stare for another few minutes. Fun being me!!

Obama 1, Me 0!

Obama beat me to it, but for weeks my mind had been burning re: a post on the absurdity of us launching ANOTHER war just because we think another country might know how to make nuclear weapons. Actually, my notes were thus:

"we're ready to go to war just because they KNOW HOW to make nukes? Russians had 30000!!! what a fucking joke."

Hmm. Not as extensive as I remembered.

Hey, I remember the Cold War. Yes, as a little kid I heard about the bomb like everybody else. But we also got on with our fucking lives. We didn't panic, throw away all of our civil liberties and devote every penny to crushing anyone that MIGHT harm us. And the whole time, thousands of missles were pointed directly at us. This, much like when Iraq started looking a whole lot like Vietnam, shocks me in how little we seem to be learning not only from history, but RECENT history. Incredible to me. This panic over oh my god, its the greatest threat ever!!!! bullshit is going to turn out to be the boy who cried wolf one day if we don't watch ourselves. Let's keep these "threats" in perspective please. To quote Al Gore from Assault on Reason:

The Founders of our country faced dire threats. If they failed in their endeavors, they would have been hanged as traitors. The very existence of our country was at risk. Yet in the teeth of those dangers, they insisted on establishing the freedoms that became the Bill of Rights. Are members of Congress today in more danger than were their predecessors when the British army marched on the Capitol?

Of course I will be called out as some sort of pussy cause I'm not interested in going around blowing up every country that doesn't succumb to our every whim. I for one do not subscribe to the What Would Charlie Daniels Do? foreign policy agenda.

Yes, there are people out there who would like to kill us. Guess what? Get over it. Grow up - we've become the whining, crybaby fuckhead babydick kid on the playground who runs crying to his mother cause some kid looks at him wrong. We're a nation of giddy, hysterical school-girls accusing people of being witches, a la Goody Bushe.

Ironically, the last 7 years or so of relentless fear-mongering by the administration have made me LESS scared than I could have possibly been before. You can only be told so many times about entire races of people desperately looking to SWARM over the country and destroy everyone in sight before thinking “well, where are they? if they so desperately wanted me dead because I have an iPod, well then they prolly woulda done it by now.” While I’m waiting for our inevitable slaughter, I wouldn’t mind having some health care/being able to buy gas/send my kid to college without selling my sperm etc (a conundrum...if I'm selling my sperm, where's the kid come from???!!! Next week on Nova!!!) Let the military that we love to cry over how brave and heroic they are do their jobs, and in the meantime let’s make sure we’re a country worth blowing up in the first place.

Say Whhhhat?

I opened up this week'a "new" book An Unfinished Life and was immediately met with this quote:

"Think where man's glory most begins and ends,
And say my glory was I had such friends" - William Butler Yeats

hmmm, I said to myself. I've heard that quote before. Where have I heard that one before?

Then I remembered: it was a quote from George to Elaine on a birthday card. I immediately shut the book. Can I really take a book such as this seriously if it kicks off with a Costanza quote? I mean, is this what it's come to...everything really DOES come full cycle to Costanza, and that's just how my life is gonna be? Wow.

I've had it
here
and
here
and
here

Jesus. Life really DOES reflect Costanza!!!

Teddy

Ted Kennedy has a brain tumor. Time for Ben Affleck to take his spot? Or, of course, this guy.

Achy Breaky Media Sucks

On the way home yesterday I picked up a copy of Vanity Fair cause it had my #1 guy RFK on the cover and an article inside about his 1968 campaign. Later on after reading the article I was kinda flippity-flipping through the rest of the mag and without even realizing it I stumbled upon the Miley Cyrus article that has caused such a fuss over the past few weeks. There were basically only two pictures, the two they splashed all over the papers and tv. It's creepy that her pops is in one, but I wouldn't call either of them "sexy." I might call them "bad" however. But the way the media was crying about it, I thought that there were pictures of her in the midst of a goddam bukkake session for fuck's sake. Meanwhile, were it not for all the absurd hullabaloo I would've prolly flipped right through without the "sexy pics" even registering. Nonsense.

Osama Bush Laden

Am I dreaming, or did Bin Laden drop another one of his videotapes to the media the other day? Christ; just like whenever Bush opens his mouth now, did anyone even notice? I think we all know what this is heading towards. Bush and Bin Laden both know that without each other as foils, nobody really cares about either of them anymore. My prediction? They will turn into their own version of Bobby Thomson and Ralph Branca: foes who faced each other off into immortal history, and ended up being friends. I’m talking about doing Iraq War memorabilia shows, signing baseball-like cards they’ll have made up. They can host each other’s Comedy Central Roasts!!







"Hey, I wouldn't fuck this guy with Bea Arthur's dick!! Hiyoooooo!!! Love ya, good buddy!"

Stop the Ride, I Wanna Get Off!!!!!!!!!

Okay. America. Please. LISTEN TO ME: if the prospect of never getting laid for the rest of our lives isn't enough to get us off our asses and not be 400lbs each, shouldn't THIS finally do the trick? I mean, for fuck's sake...boy boob jobs? This is what it's come to? How far are we from scenes of chicks fumbling around with our "bros" in the backseat until we roll our eyes "alright, stop, I'll do it..." Jesus christ. What must high school locker room talk be like these days? "Naw Reggie, those aren't too small...hey, remember, anything more'n a handful's a waste anyways." Gone jogging!!!!!

Two Things

I will never ever drink Parmalat "milk." Something about milk that doesn't have to be really really cold skeeves me out. I don't need my milk to have super powers. And yes, I know cows don't live in refridgerators. Just don't seem right.

Also: I think it should be league policy that anyone named "McDonald" in the NBA has to play for the Nuggets. All I'm saying.

King Bloggah's Beatdown Update

The Vacationist? Please. If I allowed his blog to continue, he’d be posting PICTURE 1: Oh look, here’s Xmastime PICTURE 2: Xmastime’s walking towards me PICTURE 3: I’m down!! I’m down!!

Was barely worth the trip to Tillary Street, but I did find a shop that specializes in aloe vera hair product, so not a total loss. Note - if you know what you're talking about, it's "product," not "products."

Up next? This fucking douchebag couple: Traveling with Andrew and Jen. Am I the only blogger that doesn’t just walk around taking pictures of every fucking thing I see? Here’s Andrew in front of a tree. Here’s Jen in front of a tree. Ooh, there’s a dog. Wow! What artists! Thanks, guys!! Check my new blog out: Traveling with a Loaf of Bread and Wax. Bout as exciting.

Andrew and Jen: tomorrow morning, 8:00am, 38 Tillary Street. Andrew, I’ll take care of you first. Unless of course Jen ain’t hot and I don’t wanna get up in there. Say goodbye to Andrew and Jen, internet!!!!

MISSION STATEMENT HERE.

My Two Books for the Week

Old: The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket, Edgar Allen Poe
New: An Unfinished Life: John F. Kennedy, 1917-1963, Robert Dallek

As for this week's books, I can't say I loved The Rise of Silas Lapham. It was okay, but it repeated itself every 30 pages over and over and over and over. We get it. Nouveau riche. Kid comes a'courtin. And...repeat. Was about 350 pages, and coulda been boiled down to 30. It is the "Braveheart" of novels.

Escaping the Delta was good, but let's be honest, it's hard to fuck up the Robert Johnson story. And I could've done without the first 100 pages of "What Exactly is Blues?" But a great read once it got going.

Curbdog

I saw this sign on the street this morning.

"Maximum"? Really? There's different degrees to which you may be fined for your dog dumping on the sidewalk? What happens, cops come up with some calipers to measure? "ooooookay...that'll be $718." Or is it based if your dog was being an asshole while it happened; maybe sprinting from spot to spot to spread his joy around? Dares to shit on NECK FACE graffiti? "What an asshole...fuck that, I'm fining this dude all the way. $1000." Whack. Had no idea.

Diet Plan

Watching Oprah (this is yoooooooooour life, Xmastime!!!) right now I see that while they were doing The Mary Tyler Moore Show (sliiiiiiice) Cloris Leachman had a bet with Ed Asner that if he lost 30 lbs, she'd sleep with him. What the fuck - where's MY arrangement like that!! Camon, ladies!! It's for my health!!!! Volunteer!!!

Wouldn't that be a great business? "Weightfuckers" - you sign up for like $100/month or whatever, and every time you hit a goal they send a woman to fuck you. Seriously, is this not fucking genius? You wanna a healthier, slimmer nation? Here's the way.

Jukebox

Back in the days before I turned 85 years old I used to actually go out to bars. Sometimes even in the city. A lifetime ago. A nester by nature, once I find a bar I like I hunker down for the long haul - the one thing that has driven me out of favorite bars has been the influx of those fucking internet jukeboxes. Christ. Or, worse, when the bartender assaults us with his/her fucking iPod. Brutal. Anyways, there's a few bars that (back when they had jukeboxes) if they (and I) existed 50 years from now and I walked in and they had their old jukes, I would immediately play a certain song. Was that sentence in the future past future giraffe tense?

The Village Idiot - You Never Even Call Me By My Name, David Allen Coe (runner up: Jolene)
Turkey's Nest - Land of Hope and Dreams, Bruce Springsteen (runners up: I Wish It Would Rain and Heard It In a Love Song)
Mugs - Green River, CCR
Halloween Bar - Paradise by the Dashboard Light, Meat Loaf (runners up: Him or Me and Waiting for the Day)
The Palace Bar - When the Whip Comes Down, Rolling Stones (also Paradise by the Dashboard Light until the bartender cuts it off)

Dare to Dream!

Not only should prostitution be legal, but wouldn't it be great if once it was they had drive-thrus?

Voice in speaker: Welcome to McHookers may I take your order?
Xmastime: Yeah...gimme...lessee...ahhh...gimme the Asian with big tits, please
Voice in speaker: would you like the combo, or just the Asian lady?
Xmastime: what do I get with the combo?
Voice in speaker: some assplay and a medium orange juice
Xmastime: yeah, what the the hell, gimme the combo
Voice in speaker: sssssgggggccczzzaaaaassssquaaaauuuaacckpop!
Xmastime: excuse me?
Voice in speaker: would you like to supersize that?
Xmastime: nah, I don't want 'em too big, regular big is fine
Voice in speaker: that'll be $314.25, drive to the first window please
Xmastime: thanks - hey wait, what's on your hundred-dollar menu?
Voice in speaker: handjob, makeout/grope session, titsucking or staged breakup at your workplace.
Xmastime: hmmmmmm
Voice in speaker: would you like to try one of our hunder-dollar menu items today?
Xmastime: ahhhh...naw. just the combo I guess. thanks.

(drives up to window)

Girl at window: $314.25
Xmastime: aight (hands her $320)
Girl at Window: do you have a quarter, sir?
Xmastime: did I give you a quarter?
Girl at Window: no
Xmastime: well, there ya go.
Girl at Window: your change is $5.75, drive up to next window please
Xmastime: thanks

(drives up to window)

Guy at Window: okay, you have the Asian with big tits combo?
Xmastime: yup
Guy at Window: oooooookay...actually, sir, do you mind pulling up to the end of the curb there? It's gonna be a few minutes. Thank you for coming to McHookers.

Today's Footnote

Mission Statement here.

Lawrence Goldberg.

Seconds

Watching all-time classic sports highlights, truly great moments of surprise and miracle, is a tremendous thing to behold. I've come to love watching not only the moment itself, but the seconds just beforehand. On film you can see the athlete standing there, nonplussed, his name so far not a household name. Even if he's a great player already he may not have had a single, defining moment that will be replayed on televisions until the end of time. I love these moments; in particular the truly desperate ones. While in hindsight we see the player as a hero who simply would not give up etc etc, you know that as the play begins he has no more of an idea that his own life is about to change as you may your own. Doug Flutie's a great example. Here's a play that will be replayed as long as there are humans on Earth; it certainly won him the Heisman. Yet most people forget that earlier in that very game, he had become the first qb to ever go over 10,000 career passing yards. He had already accomplished so much, but as he walks up to the line it is the play to come that will forever define him as a football player - hell, prolly as a person. I love watching the replay and the second before the snap, wondering what's it like, to have your life changed so suddenly? When you watch the highlights, I think you tend to think the athlete knew exactly what was going to happen; of COURSE he does, you've watched it 1000 times!! Of course he knows what's about to happen, he's seen it too!! But he doesn't; up through the actual moment, he himself has no idea what is about to happen. Those plain, normal seconds leading up to immortality are fascinating to me.

For some reason, these examples jump out at me.

- Doug Flutie
- Ralph Branca/Bobby Thompson
- Bobby Plump
- Carlton Fisk
- Christian Laettner

Yes, there's many more.

Hello? Hello????

One thing cell phones have taken away is the ol' "oh shit, did I hear so and so answer as I was putting the phone down?" routine. Remember that? With cellies now, you know that it's 3, 4 rings max, then straight to voicemail. In the old days, ESPECIALLY before everyone had answering machines, you'd call somebody up and sit through, oh, 19 rings. Finally you think "maybe this person isn't there" and hang up; and of course as the phone is 1/4 inch away from the cradle you SWEAR you heard the person on the other end "hello?" Shit!!! Better call them back, they're standing there by the phone now!!! Ring...ring...ring...and so on. Maybe another 36 rings or so; obviously the person put the phone back down and started sprinting away as fast as possible in any direction. And of course the more you liked somebody, the more rings you give them, and the more "oh shit, I think they picked up!" chances you give them. One night stand: 5 rings. Coupla dates in, 6 rings. Girlfriend, 1 ring.

Of course, there's the other side of things too. Me, I could tell a girl that she'd better call me at 6:30 sharp; after that I was going into the biosphere for 6 years without being able to contact the outside world, and she'd give me one ring. "RRRRRRing...aw fuck it, he ain't there." (click)

Ah, land lines, we hardly knew ya!!!

It's The Same Old Song (but With a Different Meaning Since They Took My Testes, Years Ago)

A little while ago I had to walk around the corner to pick something up, and I had to walk by the restaurant at the end of my block that has outdoor seating. I hate walking by here, having to walk thru tables of fucks and fuckettes eating their $39 salads while talking excitedly about trying out some "dive bar!" they've read about in TimeOut. Grrrrrr. But anyways I was wading thru these people and passed a table that had a woman sitting there sipping a small glass of wine. SMOKING hot, had all the Mrs. Xmastime criteria, and...alone. Not only alone, but had that annoyed, looking around "where is this douchebag?" look blazing fire through the air all around her. For a split second I thought to myself "if you had anything close to a sack on you you'd approach her and at least try to sweep her off her feet. This is what life ia about, those small windows of opportunity!!!"

Of course I kept walking. Five minutes later I passed by again on my way back, and the table was empty. She had left. Alone.

No guts. No glory. No up in them guts. Typical.

Ah, the Sweet Smell of Cut Grass (Please Kill Me)

I saw the season's first cut grass this morning. Ugh. Summer's coming.

When I was a kid I swore my dad had my brother and I just so we could cut the grass. I guess we had maybe an acre of grass to cut, maybe a little less. Though when you're 7 years old and can barely reach the handle to start pushing, it seems like 100 acres. With woods. And an orange bear in a red sweater and no pants that can talk. Wait...what the fuck was I talking about? Ah yes. The grass. We split the cutting duties and stuck with that for about 10 years - I did the front yard and the sides, and he did the backyard. Looking back now, I wonder if my dad had me do the front because it was the part that was visible from the road? Was there a moment he thought "You know what...the front yard? I need to put my best man on it. Brothatime's good, he's real good...but is he ready for The Show? Better have Xmastime do the front." Of course, looking back my father also tried to convince me to drop out of the 11th grade and join the Army, so maybe he wasn't really making the best decisions he could have at the time.

Upon immediate perusal it would appear that my brother got the raw end of the deal, since the backyard was about twice as big as the front yard and featured a maybe 80 square foot patch of grass over the septic tank that grew oh, about 5 feet high every week. Looking back (again), and thinking about what helps grass grow so well...how well-sealed was this fucking septic tank underground? What the fuck? We played football on that shit!!!! Hopefully not literally. Anyways. In actuality my part of the cutting sucked more cause while the front yard was a nice, easy rectangle, the sides were a pain in the ass. Had to squeeze in between flowerbeds, rake away old pine needles etc etc. Sucked. The worst was I had to take the fucking clippers (my dad denied the existence of the Weedwhacker, of course) and, on my hands and knees, receive another man. No no no; I had to crawl around the house doing the snippity-snip on the blades of grass the lawn mower couldn't get that close to the house to cut. Miserable. Side note - nothing you wanna see invented, are they? "Fucking clippers"? The only things I wanna see in the boudouire that are long and hard enough to cut something are my girl's pencil erasers, flush with excitement upon seeing she was about to get all Winehouse on my luggage, know what I'm saying?

We'd cut the grass once a week. I don't know how he arranged it, but every time my dad would be leaving for work and say "make sure the grass gets cut today" God would overhear him and make sure the temperature outside went up to a nice, crispy 175 degrees. God forbid if there was a drop of water in my body by the time I was done. I'd start with the front yard, then the side on the east, then the west side by the house, then across the driveway, then come in and guzzle a gallon of water and tell Brothatime! it's his turn, have fun cutting the back, fuckface! and collapse in a heap of my own sweat. Of course, the whole thing was maybe 45 minutes, and I was at all times in peak physical condition; but something about having to do work always made it seem hotter, n'est-pas? If you had told me to go outside and play basketball for 6 hours in the heat I would've been fine. But cut the grass? I'd barely make it through each time before collapsing like a souffle next to Kevin James' hopscotch practice pad; my dramatics, I'm sure, were quite Oscar-worthy.

And luckily our dad made things tougher on us by having us use a lawnmower left over from the Coolidge Adminsitration. Fucker had to weight 150 lbs, I think the wheels were actually square, was completely covered in oil and sometimes would actually start. This thing was so old it wasn't a John Deere, it was a John Fawne. I will now pause typing while you catch your breath from laughing. Okay. You'd hafta fucking yank the cord and then stand there as it wouldn't start. Foot on the base of the mower, pull again, nothing. Try again. It would be at this time that by law one of our neighbors would have to look over from his yard and yell "you're gonna flood it!!" while whizzing around on his riding mower that had a fan, a radio and a deep fryer sizzling away with baby egg rolls and pizza bites. Thanks, asshole! Eventually Brothertime! and I would find ourselves standing over the goddam thing, giving each other advice on how to get it started. "Well, take that nail over there, hold it against the sparkplug, and try starting it while I swirl the gas around the tank with this screwdriver..." You'd wonder why your urine was red for the next few days, but damned if the thing wouldn't start. Meanwhile, a week wouldn't go by without us imploring our dad to buy a riding mower. "What do I need a riding mower for?" he'd say honestly perplexed, "I've got you boys for that." Sigh. Touching, father!! We love you too!!!!!!!!!

The first cut of the season was always the best, cause with the first fruitless, futile non-working pull on the starting cord you could let yourself dream for a split second "it's dead!! the fucker's finally dead!! we'll hafta get a new one!!" during which you would prepare to pull out the charts and graphs you had prepared to show my dad how much better off he'd be getting a riding lawnmower "...if you look, the dollar to grass cut ratio goes up 34.6% over the first quarter..." You'd let yourself step back with relief and say to the mower "guess what? ain't cutting grass today, fucker!!! More time for me to practice my Pyraminx!!" Of course then dad would walk up (first cut was always on Saturday, so he could be home for this particular "ceremony"), give the thing a yank and it would immediately start up. Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. It's like the goddam thing KNEW it was my dad, lighting up like the computer in WarGames when it thinks that Prof Falcon is in the hizzee. As the mower would start up with a sound that was like a jet crashing into another jet during a Who concert but louder, my dad would give us a look of "fucking pussies" and start pushing. Now, this is another mental delusion we would allow oursleves every fucking year; as my dad was pushing the mower across the yard my brother and I would look at each other with raised eyebrows, thinking "is this finally the year dad cuts the grass, and not us?!?!" Actually I was thinking that; my brother was probably thinking "if the words 'enumerably infinite' mean 'countable using integers perhaps extending to infinity' then does that include imperfect integers..." Fool's gold thinking on my part of course; just like that moment you're thinking "ooooohhh...is she gonna let me put it in THERE??" we'd be snapped back into reality by my dad, now about 30 yards away, standing at the mower beckoning me to come with his index finger. He'd make exactly one swath, not even bothering to cut another swath and thereby bringing the mower back to me. So it's bad enough I have to use this monstrosity to cut grass for the next hour, but now I have to go FETCH the fucking thing. Christ. This scene was like clockwork, every year.

EPILOGUE: the first time I called home after I got to college I was talking to my mother and asked where dad was. "Oh, outside cutting the grass on the new riding mower, hold on I'll go get him."

Sigh.

Names

Is there a cooler name ever than Cotton Mather? Seriously, almost worth having a kid just so you could name it that, right? Course that means you'd hafta meet a woman...talk to her...get her to like you...sleep with her... twice, if the first one takes as a girl...I dunno. I'll think about it.

Meanwhile - wouldn't mind if my nickname was "The Icebox." Just throwing it out there.

Hmm. Interesting...Curious, even...

I see. Dubbsy-Wubbsy can go with hat in hand to ask nice-nice with the Saudis, yet Obama is a USA-hating pussy for not wanting to completely obliterate any nation that doesn't do as we say (aka The Charlie Daniels Marshall Plan)? Hmm. Weren't about 19 out of 20 of the 9/11 hijackers Saudis? Oh, WAIT a second...it's been so long for me personally, I forgot things are different when you're dating! Sorry!

The New Me!!!

Just got back my first-ever organic shopping trip. I wanted to go to the Farmer's Market, but I have the fucking gout again and so I had to settle for Topps cause it's closeby. Shopping for organic food with the gout...bit like realizing mid-shit you're outta toilet paper, n'est pas?

$33 for not a lot of food...though about $9 of it was a whole chicken, so that's not bad. I also got oatmeal, Bear Naked granola, apples, strawberries, corn, salad dressing and...I guess that's it. Will pile up on vegetables when I can limp to a market.

Just had some of the Bear Naked, not bad. I like that it's chunky, shit's in big clusters. I saw these guys on the Food Network a few years ago, had a soft spot for them for some reason. Scrappy kids! I thought. Course now I find out they just sold the company about $100M. Ah well. Was still good.

The New Me!!!

The WC...Indeed.

What the fuck...everytime I pass by White Castle they're blammering all over about some new fucking sandwich they've come up with. What? People can barely stomach the shit burgers you're famous for; who're the wizards in the lab coming up with this shit every few months? Chicken sandwich, chicken jalepeno sandwich, fish nibblers, clam muffalettas and almond grenadine raspberry nibblers. Who's in the boardroom pushing for this shit? New chicken ITALIANO!! Yes, I'm sure it's EXACTLY like you'd get at fucking Bamonte's. Hmm. I'm thinking "burn victim parts with ketchup, 99 cents please." I love that they put "for a limited time" in the ad. Oh no!!! Better hurry up and get there before they're all snatched up and you have nothing else to eat on the toilet!!!! Camon White Castle, save your fucking money with all this experimenting crap. Hey, if I'm in a fucking White Castle, guess what? I'm already shitfaced!! Just gimme a sack of your rat-fur burgers with jizz-cheese and let me get the fuck outta there. Camon. Enough!!!

Fore!

"This? Sacrifice? Are you kidding me - Bush gave up playing golf!!! Well, til January. Let's keep this in perspective, people!"

I'm Just Saying.

I'm single and free this weekend. My Johnny Bench Collection sport coat is hanging up ready to go. I can be in Chinatown for the bus in 30 minutes. I'm great with crowds, parents love me, I'll even give a toast if you want. Just let me know.

Am I Being an Asshole Here...

...for saying out loud what everybody's thinking on how to beat this guy if it comes to that: magnets under the track? Oh, I'M A BAD GUY cause after this race in the Olympics I wanna see Old Glory shimmering up that pole?!?!?!?!?

note to self - recycle "Old Glory shimmering up that pole" for my next post about Nancy Pelosi. Yum yum!!!!

I Give Up.

Only a complete fucking idiot could become president, arrange a war involving trillions of dollars based around his own family's business, and LOSE money. Unreal. Cap, doffed. Like Dolly Parton finding a way to lose a Titty Contest at a Brownies meeting.













"No no I insist, please, take it...you'll pay me back when your Daddy kicks. Or whenever. Just please...get the fuck out."

How Bout That. No Idea.

Until I saw this bit on CNN.com, I had no idea the NRA “graded” politicians on…well, guns I guess. Fascinating. I found this, Arkansas’ “report card.” One glance at it and you’re sure to think “what the fuck is James Word’s problem? Ass-faggot!!”

Do you think some of these dudes get their “grades” and think “A-? Wtf?!!? What do I hafta do to get a full A…” and then run a commercial of themselves rolling over their own house with a Sherman tank?

Do other lobbies like this give out grades? Like the alcohol lobby: “Sen. Kennedy A++”? AARP: “Sen. McCain A+ (posthumous)”?