Cosmic Overdrive

"100 Horrors" Released for Kindle

2012-02-16T17:44:00.000-08:00

I’m dispensing with politics today and in fact with the humor/satire I usually write with this blog. Today I’m using my blog as a promotional tool, sort of like whacking you in the head with a wrench. The anthology “100 Horrors: Tales of Horror in the Blink of an Eye” was released for the Kindle on Amazon a few days ago by Cruentus Libri Press.

The concept of the anthology is 100 horror stories written by 100 different authors, each 100 words long.

My story “Into the Darkness” is a part of the anthology.

It is a unique challenge to try and tell an entire story in so few words, but having read the anthology myself I can tell you the authors selected here were up to the challenge. There are some very creepy stories, the kind of ideas that leave you muttering, “How the hell did they think of that?” There are others that let you know the author is a sick, sick individual who is beyond hope of living in normal society.

The stories are micro-short. You can read them quickly and quietly, but the images will stay with you, tapping you on the shoulder every time you turn the lights out.

Now . . . GO BUY A COPY!

Seriously, go now.

Here’s the link:

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00797QZYM

C’mon, it’s only 3 bucks. That’s 33 and 1/3 micros of quality entertainment per dollar. You’re not going to get a better value than that in today’s economy.

A Country Divided

2012-02-11T15:40:00.000-08:00

It started with Iowa choosing Rick Santorum. The core of the earth shuddered at the seismic shift in ignorance. New Hampshire followed with a predictable win for Mitt Romney and there was calm.

South Carolina was next and the southern lords and ladies caused another disturbance in the force voting for dark lord of the Sith Newt Gingrich, whose fleshy jowls frightened undecided voters to pull the lever marked “racist adulterer”.

The scourge of every election, Florida, came up next and for the first time in decades the state was able to pull off a vote without court challenges, recounts or more than 10 % of the vote for Mickey Mouse. Mittens chalked up win number 2 and the Republican Party was officially taking the path of least resistance to Romneyland where everything changes, every day including opinions and election platforms. Speak into the microphone and tell Mitt what you want. He’ll prepare a speech just for you.

Everyone packed their bags and headed out west to Nevada. Each candidate put a chip down at the roulette table, the wheel spun round and round, the little white ball bounced, jumped and jived until it came up Romney. Mittens had win number 3. All was vanilla and pabulum with the world.

Tuesday, February 7, a day that will live in a small amount of infamy within certain factions of Mitt Romney’s campaign and the Republican Party at large. Three states holding a primary or caucus. All three are carried by the same person. A dark shadow, like a vulture gliding low over a dead raccoon in the middle of a residential street, passes over the country. Minnesota, Colorado and Missouri all fell to Rick Santorum.

Updated Scorecard:

Santorum 4
Romney 3
Gingrich 1
Paul 0

The Republican Party is a mess. They have no candidate running that a plurality of the voters wants. Their platforms and policies are a sad mixture of benefitting-only-the-rich tax modifications, couldn’t care less if the poor can afford health care and let’s allow the states to make their own laws on EVERYTHING. You want to give that kind of power to a state say, like Pennsylvania, who can’t even keep their roadways paved and whose capital city is $300 million in debt? Good idea.

Santorum suddenly has momentum and his ideas are the worst of all. He hates women, gays, poor people, non-Christians and apparently America because he’s forcing us to consider him a presidential candidate. If you’re not a rich, white, male, conservative Christian Rick Santorum has no time for you.

Personally I have no time for any of these losers but one of them just might be president in 2013. If that doesn’t shake you to the core of your being then you must a rich, white male conservative Christian-in-name-but-not-actions. We are a politically divided country and none of these mouth breathers is going to fix that.

Consolation Prizes

2012-02-06T16:45:00.000-08:00

And now it’s time for America’s favorite game show “Who Wants to be the Republican Nominee for President?” I’m your host Alex Trebek. Let’s meet our guests!

Our first contestant is a former speaker of the house from Georgia whose hobbies include racism and adultery: Newt Gingrich!

Next we have the former governor of Massachusetts whose favorite quote comes from rapper Fifty Cent, “Get rich or die tryin’”: Mitt Romney

Our third contestant believes in closed borders and closed minds: welcome wacky Ron Paul!

Finally, our fourth contestant is a former senator from the Keystone state whose campaign slogan is “Don’t Google me, bro”: Rick Santorum.

Now let’s welcome our moderator for the evening, Snoop Dogg!

“Hey, hey, it’s the d-o-g down with the G- O- P.”

Uh, all right . . . whatever that means, Snoop take it away with our first question.

“Yeah, listen up, why hasn’t the chronic been legalized?”

Newt: Chronic injuries and illnesses are the scourge of American prosperity. In my administration we will pass health care legislation that thoroughly covers all chronic sicknesses, unlike Mr. Romney’s plan.

Mitt: Will your plan also cover diseases passed on through extra-marital sex?

Newt: Cram it Richie Rich

Ron: The only “chronic” problem this country has is joining things: NATO, the United Nations, NAFTA, wars. It has to end.

Rick: I feel like I’m chronically misunderstood. That stuff on Google about me isn’t true!

“What are you white pastries talkin’ about? I want you to legalize pot.”

Newt: Never.

Mitt: Not a chance.

Ron: Maybe

Rick: No.

“Damn, the G-O-P is a bunch of S-O-Bs. I’m out. Peace”

All right, thank you to guest moderator Snoop Dogg. Now it’s the audience’s turn to participate. Push the button for the candidate of your choice.

And the results are in. The winner is . . . Mitch Daniels. Wait, Mitch Daniels isn’t running. Ladies and gentlemen you have to select one of our official candidates. Let’s try it again. Push those buttons!

And the winner is . . . Ronald Reagan. That’s it, I’m done. I’m going back to the green room and smoke a blunt with Snoop.

Good luck America!

That's Debatable

2012-01-29T12:05:00.000-08:00

Chris Wallace of Fox News said yesterday that all these Republican debates were stupid. There have been so many that the moderators are having trouble finding new questions to ask. People, we shouldn’t need a Fox News broadcaster to tell us 19 debates are too many. This is an ability that should be inherent to all of us. There are babies being born right now who’s first thought while lying in their mother’s arms is “Really? 19 Republican debates? I’ve been in the womb for the last 9 months and I know Newt Gingrich is a dbag.”

The original field of candidates was transparent in their faults. As a society we didn’t require even one debate to know all we needed. Every time Michelle Bachman speaks the music from the shower scene in Psycho plays in our heads. The republican voters rightfully discarded her quickly in a field somewhere in Iowa. She’s probably preaching to the rats that the corn stalks are un-American and should be investigated by the department of agriculture.

Rick Perry? HE’S FROM TEXAS! Why would you need more? But for you stubborn folks out there, Rick decided to open his mouth . . . and forget what he was talking about mid-sentence, ending with a doofus grin and an “oops”. Imagine that scenario with Perry’s finger a half inch from the button that controls our arsenal of nuclear weapons. Whoo doggies!

Have we really learned anything new about Mitt Romney through 19 agonizing debates? He’s rich, he’s a Mormon, he will say anything to get the nomination, and he’s brainless. He’s Scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz and we saw the straw protruding from his scalp 4 years ago. Nothing’s changed. Call me when you find out he’s wearing ruby red pumps behind the podium.

Rick Santorum has been and always will be an ultra-conservative nightmare. All the debates have done is allowed a wider audience to hear the feces that leaks from his mouth. I would say that that was actually a good thing except someone listened and instead of phoning Pennsylvania and asking us to take him back, they VOTED for him. I’m looking in your direction Iowa.

Ron Paul is Ron Paul, always the outsider, which is strange because he has the pre-requisite racism needed to be a Republican politician along with the gutless denials of said racism. He wants to repeal the civil rights act, is an extreme isolationist and couldn’t give a shit if you can’t afford health insurance. It is a wonder he doesn’t garner more votes.

There are several more debates scheduled which is insanity. How many more times can Mitt Romney change his position on an issue before his head explodes. Actually, I’d watch that. Debate on, assholes.

America Picks a Candidate . . . or Not

2012-01-22T10:57:00.000-08:00

It’s a battle royale for the dumbest state in the union. Tonight’s bout pits Iowa vs. South Carolina.

I was giving Iowa credit for brazen ignorance for casting enough votes for Google favorite Rick Santorum to come in second. But now it’s been announced that Iowa did a re-count and Santorum actually won the primary.

That’s 2 strikes against Iowa. They can’t do basic addition and enough of them them thought Rick “Massive Tool” Santorum would make a good president. This is a man who said that scientists “don’t have morals” and need to be government regulated. For Christ’s sake Iowa, come in from the corn field and join the 21^st century. To paraphrase Bill Hicks, “we’ve got thumbs now, we’re evolving”. You can have faith in God and still believe in science. It’s easy, I do it every day.

Santorum has said so many idiotic things I could write about them all day. I will mention one more. President Obama once gave a speech in France apologizing for some of the things done under President Bush in an attempt to repair broken relations with a traditional ally. Santorum criticized Obama for apologizing to people that “owes its freedom to the sacrifices of Americans”. While it’s true that the United States liberated France in World War 2, Rick seems to be forgetting that France assisted us in winning the Revolutionary War. You know, the one that allowed us to form an independent nation?

Rick Santorum: a vote for him is a vote for unfailing ignorance.

This brings us to Iowa’s opponent in the dumbass sweepstakes, South Carolina. Last night they threw their hat in the ring of shame by voting for Newt Gingrich by a wide margin over Richie Rich, uh, I mean Mitt Romney. I have detailed Newts faults and absurdities in detail in this blog before so I will only list them now. South Carolina decided the man they want for president is someone who is narcissistic, racist, misogynistic, closed-minded, inflammatory, egomaniacal, self-involved, self-absorbed, whatever the word is for someone who will bomb Iran while he sits safe and sound in a bunker eating Ding Dongs and watching a Two and a Half Men marathon, bloviating, an unrepentant liar, an exaggerator and though I can’t prove it, I believe flatulent.

Look South Carolina, I realize you weren’t given a lot of choices. It’s like being handed a TV remote to flip through American Idol, a Larry the Cable Guy movie, Survivor: Tijuana and Different Strokes re-runs on TV Land as your only viewing choices. But Newt Gingrich? I’m bitching at Iowa to enter our current century, S. Carolina you need to at least break through to the 20^th.

Newt Gingrich has been in American politics for decades. His failings have been widely detailed. His own party essentially fired him from his job as speaker of the house. He pretends to love his country when what he loves is himself and power. This information was all available to you South Carolina and still you voted for him.

So who wins the battle royale? I think it’s a draw. Both combatants swung wildly and missed altogether, falling drunkenly through the ropes and out of the ring. Now we move on to Florida. Oh God, Florida. We’re doomed.

Mittens

2012-01-17T16:49:00.000-08:00

Barring something wild happening it looks like Mittens Mormon Flip-Flopper Plastic Man Elitist Millionaire No Common Sense Loves to Fire People The Candidate No One Really Wants Romney will win the Republican nomination for president. He’s already won the hearts and minds of a small percentage of Iowans and New Hampshirites and is now way out in front in early polling with an equally small percentage of South Carolinians. What are we to make of Mitt Romney?

Well, he smiles a lot. Every picture or video taken of him he has a giant, fake smile painted on his face, sort of like a clown without the makeup. It remains to be determined if he’s squirting seltzer down his pants, but my guess is ‘yes’.

He is an idiot. He passed some kind of health care reform in Massachusetts that very closely resembles what the Obama administration passed last year, but since most republicans don’t agree with it, Mittens has tried to deny what he did. That makes sense. I mean it’s not like they keep records of the legislation a state passes or that the governor has to sign documents or that people take pictures and video and report on it in the news on TV and the internet and you tube and political blogs blah blah blah.

He’s a bastard. Go online and Google Romney’s dog story. This asshole put the family dog in a kennel and then tied the kennel on the roof of the car during a 12 hour trip into Canada. Part way through the trip when one of his sons noticed the dog shitting down the back window out of pure, abject terror, Mittens became a man of action. He pulled over, hosed down the dog and the kennel, put the dog back into the kennel, re-tied it to the roof of the car and continued with the trip. Bastard.

He’s made millions by down-sizing companies and laying off hard-working people, all the while apparently laughing as if he were watching a Green Acres re-run. This election the number one issue is . . . drum roll please . . . job creation and the unemployment rate! Hmmm, Mittens doesn’t seem like a good match for this issue. It’s like an eHarmony meet-up between Paris Hilton and Tim Tebow.

So basically Mitt Romney is a smiley idiot bastard who, if elected president, would spend four years still trying to get people to like him, passing legislation and then backtracking, and denying suffering people unemployment while slashing jobs rather than creating them. Sounds like a fun 1460 days.

In conclusion I’d like to apologize to any reader who thought by the title that this was an article on winter outer wear. No harm was ever intended to gloves, hand warmers or Isotoners.

Fun with Spell Check

2012-01-09T19:04:00.000-08:00

I’ve noticed that the spell check in Microsoft can give you some strange suggestions when you misspell a word. For instance, if my last name, Hivner, is in my document it would like me to change it to “Hivers”. While this may be a way for me to avoid the IRS for a while I don’t think my Mom would approve. With this in mind I did an experiment, typing up some famous quotations along with the names of the person who said them. Then I took a few of the letters out to give spell check something to do.

Albert Einstein said “Imagination is more important than knowledge.” His lesser known cousin Ale Eaten said, “Iodination is more imp tat than college”, which I think is just as profound if you really think about it.

“Four score and seven years ago . . .” is of course the beginning of Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address. Words you may not be as familiar with are “Four sod and Sven yaks ago . . .” which is of course the start to the Geyser Padres from unknown antebellum politician Bathe Lingo.

Poet Robert Frost wrote these immortal words, “Two roads diverged in a wood and I took the one less travelled”. Under the pen name Rover Fest he wrote these slightly less memorable words, “Two rams veered in a woody and I hook the one less railed”.

British leader Winston Churchill was once cheekily quoted as saying, “I am easily satisfied with the very best.” His alter ego Wisdom Circle had even more cheek when he said, “I am easily stiffed with the very bust”.

American Writer Mark Twain had this to say about the human psyche, “Everyone is a moon and has a dark side which he never shows to anybody.” An unknown writer named Mask Taint who was trying to mimic his hero has this to stay, “Urine is a monk and has a dry side which he never sags to dayboy.”

As you can see you have to be careful with spell check or you can end up wiring a very sage bog pet.

Damn it!

In the Dark Iowa Night

2012-01-05T16:36:00.000-08:00

What are we to make of Rick “Pennsylvania’s Greatest Embarrassment” Santorum’s near victory in the Iowa caucus? If you watch TV news shows or read any news web sites you would think by the smothering coverage that this was the biggest event since politics was invented by a few over-intellectualizing Greeks. But let’s take a look at some facts.

1. The voter turnout for the Iowa caucus was around 5%. 5. Five. FIVE. One, two, three, four, five. Looked at another way this means 95% of the voters in Iowa stayed home to watch The Bachelor. MSNBC, Fox and the others of their ilk would have you believe this was a very important event but 9.5 out of every 10 Iowans didn’t give a shit. If the state itself didn’t care, why should the rest of us?

2. Does the winner of the Iowa race eventually win the nomination? No. Iowa voters have only managed to choose the future winner twice in the past 30 years. In other words they are successful about as often as I win on a lottery scratch off ticket. For all we know Michelle Bachmann will magically be written in on ballots in the other states and win the nomination, sweeping her way to the White House and plunging the country into 4 years of eye-gouging insanity.

3. Rachel Maddow made an interesting point last evening that maybe one of the reasons Santorum did so well in Iowa was because he hasn’t been vetted yet and the reason for that is: no one, not one person, nada, zilch, nobody . . . thinks he can win. We haven’t paid attention to Rick “Google Problem” Santorum because we don’t think he’s got a chance. Maybe the good people of Iowa haven’t heard the ignorant shit he’s said over the years. Get ready remaining 49 states, your ears are about to bleed.

In the end, the Iowa caucus made news only because it was the first one on the slate. Even the people who live there couldn’t be bothered to come out and cast a vote for Grumpy, Dopey, Sneezy, Sleepy, Bashful, Happy or Doc. The winner in Iowa clearly has no historical precedent so who cares?

The last time Santorum ran for the Pennsylvania senate, as the incumbent, he got flushed like a turd into the Susquehanna so it’s surprising to now see him win anything, much less a primary for the nomination for president. But what does it ultimately mean?

Not a damn thing.

3 Days

2012-01-03T19:02:00.000-08:00

It’s 2012 and what do we have? Seven idiots running for the republican presidential nomination, someone got arrested at Lindsay Lohan’s house and another celebrity couple is getting divorced after barely a year of marriage. Seems a lot like 2011 to me.

Of course, it has only been 3 days so maybe I should give the new year a break. How much could it actually have accomplished in 3 days? Hmm.

Woodstock—3 days of peace, love and music

Gettysburg—3 day battle that effectively lost the Civil War for the south

Apollo 11—3 days to fly from the Earth to the moon

Wimbledon—in 2010 Nicolas Mahut and John Isner played the longest tennis match in history stretching over portions of 3 days with Isner finally prevailing 70-68 in the 5^th set

With these events in mind I think it’s time for 2012 to step it up. Three days now seems like plenty of time for the new year to distinguish itself from 2011. I don’t know about you, but I’m still working the same job for the same pay, my car still has 117,000 miles on it and I still don’t love vegetables (2012 is supposed to teach me to love vegetables so I can be healthier. Damn I want a donut).

I think in the past I was content to let the new year ease into its job, take care of the previous regime’s problems first before announcing its presence. But I’m 46. My life needs action to change. I know 2012 still has that new year smell and we’ve barely gotten the oil mixed through the entire engine, but I think my list proves it’s possible to accomplish a lot in 3 days.

It’s clear what happened. The 1^st was a Sunday so 2012 took it easy. It slept in, no doubt with a hangover, and when it did finally get up, it never made it out of its pajamas and bathrobe. A little hair of the dog while watching football and boom day 1 is over with nothing accomplished. Day 2, television was filled with college football bowl games. 2012 was in a pick ‘em pool. Instead of helping people with resolutions, the new year was on 2011’s couch, eating hot wings while imploring Wisconsin to score before his whole ticket was blown. Today was day 3, a Tuesday of all days. Nothing of consequence gets done on a Tuesday. 2012 knows this so it went to OTB trying for the trifecta, lost, and spent the evening smoking weed with 2009 and 2010.

We are all very disappointed in you, 2012. I know many people had very high hopes for you to start strong. We all have a lot of problems and were counting on you to have answers.

Oh well. Maybe day 4 will be a day of miracles, if we can get 2012 out of bed.

Happy New year

2011-12-28T19:38:00.000-08:00

The holidays are the time of year when we take a hard look at all we have to be thankful for in the past 12 months. As someone trying to establish a writing career and using this blog as a stepping stone, I find myself thankful for all the people and things that give me subjects to write about.

Politicians—It’s a given that politicians are horrible people. They all claim to get into the profession because they want to help their country, county, city or municipality grow and progress. In fact, they are in the game to reap whatever spoils they can for themselves and their family while screwing over the people that elected them. At the same time, they have to appear to be doing “something” so they can continue to get elected and not lose all the graft they’ve accumulated. 2011 was a banner year for any humor writer as the Republicans put up not 1, not 2, not 3, not 4, but 127 ill-qualified, mentally unbalanced, narcissistic, not-a-good-idea-between-them candidates for the 2012 presidential election. We laughed along with Herman Cain as he forgot what Libya was. We chuckled at Mitt Romney attempting to squeeze a personality out of his ass cheeks. We cringed every time Michelle Bachmann opened her mouth because we weren’t quite sure if she was just being ignorant or was truly delusional. We shook our heads when Donald Trump said he does very well with ‘the blacks’ because we knew the only thing black about Donald is his soul, which he obviously sold to the devil years ago somewhere in the swamps of Jersey. So I say thank you to the American politicians for another year of their idiocy.

Shopping—I’m a little different than most guys in that I like to shop to an extent. I was raised by my mother and I went shopping with her as a kid and now I enjoy it as an adult. My shopping trips in 2011 have given me plenty to write about, from inattentive clerks to bonus cards that are so difficult to attain the store franchise has gone out of business by the time you finish filling out the form, to one memorable shopper in a grocery store who said something to her child that found its way to my ears which led to my stomach and I almost vomited. Hopefully 2012 will lead me to more store adventures like Walmart before Christmas when I picked up a blanket from the site-to-store desk. I told the clerk my item was a blanket and she began her search for it in a drawer that only a comforter for a pixie would have fit in.

My own stupidity—Sad to say I have provided myself an abundance of material. I got a speeding ticket, met bigfoot in the woods of a local park, I found out I’m too old to exercise as parts of my body started to fall off and I found things in my medicine cabinet that had been expired for 7 years. I would like to say that I will do better in 2012, but I know me. My personal inanity will only grow and I will be forced to share it with you. I’m sure in the months to come I will injure part of my body, try to fix something and have it rebel against me with an attack reminiscent of a Roger Corman movie, or sight a UFO from my yard on a night when the moon is low and the swamp gas is rising.

Here’s hoping 2012 brings me many things to write about and publish on the world wide web of internet tubes. Hopefully you will all stick around to read my ramblings. Happy New Year.

The Rise of the Newt

2011-12-13T19:23:00.000-08:00

America, what the hell? Newt Gingrich? Are you serious? The process for choosing a Republican nominee for President has already gone on longer than the director’s cut of a JRR Tolkien movie and now that we’ve finally gotten to the final act, we’ve moved the Newt to the top of the list?

For a while Mittens Romney was the front runner and I can see why. I mean, he’s an idiot with the thought processes of an amoeba, but I could see how he was ahead. First, he looks presidential. This should have nothing to do with it, but this is America, and let’s face it, we don’t elect people for the right reasons. Second, he changes his mind on issues with the frequency of a Disney tween star doing something scandalous, so when you listen to him he’s always saying just what you want to hear.

Then for a time Herman Cain was the popular choice. This didn’t bother me though, because I knew he would do something stupid and ruin his campaign. He just had that buffoonish, cartoon presence that made me say, “Oh yeah, this guy will immolate himself eventually. Let’s sit back with a cold beverage and watch.” Boom, Herman can’t remember what Libya is! Boom, one, two, three women accuse him of sexual harassment! Boom, another woman claims to have had an affair with Herman for over a decade! Goodbye Herman, you were good for some laughs. Infamy is calling, walk into the light.

But now. Now. Darkness has descended over our country. The Republican voters have been polled like members of a trailer park kidnapped by aliens, and they have spoken in percentage numbers. They have, for the moment, chosen Newt Gingrich.

Are you shitting me?

The same Newt Gingrich that was kicked out of congress 20 years ago by his own party? The same Newt that left his first wife while she was in the hospital to marry his mistress? The same Newton Gingrich who left his 2^nd wife (the ex-mistress) to marry his new mistress (wife #3)? The same Newt who paid to have several companies create fake Twitter accounts for him so it looked like he had over a million followers? The SAME Newt whose entire campaign staff quit, en masse, because he went on vacation rather than campaign? This is the man Republicans would vote for if the election were held today?

Deep breath. Deep breath.

WHAT IN THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE? How can you think . . . I mean what . . . he has never . . . morally bankrupt . . . a lifetime of bad ideas . . . how can you believe that he can . . . I mean . . . for God’s sake he’s Newt Gingrich!

All I can say is, I’m not a republican and bear no responsibility for this unholy choice.

A Thanksgiving Day Tale

2011-11-24T08:13:00.000-08:00

There once was a turkey named Larry who lived in a small wood next to a hunting shack. The shack was owned by a very bad hunter named Earl. For ten years Earl had been trying to shoot Larry to eat him for Thanksgiving dinner. Instead, for the last ten Thanksgivings, Earl ate General Tso’s chicken and beef dumplings from Mr. Sing’s House of Chinese Delicacies and Non-Denominational Wedding Chapel. Also two years ago he married 3^rd shift waitress Darlene Lumpholz in a ceremony presided over by Mr. Sing and witnessed by long haul trucker Darryl “Dirty Deeds” Hufnagel. They were divorced 6 days later.

Larry the turkey was worried this year. He was getting older and although he was smarter than Earl, Larry was afraid he would get caught. He had decided that it was time to make peace with his nemesis. He went to Earl’s door and was invited in where the two combatants shared in a feast of Frosted Mini-Wheats while Earl relayed the dream he had had the night before where he won the lottery, ran off with Katie Couric and then drove in the 24 hours of Lemans in a soap box derby car.

They spent hours discussing their differences like how much Earl wanted to eat Larry and how much Larry really did not want to be eaten. What they found in the end is that they were very much alike. They commiserated over stories of their domineering fathers. Earl’s wanted him to go into the family business of lard production while Larry’s repeatedly told him he was a bad gobbler and wouldn’t live past 6 months in the forest on his own. After a few ribald jokes and shots of . . . wait for it . . . Wild Turkey, Earl and Larry were friends. As offerings that signified their new trust, Larry gave Earl one of his tail feathers and Earl gave Larry his Dale Earnhardt commemorative flashlight.

Brimming with renewed hope and confidence Earl reconnected with Darlene at the Thanksgiving evening buffet at Mr. Sing’s and they were re-married with Darryl “Dirty Deeds” Hufnagel once again looking on and toasting them with a tall boy of Schlitz.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Herman Cain Falls Down the Rabbit Hole

2011-11-19T19:52:00.000-08:00

Herman Cain is the latest of the Republican presidential nominees to distance himself from the pack, in a bad way. At least 3 women from his past have accused him of sexual harassment and while he was rope-a-doping his way around that problem, he gave an interview where he was asked his opinion about a pretty big news event of the past few weeks and he drew a blank. So I decided to imagine what it would be like to interview Mr. Cain.

CO: So, Herman, what the hell is up with you?
HC: I’m bloviatin’ as fast as I can.
CO: Uh huh. What I mean is: What is wrong with you?
HC: I guess its time I came clean. I used to snort pepperonis while running Godfather’s Pizza. That’s my dirty little secret.
CO: What do you think of Libya?
HC: Ah ha! A gotcha question! I’m ready for ya’. Libya is a country in northern Africa with a population of 5.6 million. Its main export is oil and its leader is Muammar Gaddafi.
CO: Gaddafi is gone. Dead. Rebels overthrew his oppressive regime after 40 years. Any of this ringing a bell?
HC: Right! Libya. Right . . . I just have so many pizza recipes twirling around in my head . . . let’s see Libya . . .
CO: Forget it.
HC: No! I want to answer. The truth is I’m not sure about the details of the Libyan coup, but whatever role Barack Obama played, it was wrong. He handled it wrong with a capital W.
CO: What exactly did he do wrong?
HC: Right . . . well, he didn’t do what I would have done . . . in the first place.
CO: Which is?
HC: First of all . . . the bombs . . . that . . . and secondly . . . Obama is just wrong . . . he did something, and I don’t agree . . . things would be different . . . if . . . no, that’s . . . Obama was wrong. End of story.
CO: I’m speechless.
HC: I do that to people. It’s my charisma.
CO: Is that another word for aneurysm because I think you’re giving me one.
HC: Herman Cain!
CO: Why do you sexually harass women Herman?
HC: Loves me some women! Wait, I mean . . . women are . . . women have . . . You know I have a tax plan based on the number 9. Did you now that? Could we . . . talk about that . . . maybe . . .
CO: I’d rather talk about the harassment claims.
HC: Falsified! Falsified claims made by gold diggers who want Herman Cain’s pizza money! Money that I will get to keep more of under my 9-9-9 tax plan.
CO: The one that you stole from a video game?
HC: Yes! No! I came up with that myself one night on the campaign trail. I do not play video games! 9-9-9! Libya! Gold diggers! Obama’s wrong! Thank you!
CO: Thank you Herman. I need a sedative.

Adventures in Shopping

2011-11-07T18:17:00.000-08:00

I have a cell phone mainly for emergency purposes. I don’t text, I don’t tweet, I don’t watch Israeli action movies on it, I don’t take pictures of every single thing I see and post it on Tumblr, I can’t land a Harrier jet on an aircraft carrier, I can’t control the route of a city bus, I can’t read John Grisham’s latest tome of good lawyer vs. bad lawyer. I carry the phone with me and occasionally make a call.

To save money I have a Tracphone. There is no $80/a month plan with so many conditions and provisions you need a major in accounting with a minor in international law to understand the contract you are signing in blood. To keep a Tracphone active you add a minimum of 20 minutes to the phone every 3 months at a cost of $20. If you miss your end date, however, then you have to call the company, talk to a man with a Pakistani accent named Steve and jump through hoops to get it reactivated. I believe the last time I had to purchase an elephant and teach it to use its trunk to blow “Melancholy Baby” on a trumpet before my service was restored.

Last Friday was my last day to get a new card to put minutes on before my phone deactivated. I went first to a local grocery store I knew sold the cards. The store was packed with what appeared to be lunatics from an asylum, wandering the aisles, gape-mouthed and drooling. I bobbed and weaved through the throng, got to the Tracphone display stand only to see the $20 cards sold out. Oh, they had plenty of the expensive cards: 200 minutes, a years worth of minutes, enough minutes to connect with the other side and call your dearly departed Aunt Gertrude to ask why Uncle Fred can’t stop farting when he walks. If I had wanted to take out a loan from the man named Murray who sat behind a desk snacking on oyster crackers, I could have had my card.

Instead I got back in my car, fought the traffic to drive through the intersection to the Rite Aid on the other side of route 24. I wandered the empty aisles until I found the display and . . . they were sold out of the $20 cards also. “What’s going on here?” I thought. Have I stumbled onto a vast, global conspiracy to deplete the stock of Tracphone cards? Were their men in black suits watching me, recording my thoughts and catching my skin flakes in tightly wrapped tin foil? Were the Lizard People using Soviet manufactured satellites to track the bar code imprinted on a computer chip that was embedded in my left nostril?

I decided it was all a coincidence and left the store in a huff, giving an odd glance to a man in a dark suit perusing a copy of Global Conspiracy Magazine. I drove to yet another grocery store where finally, I found my $20 phone card.

I should have ended my painful shopping trip right there but no, I made the fateful decision to buy a few groceries. It was during my time in the bread, egg and cheese aisle that I heard the thing that haunted the rest of my weekend. I was happily picking out a package of provolone cheese when a family passed behind me. It was a Norman Rockwellian scene: A mother with her three children in tow, shopping for the family’s basic needs. One of the children asked if they could buy a particular item. I couldn’t understand what the child said but the mother’s response flattened me.

“No,” she replied, “those always loosen you up too much.”

I have never vomited in a grocery store and I was determined to keep that streak alive. The bile that rose in my throat from the graphic image that popped into my head with a devious grin, stayed in my mouth. I choked on it. Choked hard. I ran to the check-out, barreling over an old woman trying to choose between extra-absorbent and super extra-absorbent paper towels. I showed the clerk the items in my hands, threw a wad of money at her and ran from the store.

Once in my car, I wept openly. The world was a darker, danker place and my innocence had been tossed into the trash. I hate shopping on a Friday night.

An Encounter in the Woods

2011-10-25T17:13:00.000-07:00

I was taking a walk through a local state park, enjoying the turning fall leaves, when I almost caught Bigfoot. He tried to tell me he was just a hairy man on a mountain bike but you can’t fool me. After all, I see those Jack Links Jerky commercials almost every day. I think I know Sasquatch when I see him.

I was deep in the woods when I came upon a sylvan glen. A placid breeze wafted across my skin as a yellow-red leaf broke away from its home on a gnarled tree limb and drifted to the semi-hard ground in front of me. Suddenly the calm was shattered by a horrible huffing and puffing. Leaves on a nearby bush were swatted aside and he appeared: Bigfoot!

Huge and as wide as a barn door, only his head was covered in dark fur. I was surprised to see his body encased in blue and silver spandex. He rode a steed made of hardened aluminum with round rubber legs. I had never seen a creature like it. The Bigfoot species must have spent hundreds of years breeding and taming these beasts to use as transportation through the forest.

Knowing this was a once-in-a-lifetime chance I chased after him. He turned onto another path. I cut through some painful brambles to catch up, leaping and grabbing hold of one of his steed’s rubber legs. The creature dragged me twenty yards before stopping and then Bigfoot spoke!

“What the hell are you doing man?” he screamed at me. What a strange, guttural language! I tried to communicate back.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” I reassured him.

“I’m going to hurt you if you don’t let go of my bike!” he bellowed back. I had no idea what he was saying but he was clearly upset. I tried reaching out and stroking his spandex skin.

“Good boy, good boy,” I said sweetly, in a sing-song voice. He looked down at me weirdly then through yellow, gritted teeth said:

“Dude, if you don’t move your hand right now, I will snap it off and SHOVE IT DOWN YOUR THROAT!”

He was roaring now, flailing his arms about like a mountain gorilla. Perhaps they’re related somehow physiologically? I backed off, not wanting to overexcite him.

“What is wrong with you?” he yelled at me in his odd language, spittle flying from his lips. I held out my hands in a gesture of fealty. Finally he calmed down, turned and got ready to ride off on his animal. I had to act fast, my moment was slipping away. I grabbed a hefty tree branch from the ground, swung and caught Bigfoot in the back of the head. He went down in a heap, tangled with pieces of his steed.

I dragged his carcass to my car. He’s in my garden shed for now. When I’m done studying him we will make our grand presentation to the International Sasquatch Convention in Belgium next summer. I have a lot of work to do between now and then. I’m still trying to decipher his language. Last night he said to me, “Let me out of here NOW, you *&6%&^* piece of $#@#. I’m going to kill you! When I get my hands on you I’ll break every %^$#@@&(* bone in your ^&%#@@#$% body, let them heal and start over again!”

If only I knew what that meant, I could be the first person to communicate with one of the great mysteries of the world. When I take him his dinner of dried leaves and stink bugs I will try again.

Billy Goat, Billy Goat, Get Off My Bridge

2011-10-17T17:11:00.000-07:00

I have been occupied. I opened my blog up this morning and found four protesters eating corn muffins and drinking half fat, low foam lattes with just a whiff of cinnamon. When they saw me they lifted up home made signs and began shouting slogans through mouthfuls of crumbling baked goods. The slogan wasn’t very catchy:

“Irrelevant blogs clog the arteries of the internet thus making it more difficult for discerning readers to find blogs of more noteworthy content!”

I told the three young men and one woman that they sucked as protesters to which I received this retort:

“Yeah . . . well . . . you use too many big words.”

They then began chanting “No big words! No big words! No big words!”

I asked them what exactly the problem was.

“We don’t like your blog,” the tall skinny one who hadn’t bathed in a few days said smugly. “And we’re going to sit right here on the admin page until you delete it.”

“Yeah!” added the female whose lazy eye kept wandering to the donut I had sitting on my desk.

I asked what specifically they didn’t like about Cosmic Overdrive.

“You don’t write about what’s important to us. I don’t care if you go to Office Max or you don’t like grocery stores that sell lawn furniture. And these politicians you write about, who are they? I’ve never heard of these people.”

You mean the one’s who are running for the republican nomination for the office of president of the United States, I asked?

“Yeah, duh, who cares? We want to read blogs about video games and snowboarding and protesting.”

Just because you don’t like what I write doesn’t make it irrelevant or mean you have the right to demand it not exist anymore. If you don’t like it just don’t read it, I told them.

“You can’t tell us what to do!” they screamed indignantly. “Fascist! Fascist! Fascist!”

That’s it, I tried to be nice. I’m getting out the taser.

“Run!”

Too late, you pissed me off.

ZAAAAP! ZAAAP! ZAAAAP! ZAAAAP!

I didn’t want my blog to become a police state but they pushed me. All four are down, splayed out all over my admin page. Oddly enough the girl’s lazy eye is still dancing over my donut. I hope I don’t get any bad press from this incident.

Oh no. There’s already an article about it on Huffington Post. Damn it.

Contractual Obligation Post

2011-10-10T16:14:00.000-07:00

I didn’t really want to write a blog post today but then I was informed by myself that I was contractually obligated. Apparently sometime during the summer I made myself sign a contract I had written that forces me to write on certain days. I can be such a jerk sometimes.

I’m trying to figure out how I knew how to write a contract in the first place. I know me, and a law degree is something I don’t have. I have half a jar of peanut butter, a glass Snoopy bank filled with pennies, a lifetime supply of sarcasm and assorted notebooks filled with ideas, observations and knock-knock jokes but I don’t have a law degree.

Wanting to breach the agreement, I simply refused to write, but I was too smart for myself. I had had a clause put into the contract that if I refused to write a blog on this date that tomorrow I would be forced to write a sonnet about kittens sleeping on rainbows while John Denver songs play in the background. I didn’t know I could be so cruel.

It only got worse as I read further. If I don’t sit down and write a poem on Wednesday, I’ll force myself to watch Katy Perry videos on You Tube. By Thursday if I don’t have a short story started I will have to watch a marathon of Joey Lawrence’s sitcom on the Family Channel. Where did I come up with these heinous punishments? Why would I subject myself to these vile tortures if I don’t comply with my contract with myself?

I wanted to hire a lawyer to fight the contract, but I told myself I couldn’t afford one. I may have been lying, I don’t know if I can trust myself anymore. Feeling I had no choice I’ve taken a drastic measure. I’ve hired a hit man to kill me and make it look like an accident. I know it sounds crazy but I will not let me control myself with flimsy legal papers.

I have to go make my dinner now. Funny . . . I don’t remember that ottoman being right in front of the refrigerator where I could easily fall over it and hit my head on the kitchen counter.

The Governors

2011-10-06T15:23:00.000-07:00

Coming this fall on Fox it’s the sitcom that puts politics where it belongs: under the banana peels and coffee grounds in the trash!

It’s The Governors starring Sarah Palin and Chris Christie

Opening scene: Sarah and Chris sit at the breakfast table in the apartment they share in a brownstone in New York City. Sarah is reading the paper while Chris eats breakfast.

Sarah: Can you believe this? Roger Ailes says that he only hired me on Fox News because I’m stacked. What about my intelectalizin’?
Chris: Your what?
Sarah: My analizin’ skills.
Chris: Huh?
Sarah: My smarts!
Chris: Oh. Mmmm.

Chris stuffs a pastrami sandwich into his mouth.

Sarah: Now Chris, how many sammiches are you goin’ to eat for breakfast?
Chris: As many as I need to stay in the news as a fat loudmouth.
Sarah: You got other things goin’ for ya.
Chris: Like what?

Sarah thinks for a moment, then gets up and walks to the refrigerator.

Sarah: Ham and cheese this time?
Chris: Wait. You’re right. I’m more than just a rapacious appetite and crude opinions. And you’re more than a pair of sweater kittens.
Sarah: I didn’t think ya noticed!
Chris: We need to do something big!
Sarah: I could shoot a moose!
Chris: And I could eat it! Wait, no. Don’t think about food, don’t think about food.
Sarah: And I won’t think about anything,
Chris: Good, now we’re getting somewhere.
Sarah: Where?
Chris: As God is my witness I don’t know.
Sarah: Hey, I know God too. He told me not to run for president in 2012
Chris: I thought it was because you’re a whore for money.
Sarah: Oh yeah.

They both walk into the living room and plop down on the couch.

Sarah: Do you really think I’m smart?
Chris: Do you think I’m thin?
Sarah: Next topic.
Chris: I want to do something that will change the world.
Sarah: That’s why you became governor, huh?
Chris: No, that’s why I became a boy scout. But they accused me of eating the scout master.
Sarah: Ookay. So then you became governor.
Chris: No, then I volunteered at the hospital, taking food trays to the patients.
Sarah: Hoo boy, I don’t like where this is goin’
Chris: I really loved the Jello.
Sarah: How much did you love it Chris?
Chris: They found me naked in one of the whirlpools covered in the strawberry flavor.
Sarah: Let’s fast forward through this story, ok? Why did you become governor?
Chris: Free sandwiches. You?
Sarah: Oh, free everything. I haven’t spent a dime of my own scratch in years don’t ya know.
Chris: What are we going to do?
Sarah: We’ll just keep bein’ ourselves.
Chris: You mean two stupid people who feel a sense of entitlement and have absolutely no frigging clue what we’re doing?
Sarah: Yeah . . . I guess, although it sounded better in my head.
Chris: Let’s go eat lunch.
Sarah: Its only 8:30 in the morning for Pete’s sake!

Chris drops his head sadly.

Sarah: Ok ya big lug. Let’s go.

Cue music

Tune in next week when Mitt Romney spends the night and can’t decide whether to sleep on the couch or in the spare room.

Politics Schmolitics

2011-09-27T15:21:00.000-07:00

No matter what question each of the republican candidates are asked, or what subject they are giving a speech on, their thoughts can be crystallized with an interpretive sentence or two. So you don’t actually have to watch and listen to them. No matter what comes out of their mouths, this is what they mean:

Rick Perry—Texas: we elect idiots.

Mitt Romney—I don’t like or agree with the tea party but I will pander to them to get their votes.

Ron Paul—I can’t win but I won’t shut up.

Herman Cain—Yeah, I sold pizza, now I’m running for president. Can you believe this shit?

Michelle Bachmann—I’m paranoid! Who said that?

Newt Gingrich—Yes! I’m still running. How many times do I have to say it?

On to the democrats who are still as spineless as jellyfish. President Obama this week has been giving a series of fiery speeches, being more animated and self-assured as well as smack talking some republicans. Now what could have caused this sudden surge of machismo? Why now, at this particular time, after he’s been president for 2 and ¾ years? Has his wife started giving him Flintstone vitamins? Unlikely. Maybe he’s been drinking 200 year old scotch found in Thomas Jefferson’s basement and he’s hammered when he’s giving these speeches? Possible. Hmm. You don’t suppose . . . no, it couldn’t be. You don’t think he’s like every other politician and he’s just trying to get re-elected? Crap.

Let’s check in with the Tea Party. Yep, still racist narcissists.

Did you know Fred Karger is still running for the republican nomination for president? Me neither. When I found out you could have knocked me over by hitting me with a heavy farm implement.

Tim Pawlenty tried to get a job with Fox News as a political commentator. Yeah, that’s who you want analyzing politics, someone who wasn’t self-aware enough to know no one wanted him to run for president. Someone whose only claim to fame is being so boring, viewers would rather watch an awards show telecast. Someone so dull it’s not worth my time to think of a third joke about him.

This was the week in politics schmolitics.

I'm Late, I'm Late, to a Very Impor . . . Nah, it's Just Work

2011-09-23T15:48:00.000-07:00

I was late to work yesterday because of a minor car accident. A car decided to rear end an SUV right at the intersection of Springwood Road that I wanted to turn left onto. The line of traffic behind them stretched west to the continental shelf in the Atlantic Ocean. There were tug boats pulling cars out into the water to their place in line. A mermaid was selling breakfast kippers to businessmen and a 92’ Dodge was boarded by pirates.

I made the sanity-saving decision to turn right instead. Rush Limbaugh congratulated me on his radio show and my cell phone was immediately robo-called by Michelle Bachmann, Mitt Romney and local candidate for garbage commissioner Earl “Mud Skipper” Delaney.

I had avoided the long line of stationery cars but now had to drive in a wide circle to get back onto Springwood Road about a mile east of the accident. At the first traffic light I was accosted by teenagers waiting for the school bus. A boy with dyed black hair thrust a geometry book through my open window and screamed:

“a² + b² = c²! What does it mean? Is it the meaning of life? Is it a secret code? Help me!”

Luckily I had won 5^th place in a high school talent show with my impersonation of Pythagoras. I was able to calm him down and finish problems 12-15 and show my work. Then a short, angry-looking girl swore at me for being an adult on general principle. Finally the light turned green.

I turned left at the light and was welcomed back by a hearty “Huzzah” from Al Franken, Michael Moore and Alec Baldwin. I had to go up a very steep hill, like driving up the side of the Matterhorn. Halfway up I passed three Sherpas burying a dead hiker. My car engine whined like a Republican asking for tax cuts but made it up the hill.

I came to another traffic light and turned left again receiving a “Well done” from the Huffington Post. I drove about a half mile to the next traffic light and turned left again and received nothing from anyone because that joke has run its course.

I was now on a winding country lane which would lead me to the promised land of Springwood Road. As I drove past a wide open field I glanced over when I saw movement. A hawk the size of a passenger bus was swooping down over the field coming straight for my car. I watched as he rose in the air again and then dove at the hood of my Chevy Cavalier, wrapping his talons around my windshield wipers. Flapping his wings with the authority John Boehner only believes he has, I felt my car being lifted off the ground. I squeezed the lever for the wiper fluid and watched as a stream of the bluish liquid hit the bird in the eyes. He squawked loudly, shaking his head and finally loosened his grip. My car fell to earth twenty feet farther down the road. I accelerated leaving the dazed hawk flying in circles around a weather vane trying to pick a fight.

When I reached the intersection with Springwood Road I turned right receiving a congratulatory email from Fox News. Yes, I went there again. It’s referred to as a “callback”.

I reached work 10 minutes late. After telling my tale to my boss, exactly as I have recounted it for you here, she said she only believed a few words of it. She thought I was exaggerating. Me! I haven’t been so insulted since the ghost of Ernest Hemingway told me I use too many adjectives.

Anyway I had to stay an extra ten minutes to make up the time, but I got the last laugh. I didn’t do a lick of work; instead I played cards with a troll, a spider monkey and a Jimmy Stewart impersonator. Me exaggerate? Please.

Natto? No, No

2011-09-20T15:38:00.000-07:00

There is a cartoon in my local paper that I glance at a few times a week. I’m not sure why I bother because it’s not funny and can be rather condescending but I guess that’s a topic for me and my therapist, Large Pepperoni and Mushroom Pizza. Anyway, the other day they mentioned a food called “natto”. The cartoon alluded to the fact that natto was pungent in smell and an “acquired taste” even for the most ardent lover of food. I had never heard of it so I Googled it. It’s Japanese and is one of those foods that I would have loved to been there when the inventor came up with his brilliant idea.

Scene: inside Shinjo’s Saki Palace and Tofu Emporium,

The breakfast rush of one customer.

Cook: So, how are you enjoying the soybeans?
Customer: Meh. Plain beans just aren’t doing it for me anymore. They’re not bad, but something’s missing.
Cook: Like what? More seasoning? Sprinkle on some ginger or spread a little wasabi.
Customer: No, they’re not going to help.
Cook: A sauce perhaps.
Customer: No. Think differently. Something wild.
Cook: Fish oil?
Customer: Bleh, no.
Cook: A whale blubber reduction?
Customer: Interesting . . . but . . . no.
Cook: What then?
Customer: I’m thinking bacteria. Yeah, what these beans need is to be fermented in bacteria.
Cook: Hmm. What kind of bacteria?
Customer: Give me your hand towel.

The cook hands the dirty, wet towel to the customer who proceeds to bite down on one end of it and suck on the moisture. He swallows, retches and vomits.

Customer: That’s not it.

The customer then gets on his knees and licks the floor.

Customer: Oh crap. Doesn’t anyone ever wear shoes when they come in here? My tongue tastes like a foot now.
Cook: I didn’t tell you to lick the floor.

The customer walks outside and shoves a handful of dirt into his mouth. He swishes it around, chews a few times and swallows.

Customer: Oh yeah, this is it. This is what would make those beans sing. Bacteria straight from the bug-infested, radiated, sewage-soaked ground.
Cook: And what do you think the bacteria will do for the beans?
Customer: What will it do? It will cover them in sticky goo. They will be repulsive to look at, smell and eat!
Cook: I‘ve been looking for a signature dish to pull people in.
Customer: Oh no. This will drive people miles away. But you’ll be famous!
Cook: I’ll do it!

3 Things I Didn’t Understand Last Week

2011-09-17T09:41:00.000-07:00

Why does your body attack you with a sudden pain? Then by the time the hypochondriac in you is convinced you’ve somehow picked up a fang-toothed, tape worm-like parasite from the Amazonian rain forest that’s eating your nerve fibers like cotton candy and carrying diseases heretofore only found in science fiction novels, it just as suddenly goes away. On my way to work the other day the inside of my right ear began to throb as if the Norse god Thor were in there pounding on my eardrum with his hammer Mjolnir. I’m pretty sure he was playing the solo from Zeppelin’s Moby Dick and much like Robert Plant I was about ready to shriek in a high-pitched voice. And then it was gone. I have no idea why the pain started, what caused it or why it stopped. Do our bodies contain gremlins? Are their little green creatures slithering through our veins, popping out occasionally to pinch a muscle or punch a kidney? This needs to be studied. I propose a telethon to raise money for research, hosted by Rob Schneider and Kathy Griffin and shown on cable access channels the world over. Wait, that would actually CAUSE pain. Forget it

This one is about the men’s room so if you are faint of heart, step away from the computer now. For those of you who remain, what is wrong with you? You like reading stories about the men’s room? I didn’t even like writing it. Anyway, on with the story! I was in stall #1 the other day at work, taking care of business and wondering what a cheese puff is exactly. I mean, it’s light and crunchy and cheesy and delicious, but WHAT is it? My important work was interrupted by whoever was in stall #2 tearing off what sounded like a full yard of paper. A few seconds passed and again I could hear the roll being maneuvered and A LOT more toilet paper being torn off. Another few seconds passed and MORE paper was unfurled. What in the hell was he doing with all that paper? Finally the toilet flushed and I thought all was well so I went back to pondering the provenance of cheese-based snacks. To my horror the roll of toilet paper began moving again: Foot after foot of thin, cheap paper being gathered for some nefarious purpose. There were sounds I couldn’t place which made me queasy, and then . . . more paper was unrolled. I audibly gasped. Did this man pass a ground hog? Was his rectum being used to test experimental suppositories? Did he clean out his cupboards over the weekend and find a 20 year old bag of olestra chips and figure ‘what the hell’? I put my head in my hands and wept as I knew I was going to die that day. I just wanted it to stop. I prayed and asked God what punishment he had wrought on this man. I was answered with spin after spin of the toilet paper roll. I watched the paper spool on the floor like a coiling snake. Then I heard the tear and saw the top of the paper mound peeking over the walls of the stall. Thirty seconds passed and the paper slowly disappeared, accompanied by sounds NASA scientists have yet to identify, followed by a second flush. When the man exited the stall I averted my eyes so as not to catch a glimpse between the stall door for fear I would turn to stone or worse yet, into a roll of Quilted Northern.

I work in a casual business environment. My department was recently moved to another of the company’s office buildings and we are now in the middle of a “cubicle farm” with members of another department. What I don’t understand is why they believe a cubicle provides privacy. They put up three metal and cloth “walls” and you’re supposed to be comfortable talking to your doctor to get the results of that test you drove three states away to get. There is someone in my office whose niece got married the other weekend. How do I know this? Because on Monday morning it was the first topic of conversation in every phone call she had and I can HEAR EVERY WORD SHE SAYS. I’m waiting for the day I get to hear about someone’s goiter or their step-son’s arrest for urinating on a cow. I think we should all get our own personal “hamster ball”. The plastic could be tinted so no one can see inside, it would be soundproofed so no one can hear your phone conversations and you could roll your way around the office in comfort.

Too Old to Exercise

2011-09-03T11:18:00.000-07:00

Last year I did the exercise program P90x for about 4 months. I lost 20 pounds and felt really good. But then on my way to losing another 20 pounds I started getting minor muscle strains which hindered my workouts: First my calf, then my forearm, then my back. The medical reason for these muscle strains is that I am old.

There’s a lot of warming up and stretching before each routine in P90x and I followed them and still hurt myself. I was thinking back to when I was a kid and there was no “warming up” or “stretching”. We rolled out of bed, got dressed in yesterday’s clothes, ran down the stairs like we were on fire, slammed the door open to leave the house and then proceeded to run around the neighborhood like maniacs on methamphetamines for approximately 23 hours before coming home to devour the contents of the refrigerator and fall into bed to go to sleep.

Fast forward to today at 46 years old and if I roll over in bed in middle of the night I pop a hamstring. Having to go to the bathroom at 2 a.m. is like maneuvering through a minefield. If, and it’s a BIG if, I manage not to stub a toe on the bed frame unleashing new and creative expletives that Webster’s is considering adding to their dictionary, I have to avoid the clothes hamper while making a sharp right turn to make it past the bedroom door without cracking a knee into it or raking my knuckles while reaching for the light switch. With eyes still glued shut as if I was sleeping in a bed of tree sap there is a narrow strip of wall in the hallway I have to avoid walking directly into then have the presence of mind to turn right again to enter the bathroom. I almost never run this gauntlet without free-flowing blood or a new, shiny bruise.

When I was 9 we were playing football 18 seconds after waking up. Tackle football. Without any protection. I never pulled a muscle. Yesterday I stood up at my desk at work and my kneecap popped so loud I thought I had been shot.

Eventually last year I stopped exercising. Not because of the never-ending muscle strains but because I got lazy. My couch made a persuasive argument as to why I should sit on it and watch Justified and Burn Notice on TV. I’m telling you my futon must have been on the debate team in college. I regained the 20 pounds plus a few more because that’s how I roll. Literally, I roll across the floor to the kitchen for another corn dog.

This week I re-started P90x. In some ways it feels good to be exercising again, in others, not so much. I am so sore every movement is like someone sticking a lit match under my skin. Friday’s workout contained a lot of lunges and squats and now my gluteus maximus is sore. Did you know there were muscles back there? I didn’t, and now they hurt. Apparently I am too old for exercise.

The Adventures of Mr. Speed

2011-08-18T15:36:00.000-07:00

Faster than a ’92 Honda Civic, more powerful than a diesel powered dump truck, able to leap the curb while making a turn, it’s . . . Mr. Speed!

Today’s episode: Death by Garbage

Our scene opens with Mr. Speed on his way to meet his super friends at the Pennsylvania Renaissance Faire for a day of fun and frolic. As he drives happily along in his mother’s 1999 Buick Century with working air conditioning and V6 engine, his mind is wandering to other of life’s problems.

“What do fish think about all day?” Mr. Speed asked himself thoughtfully. “How many times can I legally dream about Megan Fox before it’s considered stalking?” he wondered as he drove past the York County Landfill on Mt. Pisgah Road. “Why won’t Charlie Sheen just go away?” he pondered.

In the middle of his reverie Mr. Speed was suddenly jolted by flashing lights. Was it the aliens again, come back to finish their experiments? Had a disco opened in that empty field? Was it the opening of another Verizon store that no one would ever see anyone go into and yet it would somehow stay in business?

No! It was Mr. Speed’s sworn enemy, The Policeman from the planet York Township. Mr. Speed pulled over wondering what nefarious plan The Policeman had. He watched carefully through the side mirror as his nemesis approached.

“So, we meet face to face for the first time Mr. Speed,” The Policeman snickered, his voice as thick as olive oil and as nasally as Celine Dion’s awful singing. There was a long pause and then The Policeman leaned in with a sinister sneer, “Do you have license, registration and proof of insurance, and I hope the answer is no!” Mr. Speed thwarted the attack by peacefully handing his documentation to The Policeman. He growled with disapproval, snatching the papers from his hand. Mr. Speed smiled.

“Do you know why I have pulled you over?” The Policeman asked.

“Because you’re an interplanetary madman bent on human destruction and I am the one person that can stop your evil reign of terror against the innocent people of Earth.”

“Besides that.”

“No.”

“You were . . . SPEEDING! Muahahahahahahahaha!”

Drat! Mr. Speed had thought that his atomic powered muon transference accelerator had blocked his true speed from land-based radar, but The Policeman had detected the extra velocity. He continued laughing as he went back to his patrol car, each chortle a slap to Mr. Speed’s already red face.

He knew The Policeman’s plan must be to give him a huge ticket, draining his bank account. Mr. Speed had to do something. Closing his eyes, he concentrated hard on the ticket The Policeman was writing. In his mind he saw the pen as it pressed down on the pad. It was writing down his address and phone number. Then it detailed his offense. Mr. Speed waited and when his mind’s eye saw the pen writing in the amount of the fine he sent a telepathic message for it to be the minimum. The pen shook in the Policeman’s hand, wanting to write down an absurdly large number. Mr. Speed drained himself of all his energy to force The Policeman to write the ticket for 45 in a 40 instead of charging him with his actual speed of Mach 3.

Mr. Speed collapsed back in his seat, sweating profusely. He saw the patrol car door open and The Policeman stride angrily toward him. The ticket was thrown at Mr. Speed’s face.

“I don’t know how you did it, but you ruined my plans Mr. Speed.”

“That’s because I fight on the side of good and not evil.”

“Whatever. Pay the fine in 10 days or I’ll swear out a galactic warrant on you and the Scarlax of Negron 5 will swallow you and divide you up between its 6 stomachs.”

The Policeman got in his patrol car and drove off. Mr. Speed sat in his mother’s car swearing softly to himself before continuing on his journey to the Renaissance Faire. The sun came out and it was a beautiful day. Until the torrential rain came.

Saturday Afternoon at the Movies

2011-08-13T17:21:00.000-07:00

I don’t go to a lot of movies because the price to get in to see Michael Bay’s latest orgy of CGI and tin-eared dialog is usually more than the GNP of Paraguay. But last week I found out just how bad things had gotten at my local theater. My brother and I both wanted to see Cowboys and Aliens and I had a $25 gift card. We planned to go at a matinee time slot so I figured my card would get us both into the movie and get us something from the snack bar. I can hear you laughing.

I ordered our tickets and handed over my gift card. The girl behind the glass looked at it, chuckled and yelled to the girl next to her, “Hey Charlene, these guys think this gift card will get them into the movie.” Charlene replied, “Aww, that’s cute.” I felt something poke me in the back and when I turned there was a mountain standing behind me.

“This is Salvatore,” the girl behind the glass said. “He’ll take you to the Regal Cinemas Financing Room. Thank you and enjoy the movie.” Mt. Kilimanjaro led my brother and me into a small room that contained a desk and another swarthy gentleman with the name tag “Vincent”. Vincent dropped a brick of money onto the desk.

“Dis is da getting’ in money for da movie. Youse will pays it back in 24 hours plus da juice.”

“Juice?” I asked.

“17 percent. Five o’clock tomorra.”

I was still a little hazy on “juice” but before I could ask again, Salvatore picked us up like dolls and carried us to the snack bar. He dropped us and then returned to the theater entrance where three Sherpa’s we were waiting to lead an expedition up his south face to set up base camp at his knees.

Tentatively I approached the girl behind the counter. “I have $12, what can I get for that?” I asked. “Here you go,” she replied cheerfully while handing me a straw. I looked over at my brother who, for his money, had received a palm full of melted butter.

“If you want something to go with that,” the girl continued, “here is the Regal Cinemas Snack Bar Bartering List.” I took the paper and we read:

What You Want to Order // What you Have to Give

1 small soda and small popcorn – sperm
1 medium soda and medium popcorn – plasma
1 large soda and large popcorn – bone marrow
1 large soda and large popcorn with assorted candy – kidney

We were hooked up by a very nice nurse named Peggy and gave our pint of blood for which we received our medium soda and popcorn. As we left the Regal Cinemas Infirmary a man was being prepped for kidney removal. He looked at us and said, “I just can’t enjoy a movie without my Jujubes.” The on-call surgeon looked a lot like the guy I had seen sweeping up popcorn and rat feces from the lobby floor.

The movie was good, we both enjoyed it, but I don’t think I’ll be going back to the cinema for a while. I’m still feeling kind of lightheaded.

Newt Gingrich Keeps Rolling Along . . . Off a Cliff

2011-08-04T22:27:00.000-07:00

Newt Gingrich’s presidential campaign is the gift that just keeps on giving, like a bottomless bowl of fettuccine Alfredo. I don’t really want to keep writing about him because he’s such a narcissistic buffoon, but he keeps making news for the dumbest shit. His campaign went off the rails months ago. It’s lying in a ditch somewhere in Kentucky, the corpse being picked over by rangy, stray dogs and families of possums. But the Newtman will not give up.

His latest explanation of why his candidacy isn’t dead is that he has more Twitter followers than any of the other republican hopefuls thus proving his popularity. Now I’m already on record as believing that Twitter may be the stupidest invention ever. It tops even the Thigh Master and the Salad Shooter in my book. But celebrities, athletes and other people who can’t stop talking about themselves seem to enjoy it. Newt has 1.3 million followers and I guess the closest to him is Sarah Palin with 600,000. So you can see how this makes Newt a viable candidate. Yeah, I don’t get it either.

Somewhere in Newt’s delusional cerebellum it all makes sense. It’s mixed up with memories of his mother telling him he’ll be the first amphibian to become president. This week, however, there was a story on the website Gawker that has thrown cold, bacteria-infested, New Jersey swamp water all over Newt’s specious logic.

A former Newt Gingrich campaign worker says that most of his twitter army . . . is fake. Much like thousands of voters in a Chicago mayoral election, they don’t exist. Newt paid a company to create thousands of false twitter accounts to fluff up his numbers and make it look like he was the populist candidate. Gawker rightfully pointed out that this hadn’t been proven yet; it was just the word of a former employee.

The next day though they had a follow-up story about a web site called PeekYou who had already investigated this claim and determined that indeed, 92% of Newt’s followers on Twitter had fake names or were inactive. This number coincides with my own findings that 92% of Newt’s ideas are worthless crap.

I’m assuming that Newt will continue his amoeba-like existence, re-forming his campaign around whatever new concept his plasticized wife whispers into his hirsute ear while he files corns off of her feet and Fox News plays in the background with the sound turned down. So while I’d rather write about my latest trip to Office Max or something else stupid I’ve done, Newt could make his triumphant return at any time. You’ve been warned.

Dear NFL

2011-07-27T22:06:00.000-07:00

Professional football is my favorite sport. From August to February I live, eat and breathe football. For the past few months it looked like the 2011 NFL schedule of games might be cancelled as the players and owners were in a fight over who should get how much of the $9 billion the game makes every year in revenue. As you can imagine this left me in quite the emotional state until the stalemate ended this week. The aggrieved parties are friends again, awash in cash, and the season has been saved. It prompted me to write this letter:

Dear NFL,

So, you’re coming back to me after all. I was beginning to think our 40 year relationship was over. I know why you’re upset, but it didn’t have to come to this.

Yes, after the Super Bowl each year I have my affairs: college basketball and baseball. I’ve been with baseball nearly as long as you. College basketball is younger, but it’s not like that, don’t make it dirty.

I honestly thought you knew about my other sports, I’ve never tried to hide it. As much as you claim to need me, it’s you who leaves every February. One last blowout that’s supposed to just be for the two of us but you have to make it a party and invite millions of other people. By the end of the night I’ve hardly gotten to speak to you much less enjoy your company. Then I wake up the next morning and you’re gone. The house is eerily empty. No note, no apologies, no explanations, just a ticking clock amid the silence telling me it will be 6 months until you return.

Now you’ve found out about my dalliances and you’re angry. What did you expect from me? I’m only a sports fan. If you abandon me I’m going to turn elsewhere. I won’t just sit in front of the TV watching Law and Order reruns waiting for you to return. Besides, I’ve said all along that if you’d stay I wouldn’t need these other sports. You leave a gaping hole and think I won’t reach out to fill it?

Baseball and college basketball want to be with me. I know that shocks you, but it’s true. My fandom is attractive to other sports and they don’t take me for granted. If I stop watching their games, they notice and try to woo me back. You? You just keep counting your money while the cheerleaders dance for the drunks in the stands. I’m important to baseball, but to you I’m just another Sunday afternoon cheap trick that will sit and watch the Browns vs. the Redskins and think I’m being entertained.

So now you’re back and I’m excited just like you knew I would be. I guess our dysfunctional relationship will never change because I can’t let you go. Although I’m not going to just be available anytime you want to play a meaningless pre-season game in Buffalo. Baseball season is in full swing and my Phillies are in first place. I know a good thing when I have one.

The Republicans vs. The Economy

2011-07-19T21:25:00.000-07:00

I don’t understand the economy. I’ve listened to talking heads on TV, read newspaper and magazine articles and its still over my head, much like understanding the popularity of Ugg boots. I will also admit that until recently I had never heard the term “debt ceiling”. I’m sure it’s been bandied about in previous years and I just didn’t pay attention. It took an about-to-be catastrophe to pull me away from my Hogan’s Heroes reruns and learn something about how our country pays its bills. I like learning new words and phrases so I guess I have to thank the Republican Party and their on-going stupidity for teaching me “debt ceiling”, although they could have just taught us “zugzwang” (a situation in which a player is limited to moves that have a damaging effect).

The main point I don’t understand is why Republicans won’t listen to the experts. Republican representatives don’t understand the economy either. They’re just people, like you and I, who we elected to represent us. The actual experts, economists and such, are screaming that not raising the debt ceiling would be a very bad thing. But the republicans keep desperately trying to appease the Tea Party wing nuts by sticking their fingers in their ears and singing, “la la la, I can’t hear you, la la la!” Ignoring people smarter than you on an important subject makes no sense.

Let’s say I woke up one morning with a toe growing out of my forehead. I get two opinions. First, I ask my friend Don, and his response is “Cool! You should get it pierced and tatted.” I ask my doctor and his response is: “Dear God! Do you live next to a nuclear facility? Why did you make a 2:15 appointment with me, go to the hospital you moron!” Hmmm, whose advice should I take? Don is a helluva nice guy, however, his only medical experience is watching “Dirty Nurses: volume 34” 116 times. My doctor on the other hand has degrees on the wall and has been practicing for 40 years.

The Tea Party boneheads are sitting in their offices yanking it to a video of a Reagan impersonator reading the constitution as God Bless America plays in the background while sending emails to John Boehner and Mitch McConnell threatening to have them replaced. With all this going on the Republicans can’t hear the economists bleating like lost lambs that there are Chinese wolves at the edge of the pasture, red saliva dripping from their fangs.

So, stay tuned. Either a deal will get done or on August 3^rd you’ll see a lot of rickety card tables on the White House lawn and a hand-painted sign: Yard Sale, 8 am – 8 pm, rain or shine. I might swing by and pick up a moth-balled SR-71 Blackbird spy plane for 75 cents.

To the Max

2011-07-07T22:42:00.000-07:00

I found myself at Office Max again over the weekend. The mythopoeic Joey was not being discussed on this day so the mood was understandably sedate. My whole experience was very relaxed. I found what I was looking for easily, debated with myself over which brand to purchase and then tripped giddily to the check-out counter. Ok, I wasn’t “giddy”. I only achieve that adjective when one of my favorite sports teams wins a championship, but darn it, I was happy.

As I approached the register the customer in front of me was just saying “thank you” and picking up his purchase so I was able to slide my ink cartridge and magazine holders onto the counter. Reaching for my wallet I was greeted by the forced cheeriness of a young man with a prepared speech that nothing except a blow to the head with a blunt object was going to stop him from reciting:

“Good morn . . . uh, after . . . yeah, afternoon, sir. Would you like to sign up for our new rewards program?

“I don’t . . .”

“You will receive a card which you can use with every purchase made at any Office Max store location . . .”

“That’s ok, I . . .”

“You can earn points towards discounted merchandise . . .”

“The thing is . . .”

“Oh, and I see you are buying an ink cartridge. With the new rewards program . . .”

“Can we just . . .”

“. . . you can bring this back when it is empty and we will refill it for free. Also, by signing up you will ensure that I don’t lose my job.”

I still wasn’t biting so this is where I believe the kid started making things up:

“The Office Max rewards card is very valuable, sir. The edges are lined with gold flakes. You can also use it to gain entrance to any level 3 security government facility or your local Shur Fine Market after hours. And . . . that’s not all . . . here are some other points of interest.”

The lights dimmed and a Power Point presentation appeared on the front wall of the store. First up was a pie chart showing that 67% of Americans with a rewards card have lowered their blood pressure and lessened joint pain. Then a bar graph informed me that the only people farther down the evolutionary scale than people without a rewards card are Sean Hannity viewers and congress. The Aaron Copland score reached a crescendo with photos of smiling, happy families taking their rewards cards out for a walk, feeding it ice cream or teaching it to surf at the beach. The presentation ended with a video appeal from Willie Nelson:

When I’m on the road again, I’m usually on my way to any convenient Office Max location. They’re always on my mind when I need any type of paper, pen or other office product. You’d be crazy not to sign up for a rewards card today.

I still didn’t want one but finally said yes before my next birthday passed inside the Office Max store. I thought the saucer-eyed teenager behind the counter would ask me my email address, maybe a phone number: a few keystrokes later we’d be done. I was wrong. He reached under the counter and hefted up a binder with 64 pages of personal questions, a vial for my blood sample, a polyethylene bag for skin flakes and hair follicles, and a plastic case for nail clippings. He then took my picture for the Office Max Rewards Wall.

It was a little after midnight when I was finally permitted to leave the store, ushered out by a sleepy security guard and his geriatric cocker spaniel watch dog. My shiny new rewards card was tucked away in my bag yawning with indifference. I was yawning with exhaustion. I have got to start going to Staples.

The Iowa Spawning Ground

2011-06-27T21:30:00.000-07:00

I’ve spent the last 2 years chronicling the slow descent into madness of Michelle Bachmann. From her proclamation that congress was filled with Commies that needed to be weeded out by the ghost of Joe McCarthy to her fear that President Obama’s call for volunteerism among the nation’s youth was a thinly veiled program to get them into internment camps where they would be brain washed to become tie-dye wearing vegans living off of government assistance and growing pot out of empty buckets of spackling compound, I’ve mined Michelle’s pixilation for laughs all the while wondering how the voters of Minnesota couldn’t notice the twinkle of insanity in her eyes.

Recently Michelle has been threatening to run for president. Of course, as someone who uses her batshit crazy behavior for his benefit I was thrilled. Two years of debates, interviews, speeches and appearances: Michelle will be in the public eye constantly. There’s no telling when her mind will go off the rails and where that train of lunacy will end up. But today, I have to admit, Michelle surprised even me. She didn’t wait for an interview with Chris Matthews or a campaign stump speech. She hit the ground running and made her first gaffe on THE DAY SHE ANNOUNCED HER CANDIDACY. Yes! Michelle Bachmann ladies and gentlemen . . .

Today Michelle made the announcement that she was officially running for president in her hometown of Waterloo, Iowa (insert your own Napoleonic reference here). Michelle said:

"Well, what I want them to know is just like, John Wayne was from Waterloo, Iowa. That's the kind of spirit that I have, too."

Who doesn’t admire The Duke? A man who made movies that stood up for traditional American values, a man who beat cancer twice, a man who wasn’t born in Waterloo, Iowa. Yes, Michelle got her facts wrong once again. John Wayne the movie star was born in Winterset, Iowa. John Wayne Gacy was born in Waterloo. John Wayne Gacy, who went on to murder 33 people, hide the bodies under the floorboards of his home and eventually is executed by lethal injection.

So if Michelle has the spirit of John Wayne Gacy behind her campaign I have to assume that she will be murdering the other Republican candidates one by one and stashing the bodies under the rug of her congressional office. I can’t wait until she puts on the clown makeup and twists Mitt Romney’s intestines into the shape of a poodle.

Be proud Iowa. You’ve spawned a serial killer and the craziest woman in congress. I’m not sure which one you should be smacked for more.

I’m hoping in the next few days the other republican candidates take on the anima of their favorite killer. I think it would really enliven a dull process. Tim Pawlenty could become Ted Bundy, Newt Gingrich takes on the persona of Ed Gein while Ron Paul channels Charles Manson. Just think of the debates. While Newt is covering his podium with the skin of Fred Karger, Ron Paul will be carving swastikas into his own cheeks as Tim Pawlenty strangles Herman Cain.

Michelle has struck at the heart of American politics: every man/woman for themselves, hiding the bodies until the authorities catch up to them.

Heal Thyself

2011-06-13T21:39:00.000-07:00

I have a paper route. Boy it sounds stupid when I write it out, like I’m 12 again delivering the daily to get enough money to order some sea monkeys and x-ray specs from the back of the Daffy Duck comic book. Alas, I am not 12, I’m 46 and need the money so I deliver papers in the morning as a second job and the repetitive motion of wrapping the rubber bands around the papers is wearing the skin away from several of my fingers. They hurt enough I wrap them in first aid tape. I’ve grown really tired of having my fingers taped up so I went to my medicine cabinet and got out the Neosporin to hopefully heal things up.

After a few applications I inspected my dried out skin for progress and . . . nothing. They looked and felt the same. But then I noticed other changes. When I swore under my breath it was in Norwegian. I spoke louder, doing the soliloquy from Macbeth in a Scandinavian dialect and a voice deeper than Barry White. My brain was swirling with strange images I couldn’t explain nor deny. Picking up a sharpie I inexplicably began covering my walls with the multiplication tables and recipes for potato pancakes. I knew I was in serious trouble when I started not singing the songs of Tom Jones, but mooing them like a cow. Then in the middle of the bridge for “She’s a Lady” I called a friend and told them “I have superseded ultra-consciousness and passed on to the realm of the blue ocean sting ray dream.”

I must have passed out at some point because the next thing I remember is waking up on the floor under the end table having a conversation with a lamp cord that graduated from Dartmouth with a 3.5 GPA. The last sane thing I could recall was using the Neosporin so I looked at the tube to discover that it had expired in 2008. Note to self, clean out medicine cabinet once in a while.

I found another half-full tube of Neosporin and you would think that after my experience I would check the expiration date, but I didn’t. I lathered it onto my hurting fingers as though it were Lorenzo’s oil then sat back and waited for the healing to begin.

Now, I don’t know where the marching band came from, but I do know if they had played the Broadway medley one more time I was going to let the beavers out of the cage. There’s only so much “Pirates of Penzance” I can take. Also, the state of Kansas, get off my lawn, you’re tramping down my azaleas.

After applying the Neosporin, things got . . . hazy. Colors called out my name and asked me to dance. There was an antelope in my living room doing stand-up and I’ll be damned if he wasn’t a funny son-of-a-bitch. I found the end of the rainbow but instead of a leprechaun and a pot of gold it was Danny Devito and a cardboard box of tangelos. I’m not sure how or why but my living room was filled with water and I was playing Marco Polo with a basking shark. I called that same friend again to let them know that “the seventh dimension of free-falling dementia is a pale rider for the blowing breeze of Pluto’s ascendancy.”

Here’s the thing about waking up in a kimono with baling wire wrapped around your feet and wearing a necklace of Ritz crackers: You don’t want to remember how you got that way but man does the silk feel good against your skin. When I was fully sane again I checked that tube of Neosporin and it had expired in 2004. Yeah, that’s right. I had a tube of antiseptic cream lying in my medicine cabinet for over 7 years. Go ahead, top that. I dare you.

Rude Mood

2011-05-31T23:36:00.000-07:00

It had been almost a year since I was in the Office Max store and now everything seemed different. The lights were brighter, the employee’s uniforms more colorful, the muzak jauntier. It all swirled together in my brain creating a miasma of sights and sounds that left me dizzy as though I had drugged my own Rice Krispies that morning. I was looking for a pack of heavy stock paper but inventory had been rearranged. I wasn’t sure where to go and for one of the few times in my life I wanted an associate to helpfully say “May I assist you?” Staff outnumbered customers 6 to 1. There were 4 female employees standing in a huddle in the middle of the store only feet away from the entrance but as I walked past them no one offered help. Instead what I heard was “I had to go, Joey was there, so you know.”

I almost stopped and inquired, “Do you mean THE Joey?” If JOEY was THERE, I understood why they had to stand in the middle of the store talking about him instead of helping customers. Joey is just . . . so . . . Joey. I wouldn’t wait on me either if it means not talking about Joey. You have to have your priorities straight and even the people at Staples know Joey comes first.

I swallowed my anger because of the beatific Joey and wandered the store like an orphan in search of a home. Aisle after aisle I cast my net for heavy stock paper. Each time I pulled my gear back it was filled with pens, manila envelopes, staplers, cork board, reams of 20 lb 92 brightness paper on sale, organizers and office chairs, but no heavy stock paper.

Then I thought, “What would Joey do?” and the answer came to me like a kidney punch. I doubled over in pain, spitting up a soupcon of blood but I was able to regain my balance before the referee counted me out. Then even though I was puzzling over why there was a boxing referee hanging out in the bubble wrap section of Office Max, I was still able to home in on my heavy stock paper as if it were emitting a beacon. A halo of light encircled my prize while a church choir descended from the rafters singing psalms set to the electronic, ambient music of Moby. I picked up a pack of paper, dropped a coupon for dryer sheets in the choir’s collection plate and headed east for the check-out register. My back was arched; my gait was strong as the choir faded out their serenade.

I approached the only open register but was immediately brushed away with a wave from a bony hand that resembled a chicken foot pointing to a register on the other side of the store. One of Joey’s harem had been dispatched to it, I guess because Chicken Foot couldn’t handle the throng of 2 customers all by himself. He was no Joey after all, as his gnarled appendage proved. So I walked back to from whence I came, laying my purchase down on the counter.

Obviously irritated at her reverie of Joey being broken, the girl worked to dispatch me quickly so as to return to the mid-store huddle before the other females made a territorial grab for her man. I held my hand out for my receipt but instead she lazily dropped it to the counter leaving me awkwardly looking like a panhandler, palm outstretched for ripple money.

As I left the store I tried to think calming thoughts of you-know-who, but my bitterness at the rude behavior of the employees made me restive. I needed to cleanse myself so I went home and used my precious heavy stock paper to make posters for Joeypallooza, a musical festival I will pretend to put on later in the summer. And employees of Office Max are not invited.

Checking in with the GOP

2011-05-26T10:21:00.000-07:00

It's been a few weeks since I talked about the hopefuls for the Republican Party in the 2012 election so let's see where we stand:

Michelle Bachmann—undeclared

Sarah Palin—undeclared

Mitch Daniels—not running

Mike Huckabee—not running

Donald Trump—not running

Haley Barbour—not running

Mike Pence—not running

John Thune—not running

Newt Gingrich—running, but doing it poorly. Has already flip-flopped on issues; angered the republican base by decrying Paul Ryan’s destruction of Medicare; blamed everything on the media; branded David Gregory, one of the blandest newsmen on TV, as a bad guy; and has “befuddled” the republican’s Oracle at Delphi, Rush Limbaugh. Newt’s campaign has imploded with such alacrity that people like me have hardly had time to make fun of it.

Herman Cain—Sorry, but I still can’t see people voting for a guy who runs a chain of pizza shops and has nothing new to offer. Every time he talks all I hear is “Our special today is 2 one topping medium pizzas for $12.99. Can I take your order?”

Tim Pawlenty—Tim is desperately trying to position himself as “the man”. He’s puffing out his pale, sunken chest and raising his reedy voice beyond a squeak to proclaim that he knows how to lead this country. From the tundra of the Land of 10,000 Lakes, a hero rises on a cloud of carbon dioxide yawned out by his bored constituents. He sails over the red states, a cape made from his terrible ideas flowing behind him. Able to disagree with anything a democrat says in a single word, able to say with confidence “Michelle Bachmann and myself are both from Minnesota but I’m not crazy” and able to nimbly raise millions because there just isn’t anyone else, it’s The Only Palatable Republican Candidate Who Has No Chance of Winning!

Ron Paul—Ron has a lot of supporters if your definition of a lot is about 1-2 percent of the electorate. So, yeah, he’s not going to win.

Rick Santorum—From my home state of Pennsylvania which is truly embarrassing because Santorum is just the worst. Every time he talks he jams his foot ankle-deep into his mouth. Whether it’s equating homosexuality with incest, pedophilia and bestiality or saying that John McCain, who spent 5 years in a Vietnamese P.O.W. camp, doesn’t understand what torture is, Santorum searches for the worst thing he can say and then digs down one more layer to find something even worse.

That’s the crew: Bachmann is still crazy; Palin is still an idiot; Trump is, was, and always will be a joke; Huckabee is an arrogant clod; Pence, Thune and Daniels are too nondescript to even make a good joke about; Gingrich speaks like he’s smart until you actually think about what he said and you realize, “Oh, I get it, he’s a giant pantload”; Cain is full of meaningless bluster; Pawlenty is trying too hard; Paul is too out there and Santorum is a tool.

And think about this: it’s only May of 2011!

An Imaginary Interview with Newt Gingrich

2011-05-20T11:03:00.000-07:00

Newt Gingrich has been in the news lately because for some reason he's declared he's running for president in 2012. The country has responded with a collective yawn. I've taken plenty of shots at Newt and always found it to be great fun so I'm going to fire a few more cannonballs over his bow with this imaginary interview:

CO: If I called you a swollen sack of racist narcissisms, what’s your response?
NG: This bag of ego was once speaker of the house, Bucko
CO: I remember. Dark, dark days for this country. Let’s talk about your Contract with America. Aside from this being a bullshit political stunt, can you point to the provision for leaving our wives to marry our mistresses which . . .
NG: Now look . . .
CO: . . . you’ve done twice
NG: I was absolved of those sins by the church.
CO: You mean a sexually repressed, guilt-riddled priest had you say a few Hail Marys and now you’re as pure as the Colombian coke Steven Tyler snorts for breakfast?
NG: I mean I’ve paid the price for my transgressions.
CO: You’re rich, powerful, have enough influence to run a semi-plausible campaign for president, your current wife’s plastic surgery seems to be holding up . . . what price have you paid?
NG: My political career was deflated. I resigned as SOH . . .
CO: Boo hoo. Let’s talk about why even the republican base isn’t going to vote for you this election.
NG: My exploratory committee showed great support throughout the United States which is why I decided to run. People have responded very positively to my ideas.
CO: Let’s look at those positives: You spoke out against Senator Paul Ryan’s plan for Medicare and republican mascot Rush Limbaugh said he was “befuddled” by your position. In the same time period that a few of your opponents raised nearly $2 million you brought in $53,000 and a man threw glitter on you.
NG: I don’t need money, I have ideas. Rush and I are like sumo wrestlers: we’re both fat and sometimes butt heads but we’re also both revered and who doesn’t love glitter in all its sparkly goodness.
CO: All right, I’m going to give you the glitter, but come on, you need money to run a campaign and everyone knows the republican toadies salivate over every word Limbaugh chokes out between bites of salami and pork butt sandwiches.
NG: I have waited 20 years to run for president! You will not deny me!
CO: You’re right; I won’t, because I’m a democrat. I won’t be voting in the republican primary.
NG: A democrat? Then why am I talking to you?
CO: You’re not. I’m making it all up.
NG: Oh. Well, then I’m going to get on my giraffe and ride home to Neptune.

I will close with a recent quote from Bill Maher about Newt Gingrich: "he's an idiot who has always been wrong about every single thing he has ever talked about."

Amen.

Lullaby

2011-05-09T22:11:00.000-07:00

My clock radio is talking to me. I work nights and mornings so I’m sleeping during the day when the world is making a hell of a lot of noise outside so my clock radio has white noise functionality. I usually listen to either a gentle rain, crickets chirping at night, a babbling brook or ocean waves breaking on shore. At an appropriate volume it masks the noise outside and relaxes me so I can sleep. This morning my eyes were closed, my breathing slowed, a dream about Kate Beckinsale already cued up in my subconscious and I hear: “Give in, become a republican. Join usss. Join ussss.”

My head shot up off of my pillow and I’m looking around the bedroom, confused. Sunlight is peeking through the blinds making me cringe like a vampire. After a few seconds I lie back down and settle in under the covers again. I’m in that hazy place where you’re half awake and half asleep and I swear I heard: “You think Katherine Heigl is a fine actress and her string of romantic comedy failures isn’t her fault.”

“What the . . .” I said as I turned over in bed. I listened carefully but heard nothing but the waves breaking casually over the imaginary shoreline. Soon I was drifting off once more. Kate and I were standing hand-in-hand, watching the sun rise over the Atlantic. I picked up a shell, putting it to my ear and I hear: “The songs of Justin Bieber, Katy Perry and Lady Gaga are not an elegy for the death of music. They are the voices of angels.”

I was so tired at this point I couldn’t fight back. A shrill voice began singing in my ear overtop of a derivative dance beat. I could feel my body tossing and turning in bed, mumbling, “No, no. So awful, like an auditory laxative.” Back in my dream, on the beach, Kate Beckinsale morphs into Katherine Heigl who is jabbering in my face about being in love with her best friend’s dog groomer’s Pilates instructor but she’s already engaged to a high-powered government lawyer with a heart of gold and she doesn’t want to hurt him but the heart wants what the heart wants. I’m just about to punch her to get her to shut up when Jennifer Aniston appears on the other side of me. Normally that’s my Wednesday dream but this is turning into a nightmare as Jen starts telling me what a great job John Boehner is doing as Speaker of the House and his constant bawling just shows how much he cares about this country and if I would just listen to Tim Pawlenty I’d see he wasn’t just this election’s version of John McCain, a boring white man who will gainsay anything a Democrat says to get elected.

The ocean is my only chance. I run into the water until I’m bobbing in surf up to my waist. The girls follow. Heigl has just found out her cousin has been cheating with her fiancé while dressed as a rabbit who chases the fiancé who’s dressed like a carrot. Jen is doing a dramatic reading of a Rush Limbaugh Show transcript and I’m begging, “Come on water, do your thing!” When I chance another look, Katherine and Jen are now both in wedding dresses and singing, their voices auto tuned until they sound like the guitar solo on “Do You Feel Like We Do” from Frampton Comes Alive. I’m jumping up and down in the water when finally . . .

I wake up. My eyes pop open and I realize I have to pee like crazy. After taking care of business I climb back into bed and close my eyes, but I only pretend to fall asleep. The waves are ebbing and flowing from the white noise machine. I can feel the sand between my toes and listen to the gulls calling. Then I hear: “Obama was born in Antarctica.” I sat up yelling “A ha!” The voice from the radio sputtered, “Uh, hey, ocean waves . . . soothing ocean waves . . .” I reached over and unplugged the machine. Wrapped the cord around it and stuffed it in the closet.

I climbed back in bed, buried myself under the covers and fell asleep to the mellifluous strains of my neighbor hammering on his new roof.

Come On, Get Happy

2011-05-03T21:36:00.000-07:00

In my last blog I took my own pessimism and struggle with positive thoughts and went completely over-the-top with it for some cheap laughs, because, that’s what I do. But two things happened in the last few days that made me look at positive moments and joy. They made me wonder why we, as human beings, can’t let each other be happy for very long before tearing it all down again.

The first event was the royal wedding of William and Kate. I didn’t have a horse in the race. Whether they got married or not made no difference to me. My only problem was that news of it was EVERYWHERE. Every TV channel, every web site, newspaper, magazine, co-workers, etc. I wanted it to be over so I could stop hearing about it. After the wedding I was talking to my sister about it and she said something that changed my perspective.

I was discussing a comedian that I follow on Facebook and the comments he posted throughout the entire wedding trashing it, the guests, the royal family and the fact that so many were celebrating a marriage between two people they will never meet. My sister basically said that with all the anger, rage, hatred and garbage we let into our lives every day through the news and movies and TV shows, what is so wrong with wanting to watch two people get married that genuinely seem to love each other? What’s wrong with letting the blue birds sing for awhile instead of screaming at them to shut the hell up? Her attitude changed my outlook. And let’s face it, the British can teach you the meaning of the words tradition and pageantry.

The second incident is what the world is talking about: the death of Osama bin Laden. I was watching a baseball game Sunday night when they broke in with the news. My initial reaction was to take a second to remember who he was. It’s been ten years and honestly I had long ago figured we were never going to get him so I kind of forgot about him. I turned to the news, wanting details. Later in the morning I heard on the radio that kids on college campuses were partying like their school had just won a national championship in football. Crowds had gathered at ground zero and the White House, celebrating with dancing and singing as if it were New Year’s Eve. On Monday I read an opinion piece on the Huffington Post where the author castigated everyone in the United States, stating that we haven’t won anything and we shouldn’t be celebrating a person’s death.

First, I think we all know nothing has been “won”. We cut off the head of the snake but it’s already given birth to thousands of children who still want to harm the United States. I don’t believe anyone thinks the suicide bombers will suddenly stop because Bin Laden is dead. Second, his comment about celebrating a death was an interesting one. I’ll admit it gave me pause when I first saw people partying because of Bin Laden’s death. I wondered to myself, is this the appropriate response? But then I thought back to September 11, 2001. I remembered the images of the innocent people jumping from the 103^rd floor of the towers because it was either that or burn up in the fire. There was no door number 3 for them where they got to keep living. Bin Laden was responsible for the horrible deaths of those people and now the son of a bitch got what was coming to him. Dancing in the street wouldn’t be my way of “celebrating” but I won’t begrudge someone who feels the need.

The author of the article has a right to his opinions but I question why he had to write the piece so soon and why it had to have such an imperious tone as if we’re in kindergarten? Maybe the celebrations were inappropriate but it took a decade-long manhunt to bring Osama Bin laden to justice so why can’t we be happy about it for a little while? Did the bandage have to be ripped away before the medicine even had a chance to take effect?

In the grand scheme of things William and Kate getting married has little meaning and the killing of Bin Laden won’t stop terrorism, but theses events and many people’s reactions to them still beg the question:

Why can’t we allow each other to be happy?

No You Can’t: My 3 Step Process for Living a Negative Lifestyle

2011-04-21T22:20:00.000-07:00

My friend Rob and I were having a discussion the other weekend about self help books, videos and seminars that teach the power of positive thinking and how to train your mind to live this way. I mentioned that I am a natural pessimist and it’s like a full time job for me to think positively. Then it occurred to me that there are dozens of these self help gurus making a lot of coin selling their ideas on living positively so why couldn’t I develop my own course on living the way I understand. Believe me it’s a helluva lot easier and why should I have to lift myself up to the level of others? They should come down to meet me. So here are my first 3 steps on living the perfect negative lifestyle.

1. Getting up in the morning—This is where it all begins people: The first second your eyes pop open in the morning. And there’s the first problem, don’t “pop” your eyes open. Make sure they are pasted shut with that gunk that develops overnight so you have to stumble to the bathroom for a pair of tweezers and an acetylene torch to pry them open. In your myopic state, crawl from under the covers, easing your feet to the floor and repeat after me, “Time to start another day as mayor of Craptown.” The second step is to start coughing. Hack until you bruise your ribs and a little chunk of lung squirts out from under your tongue. Now stand up slowly to get the full symphony of bones cracking. Third, don’t urinate right away. Let your bladder fill up like the neighbor’s pool on the first day of summer and invite a birthday clown over to twist it into the shape of a poodle while telling Vaudevillian jokes and releasing the laughter of a man who spends every minute of his life questioning his career choice. By now you should be hunched over and in tremendous pain. Good Morning!

2. Work—You hate your job, that’s a given. But how can you translate your pain to everyone around you effectively? It starts as soon as you walk in the door. You’re going to have cheerful morning people happily saying hello. Try one of these responses: “Piss off”, “Bite me” or “Tell it to my ass while I’m walkin’ away”. Congratulations, you’ve survived the gauntlet of little Mary Sunshines and made it to your desk. Next, answer all of your incoming emails with either “Too bad so sad”, “A dozen dead bodies under the floorboards of a shithouse don’t smell as bad as this idea”, or “Let me get this straight, you thought I was going to fill out those reports?” By now there should be a toxic cloud around your cubicle that will keep even the most industrious workmate away, leaving you to wallow in the swamp of your unrest. Sink down into the quagmire and feel the soothing, stress-free massage of pure negative energy. If someone does dare approach you, nod to the phone while holding up a finger to your lips, mouthing that you are on a conference call with Amsterdam. By the time they realize your puny company, specializing in novelty butt cheeks and exploding rubber sheep, doesn’t have a division overseas, you will have slipped into the bathroom and started a refreshing nap in stall #3.

3. Free Time—Go straight home from work. Don’t stop for that beer you desperately want. It will taste great thus giving you hope that maybe the universe doesn't hate you. Don’t interact with anyone on the off chance some random person smiles at you or God forbid says “thank you” when you don’t allow the door to shut in their face and your bloodstream suddenly believes happiness is possible. You must avoid the lies of serendipity. Think in “what ifs”: What if all four tires fall off the car and I ride the rims into a warehouse full of Molotov cocktails causing them to explode sending my ’89 Impala into orbit like a rocket so I dock with the International Space Station thinking I’m safe only to find the crew has turned to cannibalism after running out of freeze-dried victuals? Or, what if I walk into my home and trip over my toothpick statue of Happy Days’ Donny Most, hitting my head, and now concussed I stumble into my yard shouting “I’m a bad, bad monkey!” startling a passing bike rider who veers into a sink hole breaking his leg and then he sues me for $5000 and my Ricky Nelson guitar pick collection?

These are just 3 beginning steps to living life with a natural pessimism and negativity. Don’t get sucked into the cult of fake positivity. You can’t do it!

3 Things That Bugged Me This Week

2011-04-11T22:09:00.000-07:00

There are two competing grocery store chains near my house and I noticed over the weekend that both are selling outdoor furniture. This strikes me as odd. I mean, it’s a grocery store. When you go in to pick up a bag of low-fat sea-salt potato chips and a bottle of dandruff shampoo are you really going to impulsively drop three bills on a patio set?

Clerk: Your total is $7.59
Customer: You know what? Throw that rattan love seat in the cart as well. I can’t help myself, I love wicker.
Clerk: The chair and table come with it, they’re a set.
Customer: Perfect. I have time this weekend, when I get home I’ll build a deck to put them on.
Clerk: Would you like to make any more impulse purchases from our Shelves O’ Randomness?
Customer: Actually, now that you mention it I don’t have a Cuisinart. Ring that up along with a pack of O rings for a ’97 Dodge and a can of Star Wars mustache wax.
Clerk: Your new total is $392.84
Customer: Do you accept third-party U.S protectorate aluminum-backed checks?
Clerks: Of course.

I went through the drive through at the bank to cash a birthday check from my mom. I had already written my account number on the back so they would know they could give me the $30 with confidence, as I am a valued customer. My $27.13 checking account balance needs to count for something, right? Apparently the teller mistook the check for a signed letter of my intent to force a hostile takeover from the drive-through. She asked me my middle initial and sent a lackey out with a retinal scanner. After several more minutes I look in the window and see a second teller holding the check and gesturing wildly like she was trying to land a disabled 757 in the bank’s ATM lane. Then she saw me watching and quickly looked away, handing the check back to the original teller as if it were covered in fire ants. Several more minutes passed of the teller’s shifty eyes sneaking glances at me, a thin sheen of sweat covering her face. Her hands shook like an ancient gunslinger trying to draw for her life. Suddenly the woosh of the tube brought me my lucre. The teller threw a swift ‘thank you’ at me before collapsing and two men appeared from a back room to carry her away. I have no idea what was going on inside that bank but as I pulled away I was followed by a black sedan, a clown on a unicycle and Teri Garr in a cameo role.

There are now more people named Kardashian in the United States than people with jobs. And all of them have manifold TV shows. Why? This is your fault America. For the love of God STOP WATCHING THESE NITWITS! They’re already rich. The daughters were born that way and all you’re doing is making them RICHER! STOP IT! Go watch a re-run of Barnaby Jones or an old movie starring J-J-J-J-immy Stewart or Ken Burns’ new 27 part documentary on documentaries. Watch anything but rich people who can’t stand being away from a camera for longer than 8 seconds. Stop feeding their narcissism. It’s voracious and can never be satiated. If you’re not careful it will consume you like a serpent and you will end up inside Kim’s Brobdingnagian ass to eventually be passed in a fart during one of her monthly colonics that will be filmed by the unluckiest camera man on earth and played during a special segment of the Rachael Ray show, the daytime repository for all things useless and entertainment-free.

My Kingdom for a Muse

2011-04-06T22:04:00.000-07:00

I’ve been having trouble coming up with something to write about this week. It’s not really writer’s block, more like writer’s don’t-give-a-shit. I haven’t done anything intensely stupid in the last few days to detail to you with my insouciant absurdity (I can hear many of you vocally doubting this, but it’s the truth, cross my heart and hope to never see any more Will Smith progeny singing, dancing, acting, etc.). There’s plenty going on in the political world but frankly it’s depressing. I want to make fun of it. Some of my favorites are in the news again: Bachmann, the Beckster, John “Cry Me a River” Boehner, but their lunacy and open-mouthed drooling has left me cold this week. As for the entertainment world, I’m Lohaned out. How much more can be said about the banality and narcissism of entitled lumps of protoplasm?

I had the thought to write about having nothing to write about. The concept is completely unoriginal and has the added benefit of being the cheap way out. But then I thought, “Don’t I owe my 7 readers more than that?” and I answered myself, “Yes, but they’re probably only expecting the same animal dung you usually throw at the wall.”

Feeling empowered by the invigorating badinage with my id and ego, my superego began composing a vital treatise on nothing at all. Thirty seven words into it however, I again questioned whether I could actually write hundreds of words about having nothing to write hundreds of words about. I doubted my ability to bullshit my way through 5 paragraphs of internet babble. This crisis of confidence led me to this thought: “Maybe I should try harder to think of an actual subject to write about.”

The answer was a resounding “Meh.” The world at large just didn’t capture my attention this week. “Inspire me!” I cried. “Suck it!” the world riposted. “Give me a muse!” I begged. “I can’t hear you, la la la la la!” the world taunted me back. “I need original content!” I pleaded. “Just insert links to funny pictures the way other websites do!” the world advised.

And so I’m back to my original insidious plan to fake my way through an entire blog and still keep you reading to the end. I’m going to start on it later tonight and when I finish, it will be satirical gold.

credit: the painting is entitled "Thalia, Muse of Comedy (1739) by Jean-Marc Nattier

Republican Hopefuls, America Hopeless

2011-03-29T22:08:00.000-07:00

Let’s take a look at the possible Republican presidential candidates:

Fred Karger—Fred was the first person to officially declare that he’s running in 2012. Good thing to because he’s going to need the next 18 months for people to figure out who the hell he is. He’s a retired political consultant who went on some program and made derogatory comments about Obama. Apparently he thinks that’s all he has to do to get the republican nomination. Come to think of it, he may be right.

Herman Cain—Herman is the former CEO of Godfather’s Pizza and a political activist. He has been quoted as saying he would not appoint a Muslim to his cabinet if he were elected president because he doesn’t trust them. Yeah! Intolerance and discrimination, the American way! Why doesn’t he trust them? Because they’re trying to impose sharia law on American citizens. Uh, no they’re not. You’re just another fear-mongering sack of republican manure stankin’ up my air.

Mitt Romney—Mittens is coming back for a second round of his Plastic Mormon routine: Every hair in place, perfectly tailored suit, and not a thought in his head. The best part is Obama’s health care plan that Mittens has been railing against is basically the same plan he implemented as governor of Massachusetts. Bye Mitt, one more failure to add to the family scrapbook.

Tim Pawlenty—Governor of Minnesota who mannnnyyy zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz Oh! Sorry, I dozed off there for a minute. Tim Pawlenty everyone, let’s hear it for him!

Mitch Daniels—Who?

Newt Gingrich—Blustering, bloated bloviator of all things anti-Democrat, Newt is also a low-life who divorced his first wife while she was in the hospital so he could marry his mistress. Don’t republicans always campaign on FAMILY VALUES? Well, everyone is allowed one mistake, I’m sure Newt regrets his actions. Let me just read a little more of his biography . . . and . . . uh huh, ok, well apparently he divorced the second wife so he could again marry his mistress. I believe this is now known as the John McCain platform.

Mike Pence—see Mitch Daniels

John Thune—A senator from South Dakota, Thune is apparently a rising star in the Republican Party, but let’s be serious: South Dakota? No one from a state south of Iowa is going to vote for a senator from the Dakotas unless he’s bringing cupcakes and fireworks to every polling center in the United States on election night. Even then we won’t vote for him. Oh sure, we’ll take a chocolate cupcake with vanilla icing and a sparkler and politely say thank you, but by the time we’ve cast our vote, the cupcake will be gone and the sparkler burned out, much like our interest in John Thune.

Haley Barbour—The governor of Mississippi is a red-faced, sweating southern baboon who also happens to be a card-carrying racist. His praise for racist groups is well-documented as his mild back-pedaling when he gets caught saying things in public when people are actually listening to his fat ass. Let’s recap: southern, white, and racist. We have a winner! Ding, ding, ding! Ladies and gentleman, your 2012 republican presidential candidate: Haley Barbour!

The Rest of the Story

2011-03-25T22:16:00.000-07:00

I was watching an episode of Mystery Science Theater 3000 the other day. It was an old Hercules movie and at the end robot Tom Servo was free styling a “what ever happened to Hercules” bit. Tom’s version had old Herc being out of the demi-God business and spending his time on the couch drinking beer and watching game shows while his wife Iole worked data entry at Finger Hut. It’s a very funny skit and it occurred to me it could be a good writing exercise for myself, so what follows is my “what ever happened to the Terminator”. I’m ignoring the 3^rd and 4^th movies and starting from the end of the 2^nd film.

After helping to save the world the Terminator had been restored to about 80% of his original state and for a while he slept on the floor at Sarah and John Connor’s place, but they moved around too much. He got tired of the string of cheap motel rooms and $1 tacos from a local bar so he set out on his own, leaving in the middle of the night to hitch a ride with Smelly Joe, a long-haul trucker out of Dubuque whose body odor was a mixture of spring onions and an infected sore. The Terminator road with Joe as far as Philadelphia, thanking the friendly truck driver by accidentally crushing his hand while shaking it goodbye which got him arrested.

While in the holding cell the Terminator met Dennis LaFontaine, a lawyer from Upper Darby who had been arrested for kidnapping his ex-wife’s cat Sprinkles and entering her in a feline beauty contest where she took 4^th place and was awarded Miss Kitty Congeniality. Dennis offered to defend the Terminator for free if he would help him move a refrigerator from an abandoned building he owned.

Once at the building, the Terminator found out it was actually 6 refrigerators. They were all filled with counterfeit Sony portable DVD players that were built in the Philippines, and set to only play Jean Claude Van Damme movies. He loaded them onto an “El Jeffe Fried Ice Cream” truck Dennis had bought for a pack of Pall Malls in the jail the evening before. Dennis and the Terminator then started driving the truck cross-country, heading for Montana to sell the players at the Butte Butterbean and Biscuits Festival.

Unfortunately they got lost in Illinois and on a dirt road outside of Decatur the truck was pulled over by career highway patrolman and stickler for all things regulatory, Sergeant Barry Uppersweat. A search of the vehicle revealed the illegal DVD players and Dennis and the Terminator were immediately arrested and sent to federal lock-up.

In a swift trial, the Terminator was convicted of transporting illegal material across state lines and larceny while Dennis testified against him, telling authorities the Terminator was the titular head of an electronics counterfeiting ring that spread from Hong Kong to Pittsburg. The Terminator didn’t help himself at trial by simply repeating, “I’m looking for Sarah Connor”, “I’ll be back” and “Hasta la vista baby” over and over.

The Terminator was sent to the Forrest City Federal Correctional Complex in Arkansas to serve out his sentence and that’s where he remains today. He has become a mentor to many of the younger prisoners and was allowed to create a business selling earthworms for jellybeans and Pez to the local fishing club, “Goober Finch’s Caterwaulin’ Catfishers”. He is set for release in 2016 and is already planning a world-wide book tour for his memoir: “Trapped in Time and Arkansas”.

Now that story would make a really bad movie. Starring Jean Claude Van Damme.

Waiting for My Audit

2011-03-15T23:19:00.000-07:00

I did my federal taxes over the weekend using a free tax prep website, but I don’t think I chose wisely. I could have gone with H&R Block or TurboTax. Instead I somehow ended up on www.taxesnyet.com. It started with a six page screed against paying taxes at all, written entirely in a Ukrainian dialect of Russian. I decided the prudent thing to do was pay even though the diatribe made a valid point about communist apparatchiks stealing from the proletariat thus negating any loyalty the hoi polloi should feel for the trenchant power-mongers of Mother Russia.

I loaded the forms and started answering the questions. I had my W-2 ready but the program instead asked me if I had received a “TS-2x work order for services rendered”. Very unsure of myself I went ahead and filled in the boxes with my information although I ended up with 37 rectangles containing binary code, a parallelogram that asked for my shoe size and an attachment with a recipe for spicy chicken salad.

Clicking through the screens on income I was asked if I had made at least 27% of my money through giraffe farming. Luckily I had sold Uncle McTavish’s Wild African Animal Preserve and Tire Repair Center last year so I didn’t have to pay that pesky Keep the Veldt Green import tax. Another screen wanted to know if I had been working on the railroad all the live-long day and if so, did I want to take the engineers’ coveralls-and-hat clothing deduction.

There were many odd questions. How many dependents did I have that would be considered “expendable”? Did I receive over $123 in tips from grave robbing? Had I taken out a loan from a man named Sal who lived in a Lincoln town car parked behind Cavatelli’s dry-cleaners in South Jersey? Do you own more than 3 pair of socks? And the strangest one of all: how much wood did your woodchuck chuck and did you sell it at a profit or a loss? What a ridiculous question. Everyone knows the chucked wood market has been stagnant for a decade; of course I took a loss.

I’m dubious about filing these tax forms but I spent seven and half hours filling them out so I guess I’ll mail all 231 pages off to Washington along with the coupon for a lower tax bracket if I pay quarterly next year on my eBay business selling Don Knotts memorabilia. What the hell, at least I’m getting a refund of 37,000 rubles and a goat.

Replacing Glenn Beck

2011-03-08T22:58:00.000-08:00

I hear Fox News may not renew Glenn Beck’s contract when it’s up at the end of the year. This will leave them sans a conspiracy-theorizing zeppelin-sized gas bag and I thought I would try out for the job. Here is my audition piece:

The unrest in Wisconsin was predicted by me over a year ago because I am privy to information others are not. There are prophecies, arcane messages, whose meanings are given to only a chosen few. I didn’t ask to be one of the vessels through which this information was funneled. Ok, I did ask for it. It’s a burden I sought out and I bear it for you my fellow Americans.

The voices come to me while I’m in my Chamber of Secrets, a sensory deprivation tank constructed of aged oak cut from a tree that grew out of the grave of Edgar Cayce and filled with water blessed by a Zoroastrian priest named Bernie Schwartz whose been reincarnated as the owner of my favorite deli. As I floated placidly, the words bubbled to the surface: The day will pass when in the land of cheese a walking man cuts thousands until they bleed and the demigods flee in terror.

Wisconsin. Let’s look at that name in more detail. Wis-con-sin. I’ll concentrate on the middle part first. CON. This is what the unions are pulling on the republican-led elected government. The con of collective bargaining that is bankrupting this country both morally and financially and its leading to the unrest in the Middle East! Libya would not be in the turmoil it is today if the teacher’s unions had not negotiated 10 sick days! It’s all there people. They see our freedom to stay home and still get paid when we have a sinus infection and they want it for themselves! Don’t be blinded by liberals and socialists or podiatrists and chiropodists who say “we deserve these sick days, we deserve fair wages, we deserve health insurance that will actually say yes to needed procedures.” You deserve what the conservatives say you deserve. You are our sheep and we are the shepherds.

The last part of the name: SIN. It’s a heavy word my friends, but that’s what the people of Wisconsin are doing. The Bible says “Judge not lest ye be judged yourself” and they are judging the good and trustworthy fiscal conservative administration for what they are trying to accomplish. The Bible also says “and God created the heaven and the earth”. It doesn’t say “and God created the ACLU and the pipefitters union local #79.” Citizens of Wisconsin you are Sodomites, you are Philistines, you are vipers in the pit of my stomach trying to keep me from telling the truth . . .

(sobbing) I’m sorry for crying. I just love this country so much and I try to educate my viewers and . . . I’m sorry, I’m ok, let’s continue.

The first part of the name Wisconsin: WIS. . . . . . . . . . . Ok, I don’t know what this means and that itself is dangerous. The name Wisconsin has imperiled this country with its trickery, its sinful ways and the deception of what “wis” means. They have put us all at risk with their . . . wissyness.

People, all I’m asking is that you listen to me and believe every word I’m saying, that’s all. Trust that my psychosis is good for the country. Be afraid. Of everything.

I’m sending this to Fox this weekend. Shoot, I forgot to mention Nazis. I’ll have to go back and add that before I email it. I hope they let me keep Glenn’s blackboard.

Out to Lunch

2011-02-28T22:37:00.000-08:00

“You have ordered a meatloaf sandwich; your total is $14.04,” the pleasant, female voice from the machine said to me. The problem is I had ordered broasted chicken: 2 breasts and 2 thighs. I was standing in a Royal Farms store trying to buy lunch and get back to work. I had pressed the correct pictures on the screen but somehow ended up with the wrong order. About the time I was canceling to try again I heard the lady next to me exclaim that her machine had just changed to Spanish.

With some trepidation I re-started, pressing the picture on the screen. I was greeted by this message: “Buck-buck-buck BRAWK! Buck-buck-buck BRAWK!” Yes, my machine had switched to chicken. “I don’t understand,” I said back as if the machine could hear me. It followed with “You have ordered a meatloaf sandwich; your total is $14.04.” “No!” I yelled, turning to see if anyone was looking at me, but all I saw was the woman next to me smacking the side of her machine and begging, “Por favor, no pollo y arroz. Macaroni and cheese! Mac and cheese!”

I cancelled my order again and began to leave. But something drew me back. I was determined to get what I wanted for lunch. I quickly pressed the picture of chicken then ordered my 2 breasts and 2 thighs. When I pressed “continue” the female voice returned. “So, you’re a breast and thigh man, huh? I should have known. You’re all the same. What about a nice drumstick or wing? No, it has to be about sex: breasts and thighs. Well I’ve had it with the lot of you. I don’t care if Gary ever does come back to me. I don’t need him; I have a career here at Royal Farms. You hear that Gary Big-Muscles-and-Wavy-Brown-Hair, I don’t need you or your desire for children. You have ordered a meatloaf sandwich, your total is $14.04, you sexist jerk.”

“Come on,” I cried, stabbing the “cancel” button angrily. The woman next to me was on her knees rubbing a rosary. “No quiero pollo! Yo quiero macaroni and cheese, por favor la maquina de los alimentos.” Despite this, I tried one last time. I punched in my order, pressed “continue” and heard those 10 words I had come to hate “You have ordered a meatloaf sandwich, your total is $14.04”.

I lost control. I grabbed the side of the machine and began shaking it. “Chicken! Chicken, you mechanical bitch! I ordered chicken. Three times I’ve ordered chicken, the most plentiful meat in the world! I know you have some in there you computerized harpy!” By now my fists were pounding on the screen which was lighting up like a pinball machine. I glanced to my right and saw that my ordering companion had dumped a display of Drakes Cakes and was using the metal shelving unit like a medieval battering ram, slamming into the video screen again and again yelling “Pudrirse en el infierno la maquina!”

The glass finally gave way and a fountain of macaroni and cheese erupted out of it. The woman lay down on the floor and let it rain onto her body. She was making mac and cheese angels while eating the hot pasta from her chest. Feeling emboldened, I picked up a log of butcher bologna and clubbed my way through the video screen of my machine. Sparks flew and the female voice kept repeating, “Gary, come back baby. I made meatloaf sandwiches.” Finally the front panel of the machine burst and hundreds of pieces of broasted chicken poured out.

I picked up 2 breasts and 2 thighs, putting them in a bag I grabbed from the almost comatose check-out clerk. With a knowing nod to the woman happily eating her way out from under 200 pounds of mac and cheese, I left the store to go back to work.

The Ink Rebellion

2011-02-16T22:42:00.000-08:00

I put a new black ink cartridge in my printer last week. I couldn’t find the proper Lexmark cartridge so I bought an Office Max brand replacement, but my printer doesn’t want to recognize it. When I hit print I get a message that there is no black ink installed and I have to tell it to continue anyway. I decided to open the lid and see if I could tap it, or re-install it or something to get it to recognize the cartridge. What I saw and heard going on inside my printer was very strange:

Lexmark Z1300: So, good sir, you wish to marry my daughter, Lexmark Color Ink Cartridge.
Office Max Black Ink Cartridge: No, actually I thought I’d just hang around for about a month and see if I could get color girl here to have some fun and mix inks with me.
Lexmark Color Ink Cartridge: Oh! He pinched me!
Lexmark Z1300: Sir, you are not Lexmark timber. We do not condone such dalliances.
Office Max Black Ink Cartridge: La dee da.
ON/OFF Button: King Lexmark!
Lexmark Z1300: Yes, master of security?
ON/OFF Button: A diagnostic scan has been run on the intruder. He is not a genuine Lexmark black ink cartridge.
Lexmark Z1300: What!
Office Max Black Ink Cartridge: I’m an Office Max knock-off. So what?
Everyone: Heathen!
ON/OFF Button: Off with his safety tip! Let him bleed ink until dead!
Office Max Black Ink Cartridge: What’s going on? I work as good as you guys, and I cost less.
Lexmark Color Ink Cartridge: He probably came from Walmart. Don’t touch me you less expensive alternative. You’ll never get inside my ink well.
Lexmark Z1300: How dare you sir? Trying to pass yourself off as a product of quality and besmirch my daughter’s good name. She’s not common street ink, she’s a Lexmark!
Office Max Black Ink Cartridge: Yeah? Well the word around the warehouse was that she’s been with every off-brand cartridge there is and all it takes for her to mix inks is a press of her “print” button.
ON/OFF Button: The princess will not be mocked, I won’t allow it!
Lexmark Color Ink Cartridge: It’s not true father. I always put up a message to block access.
Office Max Black Ink Cartridge: And all I have to do is hit your “continue printing” button and you open up the cyan, magenta and yellow streams.
Lexmark Z1300: Daughter, is this true? Have you been giving your colors to any black ink cartridge that comes along?
Lexmark Color Ink Cartridge: No father, it’s not true.
Lexmark Z1300: Then how does this rogue know about your “continue printing” button?
Lexmark Color Ink Cartridge: I don’t know.
Office Max Black Ink Cartridge: I heard about it from a re-fillable ink cartridge.
ON/OFF Button: A re-fillable?
Lexmark Z1300: NO! The lowest caste of ink! Daughter, how could you? We’re ruined! Our pure Lexmark ink has been degraded!
Lexmark Color Ink Cartridge: Daddy, no!
Lexmark Z1300: This is the end of our royal bloodline! I can’t go on.
ON/OFF Button: King Lexmark, no!
Lexmark Z1300: ERROR 32! See manual for help!

At this point I closed the lid of the printer and haven’t opened it since. Judging by the noises I hear coming out of it, I think the Office Max ink cartridge overthrew the monarchy and has imposed martial law until a provisional government can be formed. All I wanted to do was print out a coupon I got in an email.

Christine O'Donnell's Excellent Adventure

2011-02-09T23:05:00.000-08:00

Christine O’Donnell, failed senate challenger from the mighty state of Delaware, hater of masturbation and former witch, woke up one morning recently and scanned the republican/tea party horizon. She saw ships passing each other in the morning fog: the U.S.S. Palin, the Malkin dinghy, the pirate ship Angle and the Bachmann sloop. Christine thought to herself, “I’m crazier than all those bitches put together. I need to draw more attention to myself to further alter the reputation of the United States as a country that will cast votes for the most narrow-minded ignoramuses as long as we mindlessly repeat ‘constitution’ and ‘fiscal responsibility’ like drunken parrots.”

“Now,” Christine thought. “How to best unleash my own brand of lunacy?” Then she had an idea. A wonderful, awful, grinchy idea.

In a letter to her “supporters” (read: tea party racists and mindless sloths too busy to think for themselves because they’re watching Maury Povitch’s latest installment of “I slept with 12 guys in two days so one of them must be the father of my 6^th illegitimate baby and I figured what better way to discover which one is my new gravy train than by exposing my lifestyle on television with an ex-journalist who still thinks he’s in some way relevant to the world”), Christine has announced the formation of a political action committee: ChristinePAC.

“Political action committee” is code for “I don’t want to work a real job so I’ll solicit donations from like-minded nitwits and they’ll pay for me to pretend like I’m doing something with my life.” I also love the narcissism involved with the name. Here are some alternatives she could have tried:

The O’Donnell O’Bullshit Career Move
Christine’s Crapfest
The Christine O’Donnell Foundation for the Clinically Overestimating Their Worth to Society

In her letter, Christine also said her “losing campaign sent ‘shockwaves’ throughout the nation”. I’ll admit your defeat of the republican incumbent in the primary was pretty shocking for a country still reeling from the knowledge that Sarah Palin won’t go away. However, once we saw you attempt to debate your democratic opponent and look as lost as John Travolta trying to find his wife’s vagina, we were no longer surprised. And I believe you went on to be crushed in the election, so that shockwave had dissipated to the power of an onion fart.

Christine also said in her letter that she had been the Obama administration’s #1 opponent. Yeah, the president is trying to run the country, manage two wars, fight republitards on healthcare, figure out how to stimulate the economy and create jobs, but his #1 opponent is an asexual elf running for office in the second smallest state in the union whose representation in the federal government is three people. Again, gotta love the narcissism.

So remember folks, be on the lookout for the good work being done by ChristinePAC. At least until the federal indictment comes down for her misuse of campaign funds and then she’ll start a new venture, ChristineCON.

Back Off, Chris Matthews

2011-02-01T22:40:00.000-08:00

After Michelle Bachmann’s wonderfully loopy State of the Union Response for Loons, Chris Matthews called her a “balloon head”. While I agree with his assessment I must first point out that the more apt term is “whack job”. Also, back off Matthews! Bachmann is my muse. Go yap about Palin, Angle, Malkin or some other female Republican/Tea Party fringe lunatic.

Michelle has been the inspiration for many of my blogs and I won’t have some TV blowhard cutting into my time inside Michelle’s brain. Granted, there’s plenty of room for both of us but I've been making myself comfortable. I've hung drapes, have an entertainment room set up and a hot plate for quick meals.

I realize that Michelle can be irresistible. The things she says aren't just ignorant, they’re coming from the edge of the universe where space and time corkscrew together in a way that almost makes Tracey Jordan seem funny. This is precisely why she has moved me to write about her so many times. You can’t make up the shit she says and if you did they would tell you to lie down and quit interrupting the lobotomy.

This is my one and only warning to you Matthews. Find your own muse to blather on about. I need Michelle to inspire my own bloviating laced with delightful sarcasm. Obama used to give your leg the jitters, try falling in love with him again. There’s nothing like an old romance made new again. Bottom line, Michelle Bachmann is off limits to you.

Don’t make me turn my satirical wit toward you. I have at least eight regular readers. You don’t want that kind of attention.

Adventures in Publishing

2011-01-26T15:44:00.000-08:00

I’ve been submitting my short stories and poems to magazines for almost 20 years and one thing I’ve noticed is that some of the editors are the most disorganized monkeys in the jungle. While the regimented chimps are happily digging insects out of a tree stump for supper, the editor monkeys are still looking for their special bug-digging stick while picking nits off an associate chimp and baring their teeth at the intern. Here are a couple of the adventures I’ve had. I’m not using any real names because I’m not trying to throw anyone under the bus, just giving you a glimpse into my writing world.

I originally sent the first 20 pages of my collection of short horror stories, The Spaces between Your Screams, to a publisher about 9 years ago. I was supposed to hear back in 8 weeks. I finally received a response 10 months later. Not a good start to the process, but they asked to see the entire manuscript so I high-fived myself and mailed it off with a promise from them I would hear back within 6 months. I like to give people time so I didn’t ask for a status until a year had passed. I was informed then that they were behind in their reading but they would get to my manuscript ASAP. Another year passed and I received another assurance they were catching up. My days on Earth grew shorter and the Sun burned fuel toward its ultimate goal of becoming a neutron star, but my mail box stayed empty. After year 3 flew off the calendar into the ether I received this answer to my latest query: “We’ll be out of business within the month and have no record of receiving your manuscript.” Ooooookayyyy. Wooosh! Three years of my life down the crapper.

A few years ago I sent 4 poems to a professional horror magazine. The poetry editor said she liked all of them and passed them on to the chief editor for a final decision. Woohoo! 5 months went by with no more word so I sent a query. “Yeah, we’re going to use a couple of them. Let you know in a few weeks.” Cool. 6 more months go by. I begin to wonder if editors understand the passage of time. I query again. They decided to use 1 of the poems. Ok, I was hoping for multiples but anything is good because this is a professional magazine and I’ll get paid $15 which isn’t bad for a few lines of poetry. Say it with me: A few more months go by. I send another query and finally get the name of which poem they are using. Then I waited for the issue to be published. You guessed it: months go by and I go to the website to see if there are any announcements about upcoming issues. Lo and behold there is a picture of the current issue with my name on the front cover under the poetry section. 18 months to get 1 poem printed and he published it without telling me or paying me. One more email and a few weeks later I get my complimentary issue and a check for $15. I cook up a steak as an offering to God for the ordeal being over and do a jig not fit for human eyes. The magazine looks great and I vow to never submit to it again. However. It’s not over. His check bounces. And my bank charged me a $20 fee. What?! Once more into the email breach! I eventually got a money order for $35, but in lieu of an apology received, “hey, shit happens”. Uh huh, that’s true, but this was 2 YEARS worth of shit happening all over me! I still feel dirty.

I submitted 4 poems to an online magazine. A few weeks later I was informed by the poetry editor they would be using Poem #1 in “the next” issue. Since they come out monthly I didn’t have long to wait except, when it came out my poem was not in it. So I waited for the next issue and the next but no poem. I queried and was told it was scheduled for the “next” issue. Literally 3 minutes later I received another email that it was actually the issue after that. Fine. Apparently to them “next issue” of a monthly publication means “around 6 months from now”. I wait patiently for the day to arrive when I get an email that the chief editor has decided he doesn’t like Poem #1 so they’re going to use Poem #3. Let me get this straight Mr. Poetry Editor, I’ve been waiting for 180 days and in all that time you didn’t bother to clear your selection with the chief editor? And now you casually announce you’re using a poem I already sent out to someone else since you rejected it 5 months ago? Boom! That’s the sound of my head exploding. Excuse me while I pick up the pieces. I had to send an email withdrawing Poem #3 from the zine who was considering it, which thankfully they were fine with. Finally the day arrives and the issue comes out and there is Poem #3 in all its glory. A few days later I received an email from the poetry editor stating: “Just a reminder, this is the month for Poem #1”.

Give me strength.

Silver and Gold, Politicians and Insanity

2011-01-19T23:33:00.000-08:00

Just when you think our politicians can’t be any more ignorant they grab a diamond-tipped shovel (paid for by our tax dollars) and furiously dig down to a new layer of stupidity. This new stratum, which paleontologists are calling the Dumbasstocene era, is where we find Georgia state legislator Bobby Franklin. He has proposed that all Georgia state taxes be paid only in gold or silver coins:

Pre-1965 silver coins, silver eagles, and gold eagles shall be the exclusive medium which the state shall use to make any payments whatsoever to any person or entity, whether private or governmental. Such coins shall be the exclusive medium which the state shall accept from any person or entity as payment of any obligation to the state including, without limitation, the payment of taxes; provided, however, that such coins and other forms of currency may be used in all other transactions within the state upon mutual consent of the parties of any such transaction.

Franklin’s argument is taken from the U.S Constitution, which has its words scrutinized by these whackjobs the way the paparazzi follow every move of Lindsay Lohan: no state shall "make any Thing but gold and silver Coin a Tender in Payment of Debts.

I want in on this so I am proposing my own payment plans for specific kinds of debts:

All sports bets shall be paid off in Nutter Butters.

The only currency accepted on the World Poker Tour shall be Topps baseball cards (no doubles).

Sales tax will be paid in sarcasm. Irony will not be accepted.

Capital gains will be made in the form of a tune sung in two-part harmony and written by the songwriter of the investor’s choice.

Payments for gasoline shall be rendered in post-it notes with dollar signs drawn on and the words “Legal Tender in the United States of Larry”.

Remuneration for jury duty will be your choice of chocolate, wine or illegal pharmaceuticals.

From this point forward doctor and hospital bills will be paid in hats, caps, fedoras, chapeaus and the occasional fez.

Restaurant tips can be given on the sliding scale of Chicken-in-a-Biskit, Ritz crackers, oyster crackers and unsalted saltines.

I don’t think any of this is constitutional but it makes as much sense as the garbage proposed by our elected officials.

Unfriending 2011

2011-01-12T23:04:00.000-08:00

I have a bone to pick with 2011. We’re less than 2 weeks into this splashy new year and already I have an ear infection, had to have a tooth pulled and discovered my car is leaking coolant. What the hell 2011? What could I possibly have done to you in 12 days to treat me this way?

I admit I didn't ring you in with a lot of enthusiasm (falling asleep watching Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade), but damn it I was tired. And 2010 took one more kick at my backside with my cat dying so I wasn't in a party mood. I can’t believe you’re going to be this vindictive.

I was going to invite you over so we could talk about how things needed to be different than with your predecessor, but now my Spam a la Granny Clampett will be saved for some other shapeless universal entity. That imported Estonian table wine will stay corked as well so put away your glass and drink your own cheap booze.

There were such plans for us, 2011. You were going to get me a permanent job with benefits, one of those cloth bags with the dollar sign on it filled with hundred dollar bills was going to fall from the sky onto my porch like a stork delivering a newborn. Then I would use the money to get out of debt and be able to quit delivering the morning rag in 14 degree weather and snow covered roads. It was going to be me and you buddy, just like a Hope/Crosby road movie; having adventures, cracking wise and meeting beautiful women.

Now it has come to this. In only a few days you've proven untrustworthy and a little mean. The good news for me is I’m almost over my ear ache, my tooth crater is healing nicely and by the end of the week my car will be repaired.

And then I will fuck you up.

I’m coming for you, 2011. For the next 11 and a half months I will be chewing gum and kicking ass and I’m all out of Juicy Fruit.

Stealing Ideas from Letterman and Leno

2011-01-06T22:17:00.000-08:00

These are real classified ads put in a free local paper. Business names and phone numbers have been faked, but the body of the ads was taken directly from the Community Courier:

Bob’s Dog Kennel sale: Maltese, Yorkiepoo, Shihtzu, Maltipoo, Cocker, Westie, Lhasapoo. Lifetime War 555-555-5555

First of all, there is a whole lotta “poo” being sold at this kennel. Sounds like the health inspector might want to pay them a visit. Secondly, I didn’t realize poodles were such hound dogs. Apparently they’ll do it with any breed available. Also coming soon its interspecies mating! Introducing Tabby Catpoos, hamsterpoos and the exotic poison dart frogpoos.

Lastly, they’re offering a “Lifetime War”. Hey, I just wanted to buy a dog and you’re declaring War on me? For the rest of my life? You can take my debit card but you’ll never take my PortugueseWaterDogPoo! Cry havoc and let slip the ChineseCrestedPoos of war! Rommel you magnificent schnauzerpoo, I read your book!

Hit by a truck? Disfigured or Disabled recently by commercial vehicle? You need our “9 step action plan”. No recovery, no fee. Call 1-888-555-5555

What a great opening sentence, but how many people do you figure are reading the classified ads that meet this criteria? I can hear the phone calls they receive:

“Hello, Schmuck and Schmuck law offices. Were you hit by a truck?”
“No, my neighbor’s cockapoo bit me.”
“Sorry we can’t help you.”

“Hello, Schmuck and Schmuck law offices. Were you hit by a truck?”
“I want to sue my landlord for . . .”
“Sorry we only do truck disfigurements.”

Damn it! When will our classified ad start paying off? Doesn’t anyone in this county ever walk in front of a dump truck? There must be a borough tree removal vehicle somewhere with a body wrapped around the rear axle.

Arizona Land Liquidation starting $89/mo, $0 down/$0 interest! 1 and 2 ½ acre ranch lots, 1 hour from Tucson! NO CREDIT CHECK, Guaranteed Financing. Money Back Guarantee! Call 1-888-555-5555

The state of Arizona is going out of business! Everything must go! It’s the biggest contiguous state liquidation sale in our history! We’re crazzzzyyyyy! Don’t have a dime for a down payment? No problem! Don’t want to pay interest? No Problem! Bankrupt? Buried in credit card debt? Living in a dumpster behind Walmart? No problem! We want to sell you land! We will finance anyone, any amount at Wacky Earl’s Arizona Liquidation sale! Come on down!

Apologies to Letterman and Leno.

Goodbye Phantom

2010-12-28T22:05:00.000-08:00

Obviously I have taken an unexpected hiatus the past several weeks. Trying to get ready for Christmas and long hours at work stole any time I had to write. I hope you all had a joyous Christmas and were able to muster more holiday spirit than I was.

Christmas is my favorite time of the year so usually I have no problem finding the spirit of the season. This year, however, circumstances combined to exhaust me making it difficult to enjoy the festivities the way I would have liked. I did my best but sadly something happened the day after Christmas that buried any spirit I had left.

I have written a couple of blogs over the past 2 years about my cat Phantom. He has battled kidney disease, repeated urinary tract infections and e coli bacteria growing in his bladder. In November of this year he was also diagnosed with congenital heart disease and Sunday evening he succumbed to it. I took him to our emergency vet and held him as they put him to sleep.

I miss him terribly. My home is very quiet and not a fun place to be right now. Phantom was silent around other people but when it was just me and him he was very vocal, constantly meowing and purring. Because of having two jobs the past couple of years I was usually working or sleeping and it was difficult to find the time to give him all the attention he deserved and desired. Phantom found his own way to rectify that. Over the past year he had taken to not eating unless I sat on the floor with him, petting him and talking to him. It felt sort of like Leave it to Beaver where the whole family sat down and had their meals together.

Ever since his diagnosis I have been worried about him, knowing that any day could be his last. I believe that he sensed my anxiety and changed his behavior slightly to ameliorate some of it for me. He usually slept at the foot of my bed, but since his heart disease diagnosis he had been sleeping right next to me. All I had to do was reach out and I could pet him which would immediately elicit a deep purring. If I was lying on my back he liked to climb up and lay on my chest with his face only inches from mine, his motor humming like a locomotive.

I was Phantom’s 3rd owner. He spent the last 5.5 of his 10.5 years living with me and I was lucky to have him. He visited the vet A LOT and everyone there loved him as well. Thank you for indulging me. I hope posting this will help me heal from my loss. If you have a cat or a dog or any pet you love, give them a treat and a hug.

Crybaby

2010-12-13T22:18:00.000-08:00

John Boehner, republican congressman from Ohio, is the current house minority leader and in 2011 he will be the house majority leader. He is also a giant, orange dick. Of course you knew that as soon as you read he was a republican. Sorry for being redundant. Mr. Boehner has promised his constituency of inbred tadpoles that he will not compromise with President Obama and the democrats when the republicans take over the leadership of the house and to show you how serious he is, he cried. Because you know . . . (sniff) he just (sob) . . . loves this country so much (boo hoo) . . . and his cushy . . . (wahh) do-nothing job . . . (oh mommy) with the exorbitant salary (I need a tissue) and free healthcare for life (waaaa) and lobbyist money buried in the root cellar with the apricot preserves (please don’t take away my government job; I have no marketable skills).

I have butchered the words to a good song as an anti-homage to John Boehner, a man I have absolutely no respect for and would wish into a job shoveling pig shit at a hog farm if I could:

Sung to the tune of Tom Petty’s “I Won’t Back Down”:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LKqO0FeaCFQ

Well I won’t compromise
No I reject the word
You can make fun of my tan and make me cry
But I won’t compromise

No I’ll do what I want, won’t listen to anyone
And I’ll keep the voters from draggin’ me down
Gonna do what I want
… and I won’t compromise

Chorus:
(I won’t compromise)
Hey GOP, soon we’ll be in control
(and I won’t compromise)
Hey I’ll stick to being a shitty troll
and I won’t compromise

Well I know I suck, you want to hit me with your truck,
It’s an F-150 with tires twice my size
But I’ll keep on tellin’ my lies
… and I won’t compromise

Repeat chorus

The Black Hole of Comcastcutta

2010-12-06T22:15:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago I started having trouble with my cable box. Stations were digitized and becoming unwatchable. At first it was one or two channels, a week later it was a dozen, another week and more than half of the channels were scrambled. I was trying to watch a re-run of American Chopper but instead picked up something from a Romanian satellite, a game show called “Are You Smarter than an Ex-Communist Apparatchik”.

So last week I exchanged it for a new one. After I hooked it up I had to call Pasha in India, who is pretending to be American and obviously reading from a script, so she can “activate” the new box. It went off without a hitch and I thought, finally I can watch Dirty Jobs without wondering “Is that poo?” With my new box I could actually see that yes, it is poo, and Mike Rowe is covered in it. We were both living the American dream: I have cable and he will do anything for a buck.

My dream lasted only 36 hours however. On Saturday I turned to local channel 21 to watch the Auburn-South Carolina football game and was met by the message “one moment please—channel will be available shortly”. Apparently to Comcast “shortly” is defined as “an indeterminate amount of time between 1 second and an epoch”. I called my sister and asked her to check her TV. She was able to view channel 21 so well she could see into the player’s souls. Meanwhile I had lost all my channels and now had no signal at all. And the power button had gone out on the box. And the cat was meowing for food. And the temperature had dropped to 28 degrees. And somewhere in the world a volcano was erupting. And no matter how many times I closed my eyes and wished it so, Bar Rafaeli did not appear in my living room.

It was back on the phone to India for reactivation. I got another female reading from a script, who after sending a signal 3 times with no results, had me switch to channel 4 with no change. Then I was put on hold for 10 minutes forced to listen to the same 15 second snippet of muzak edited to play over and over again until Jesus returns or I have an aneurysm. Finally she came back from warming up her hummus or whatever she was doing and asked me for the 4th time to check the connections and make sure the cables were hooked up properly. Why wouldn’t she just tell me she had no idea what the hell was wrong so we could both get on with our lives?

She tells me to hook the cable directly to the TV. I do it and of course I get a signal. She’s getting ready to use her clean hand to pat herself on the back for a job well done until the ugly American points out that we are now bypassing the cable box. So she tells me to hook the cable back into the box and . . . Shock! Horrors! Surprise! I have no signal! She disappears again and while I’m waiting I absent-mindedly press a button on the front of the box and viola, the power light comes on! She gets back on the phone and repeats her script again which, by the way, needs a complete re-write. There’s no tension, no laughs and I didn’t feel empathy with any of the characters. I tell her the power light is on now and she sends her signal to no avail. Then she puts me on hold again.

Exceedingly frustrated by now I pick up the remote and change back to channel 3 just because I need to do something besides hold the phone and say “nope, no change” and holy effing shit, there’s a signal! Why is there a signal on channel 3 when she told me to change to channel 4? Why is everything so difficult? Why is cheese so expensive? Why can’t I find a non-abrasive soap that leaves me feeling clean and refreshed instead of oily and itchy?

The upshot is I spent 30 minutes on the phone with a “technician” and haphazardly fixed the damn thing myself. Hooray for technology, hooray for call centers, hoo-effin’-ray.

Mr. Paterno Goes to Washington

2010-11-30T22:46:00.000-08:00

My friend Rob sent me this link:

http://www.govtrack.us/congress/bill.xpd?bill=hr111-1715

The House of Representatives passed a bill, HR1715, congratulating Joe Paterno on his 400^th win as the coach of the Penn State football team. The bill also commends Paterno on his community service and the graduation rate of his players which is the best in the country. The vote for passage was 417-3. Rob rightfully asked the question: Who voted no and why? Why would you vote “no” on such an innocuous piece of legislative fluff? This is how I imagine the vigorous debate on the house floor by the three dissenters. I will call them Mr. Smith, Mr. Jones and Mr. Johnson.

Mr. Smith: I’m offended at this house wasting time on a bill like this when we have more important work ahead of us, like my bill to refer to anyone who believes in global warming as a “poopiehead”.
Mr. Jones: I agree, uh, not with Congressman Smith’s bill, that’s stupid, but I agree that this Joe Palermo thing is a waste of time.
Mr. Smith: Paterno.
Mr. Jones: Gesundheit
Mr. Johnson: The work of this house should be to ensure that we all have health care for life and plenty of lobbyist money to wipe our asses with.
Mr. Jones: I’m only interested in denying unemployment benefits, keeping health insurance from those that need it and golf outings with my secretary Misty.
Mr. Smith: What happened to Jasmine?
Mr. Jones: I promoted her to my chief of staff
Mr. Johnson: I still don’t see a pile of money in front of me, or a baggie of coke or two Asian hookers.
Mr. Smith: I just want to get the word “poopiehead” into a congressional bill.
Mr. Jones: I’ll vote for this bill if someone has a potato in their shoe.
Mr. Smith: Ha ha! Yeah, or a tuna salad sandwich in their wallet! Anyone? I’m really hungry.
Mr. Johnson: Well, I’m voting “no” so I can leave. I have undocumented Hondurans building an addition onto my mistress’s townhouse and they have to be monitored.
Mr. Smith: I vote “no” too, and would like to add for the official record: poopiehead!
Mr. Jones: “No”. I don’t care what Joe Palermo’s done. If it doesn’t involve screwing this great country for my own benefit I’m not interested.

Congratulations to JoePa on being the first Division I football coach to 400 wins. We are . . . Penn State!

S.O.S.! VCR ASAP!

2010-11-19T21:38:00.000-08:00

The 80s and 90s were the heyday of VCRs. Whether I was using it to tape David Letterman while I was at work, recording Mystery Science Theater 3000 and circulating the tapes to friends or watching a movie rented from the local drugstore for 99 cents, my VCR was in constant use. Technology has moved forward and now we have DVD players and DVRs. If I was a rich man or semi-rich or middle class or solvent in any way I would already have set my home system up with a DVR to record more hours of programming than I could watch in my life-time and replaced all my old VHS tapes with shiny, new laser-etched discs from the future.

What I am, however, is an occupant of paycheck-to-paycheck island where the palm trees produce $1 packs of chicken franks and the water is filled with those damn Wal-Mart smiley faces. In the living room I do have a DVD player, but I can’t afford a DVR. Last year both my VCRs and my cheap DVD player in the bedroom all died within a month of each other. My sister gave me a VCR she wasn’t using so I at least have 1, but I would still like to have one in the bedroom.

Being an intrepid explorer I logged on to Google to search for a VCR. The initial response from the world’s largest search engine was “You’re still using a VCR? Hey everybody, this doofus is still using a VCR!” I thought that was a bit rude so I tried again. “Oh my God, you were serious? You’re actually searching for a VCR in 2010!” was the answer I received this time. So I said screw Google and tried other search engines with these results:

Microsoft—“Our algorithms are set up to search only for things that are relevant”
Yahoo—“VCRs? Yeah I remember them. They were still popular when I was on top. Good times, good times.”
Ask Jeeves—“Holy crap! Someone is using me to do a search! Yes! See world, I’m not dead yet!”

Unfortunately I had to crawl back to Google like the Alaskan GOP to Lisa Murkowski. I was led to Ebay where many sellers were offering used VCRs for small amounts of currency. So I bought one and when it arrived in the mail I was as excited as a child on Christmas morning who had asked for a toy fire engine and instead got a piece of molded Chinese plastic out of a happy meal. I hooked it up, popped in a tape and pressed play.

The movie I had blindly grabbed is a 1950s low budget sci-fi movie called The Deadly Mantis which is about a giant praying mantis on the attack. It’s been a while since I watched it but I remembered there being actors and scenery. What I was seeing from my new VCR was snow and jagged lines which made it very difficult to follow the plot. I stopped it and pressed rewind. The tape went back for a few seconds and shut off. I pressed again and again and again and again until the three minutes of tape had finally rewound completely. With a sad shake of my head and a realization that technologically I felt like an ape trying to open a nut with a rock, I pressed “eject”. Then I pressed it again. And again. And again. And again.

My tape is still in the VCR two days later. I get up every morning and think “maybe today’s the day” but alas, it’s not to be. This weekend I will have to perform surgery to get my movie back from the belly of the beast.

The Ebay seller was very apologetic and my money was refunded within hours of my contacting them. I’m still without a VCR in the bedroom. My rows of VHS tapes stare at me forlornly, wondering when they will again be a part of my life. Sadly, I have no answer for them.

The Zen of Michelle Bachmann

2010-11-09T21:50:00.000-08:00

Minnesota congresswoman Michelle Bachmann is back in the news. She did an interview with Chris Matthews where her appearance was glassy-eyed, and she gave the same typical, nonsensical answer to every question. Matthews wondered aloud whether Michelle was under hypnosis.

If only it were that simple Mr. Matthews. No, Michelle isn’t under the influence of an outside force, it’s an inside machine that has shoes clogging the gears. Michelle hasn’t been hypnotized, she’s batshit crazy.

That look in her eyes is a mixture of pixilation, stupidity, paranoia and a gene that scientists haven’t identified yet. It all combines to form the Zen of Michelle Bachmann. It allows her to remain in a state of oxymoronic manic calm that produces her ludicrous conspiracy theories, screaming monkey-with-a-microphone proclamations and unrelenting demands for attention.

Dr. Alan Rabinowitz of the Larry Fine Foundation for Ridiculous Thought, a non-partisan, non-denominational, non-profit, non-fat, low cholesterol think tank, has written a paper that includes a section on Michelle’s brain for the science journal “If the Neurons Aren’t Firing, It Must Be the Wiring”. In the paper entitled “On the Thought Processes of Lower Primates”, Dr. Rabinowitz argues that Michelle’s brain is unique even among other conservatives or other paranoid schizophrenics. When Michelle gives a speech or makes a TV appearance she looks normal: She looks like a soccer mom or a respected business woman. It’s only when you actually listen to what she she’s saying and try to understand how she got from point A to point 32 in a straight line, that you realize the depths of her whackjobian fugues.

So Chris Matthews, the next time you have Mrs. Bachmann on your program, remember you are dealing with a brain that works on a different level from anyone else. You have to ask her questions she can handle like, “What meds are you currently on?”, “Did they change your meds?” and “Have you taken your meds?”

Don't Play B-17

2010-10-31T21:55:00.000-07:00

Noises come from the radio that sound sort of like a train whistle. They repeat several times before Paul McCartney starts to sing. It’s the beginning of “Silly Love Songs” and I am immediately taken back to age 9, sitting in our kitchen on Charles Street eating my sugar-laden cereal for breakfast, getting ready for school, listening to WSBA 910 am radio with the Morning Mayor, Hal Raymond. That memory floods over me every time I hear “Silly Love Songs”.

We all have these moments of time floating around our heads like bubbles just waiting for the right song to burst them and release the memory. Whenever I hear “Monster Mash” around Halloween I remember being about 5 years old, sleeping with the lights on and the radio playing low to help me go to sleep. The last thing I needed was Dr. Frankenstein singing me a song when I was still convinced the closet door creaked open after my eyes closed.

Sometimes the song and memory are lodged in our brains because it was a traumatic event. When I was in 8th grade, myself and two friends started re-writing the lyrics to rock songs, replacing certain parts with words we had learned from a Richard Pryor album. Kiss’s “Detroit Rock City” was our magnum opus. Take a guess as to what word we replaced “rock” with. Yes, our humor was very sophisticated. Anyway, these ditties were supposed to be just between the 3 of us to provide sophomoric chuckles for our inchoate little minds. But one of my pre-pubescent cohorts in crime decided to pass “Detroit %$#@ City” around the room culminating in the TEACHER FINDING IT! Thank you St. Clair for giving me a stroke at age 13. To this day I can’t listen to “Detroit Rock City” without my chest tightening.

The length of time the memory represents is fluid as well. It could be an event that was over in minutes or it could be an entire week taken as a whole. INXS’s “Kick” album came out in 1987. I liked it but my fiancé at the time loved it. When we went on vacation to Ocean City MD that September she popped it in every time we got in the car. Every time. By the end of our vacation I hated it, wanted to run over the cassette with the car until the plastic casing burst like an over-cooked sausage and the tape lay across the road like greasy intestines. Now every time I hear “Need You Tonight” I’m suddenly driving down Coastal Highway headed for the boardwalk screaming “Damn you Michael Hutchence!”

It’s an amazing power that music has on us: To be able to so easily replicate a moment in time even if it’s decades old or we were only children when it happened. The best part is you don’t even realize your mind is storing away that tune and memory tandem until years later when you’re in the grocery store and you recognize the muzak version of Pink Floyd’s “Another Brick in the Wall”. Just like that I’m a high school freshman again and someone is playing the song during morning announcements. I have no idea why but I still remember.

The Constitutional Wisdom of the GOP

2010-10-25T22:10:00.000-07:00

One of the big selling points that Tea Party and some Republican candidates use while campaigning is that they will return the country to the constitution. This has always confused me because to my knowledge, the USA and the constitution are still married. I’ve scoured the papers and can’t find any news of a divorce or even a trial separation. Sure, the country has a wandering eye, trying to occasionally get away with something, but the Supreme Court always bring them back together. At the end of the day the country and the constitution are in bed whispering sweet nothings to each other.

So why do Tea Party candidates say they will return the country to the constitution? The answer, as far as I can see, is that they’re full of shit. Tea Partiers are filled with fake righteous indignation and have no idea how to express it without sounding like the racist douche bags they are so they spew out meaningless bullshit to get attention. As a candidate for office if you say you want less taxes and rule by the constitution, who can argue with you? If your opponent tries, the Tea Partiers rise up like the overinflated parade balloons they are and scream “the democrats want higher taxes and to ignore the constitution!” It’s a full proof plan to run for office without having to think or have any actual ideas.

You may ask “How well do the Tea Partiers and like minded republicans know the constitution?” As it turns out, not very well. Last week Christine O’Donnell was debating her opponent for the Delaware Senate seat, Chris Coons, when he stated that the constitution calls for the separation of church and state. O’Donnell responded "Where in the constitution is the separation of church and state?" Coons’ answer: the first amendment.

The FIRST amendment. He went on to quote from the document “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof”. O’Donnell responded "You're telling me that's in the first amendment?" This would be hilarious except that this woman is running for congress and has every chance of winning since our country elected George Bush TWICE! Some have argued that O’Donnell was referring to the fact that the words “separation of church and state” do not appear in the constitution. Nice try. Though those exact words do not appear in the constitution itself, Thomas Jefferson said the clause's intention was to erect "a wall of separation between church and state". The meaning has been clear for a very long time.

You could also argue “Who the hell knows the constitution by heart?” Valid point. I sure don’t, but then again, I’m not running for the Senate and haven’t used my knowledge of the constitution as a calling card. As a qualification for running for office O’Donnell talked about a graduate fellowship in constitutional government she received from the Claremont Institute. Sounds impressive, doesn’t it? The Claremont Institute is a conservative think tank and the fellowship dragged on for a harrowing 7 days.

Our little constitutional scholar was also asked in another debate to talk about a recent Supreme Court decision she disagreed with and she couldn’t come up with one. Which brings us to Jon Runyan: Jon is an ex-NFL offensive lineman once voted the dirtiest player in the league. He’s now a republican running for congress in New Jersey. He was asked by his democratic opponent in a debate "Jon, it's a different branch of government, but can you give me an example from the last 10 or 15 years of a Supreme Court decision in which you strongly disagree?" Runyan’s response after a long, long pause?

“Dred Scott.”

Dred Scott, which was decided upon in 1857. I’m sure everyone feels warm and fuzzy that Jon Runyan disagrees with a ruling declaring slavery legal 153 years ago.

This is the constitutional wisdom of the GOP.

Doom in the Living Room

2010-10-17T11:55:00.000-07:00

This is Howard Cosell welcoming you to this dark, lilliputian living room on a glorious Sunday evening in October. Tonight we bring you a heavyweight bout of epic magnitude between defending champion Left Foot and the challenger, a pair of steel-toed work boots. These pugilists have chiseled their bodies to Atlas-like proportions and honed their skills in the sweet science to the ne plus ultra of fustigation.

The cat has meowed signaling the opening of round 1. The boots, a revelation of quotidian practicality in brown suede, are lying on the floor in a heap. Here comes Left Foot walking down the hall, bare foot, flaunting his confidence like a preening peacock. He walks by and nimbly avoids his opponent to the chagrin of all footwear everywhere watching tonight’s broadcast. Round 1 goes to Left Foot.

There’s the cat’s meow for Round 2. The boots have been moved to a spot in front of the TV and here comes Left Foot to change the channel. These are the moments that crystallize in my mind why we as a global society are drawn to this barbaric yet contemplative sport. Left Foot is stepping into the viper’s pit and the boots are prepared to strike with eloquent ferocity. Oh my! Left Foot steps on the boots! He’s wobbling, but now has regained his balance. He’s picking up the boots and throwing them across the room!

What a turn of events. As Robert Burns wrote so profoundly “the best laid plans of mice and men oft go astray”. Round 2 has gone to Left Foot and the gallant pair of boots has retreated in abject humiliation.

The cat has meowed for Round 3. The boots are lying next to the couch in a blind spot where the light doesn’t reach. This is an all-in gambit from this valiant competitor. Left Foot is in the dining room. And here he comes! He’s stepping into the living room and he doesn’t see the boots. Left Foot has slammed hard into the steel toe of the boots and is hurt. Down goes Left Foot! Down goes Left Foot! The champion is down on the living room floor writhing in agony. What a stratagem by the boots to just lie there like a coiled cobra and wait for Left Foot to trip over them. The referee has stopped the fight! Its over! The champ is still down. We have a new world champion! All hail the steel-toed work boots!

Join us next week when we bring you another Sunday night fight, Right Knee vs. Coffee Table.

Morning Devotions

2010-10-11T21:50:00.000-07:00

Dear God,

Have you been checking your Facebook page lately? (By the way, I thought there was a limit of 5000 friends, how did you get 3.5 billion? Flaunting the rules is not cool) If you haven’t noticed, a lot of people have been posting a status asking you to give us back Johnny Cash and we’ll give you Justin Bieber.

First of all, apparently I’m not getting your newsletter anymore because I didn’t know we were allowed to ask for this kind of thing. Please have one of the girls in the office check that, I’m sure it’s just a clerical error as I don’t remember clicking unsubscribe.

Anyway, now that I know that we can make this type of request I have a few of my own:

1) If you give us back Stevie Ray Vaughn we’ll give you Madonna. The argument: Stevie Ray was only 35 when he died in a helicopter crash and I never even got to see him play live. He had just gotten clean and sober a short while before his death. I can imagine the great songs he still had to write and blues riffs to play. As for Madonna, I know she’s not as big a star as she used to be, but come on, I know you. You must still be peeved about the Sex book and the blasphemous religious imagery in her videos. We get a great guitarist back; you get some of that divine retribution you love so much.

2) Give us back Bill Hicks and we’ll give you Carlos Mencia. The argument: I’m going to play the age card again with Bill who was only 32 when he died. I’ve never heard anyone so smart, quick on his feet, vulgar, paranoid, profane, laugh out-loud funny and thought-provoking at the same time. As for Mencia, he’s made a career of being a Mexican telling Mexican jokes but he’s not of Mexican descent. He’s half German and his name isn’t Carlos, its Ned. And he’s a prolific joke stealer. With the political and social situation in this country we need Bill Hicks back to guide us through the minefield, not a poser who can’t think for himself.

3) Give us back Keith Moon of the Who and John Bonham of Led Zeppelin and we’ll give you Phil Collins. The argument: Bonham and Moon were two of the greatest rock drummers ever. Slight drinking problem, I know, but if we can get Aerosmith clean, we can get Keith and John clean. Phil Collins used to write good songs in the 70s and 80s, but now? Enough already with the Disney music and the saccharine drenched love ballads. We’re drowning in sugar-substitute covered lyrics and generic piano noodling. How do you go from In the Air Tonight to the theme of an animated Tarzan movie? I know you like Sussudio, here’s a chance to have the man who wrote it.

4) Give us back Bon Scott to sing for AC/DC and we’ll give you any indie hipster band you want: The argument: No offense to Brian Johnson, he’s done good work, but Bon Scott is the true lead singer of AC/DC. The band’s brand of ballsy, bluesy fast paced rock was a perfect match for Scott’s caterwauling voice and rampant machismo. As for these indie bands, I’m tired of Rolling Stone telling me what the next great band is only to listen to them and hear 40 minutes of droning, self-indulgent, our-songs-are-deep-and-meaningful-but-you’re-not-cool-enough-to-understand-them noise. AC/DC’s songs don’t pretend to be meaningful, they just rock.

I’ve got more of these requests but I’ll save them for another time. I don’t want to come off like Charlie Brown’s sister, Sally, writing out her Christmas list asking for 10s and 20s. But these are important requests. The state of music and comedy today are a sad shell of what they once were. With all the problems in the world we could use a good laugh and some good tunes.

Until next time,

You know who

P.S. Have you been getting my emails about the lottery? Because I’m still not winning. Check your spam filter. Thanks.

Making a Boob of Myself

2010-10-04T21:49:00.000-07:00

Someone wrote a blog on the Huffington Post saying that they had seen quite enough of Katy Perry’s breasts lately. Whoa, whoa, whoa . . . whoa . . . whoa. That is blasphemy. Let’s back this male sexist pig train up, switch tracks and take the lacey black line to Boobville, Breast Town, Hooter Junction and Cucamonga!

I don’t find Perry all that attractive as a whole and her music is unlistenable, but she has a rack that is, in a word, inspirational. Just thinking about them . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Huh? What? Oh, right. I don’t think the world has seen enough of Katy’s best assets. I think they deserve their own show on MTV or VH1, you know, one of the networks that already show nothing but garbage.

Here are some ideas:
1) Give the twins names like Freebie and the Bean and make them private detectives with Aaron Sorkin penning snappy dialog for them.
2) Make a cartoon calling them the Scooby Snacks where they solve mysteries with Shaggy, Scoob and Velma.
3) You could call them Cagney and Lacey in a remake of the 80s police drama and get Steven Boccho to produce.
4) J.J. Abrams hasn’t written a series in the last 5 minutes so name Katy’s breasts Kirk and Spock for Star Trek: Space Station 38D

These were just off the top of my head; I’m sure professionals can come up with even worse ideas. The important thing is to keep Katy’s tatas in the public eye for all to enjoy. Katy, you got ‘em so flaunt ‘em, every chance you get. Just, please, don’t sing anymore.

The Tea Party Plan for America

2010-09-26T18:09:00.000-07:00

Today we talk to Sharron Angle and Christine O’Donnell, two Tea Party candidates for the United States senate. Welcome.
Sharron: I hate the media, always asking questions I can’t answer. Don’t ask me any of those.
Christine: You’re not masturbating while you write this are you? I'm going to be sick.
CO: Ok, enough with the opening remarks, let’s get started. Sharron you have called for the abolishment of social security and Medicare. What’s your plan to take care of the millions of elderly poor who depend on these programs?
Sharron: I’m sorry, I don’t understand the question.
CO: Poor, elderly, need money and health care, how do you provide?
Sharron: I couldn’t hear you.
Christine: I’d like to answer.
CO: Please.
Christine: They need to stop having sex.
CO: How will that pay their bills and provide health care?
Christine: I don’t know, but they should still stop.
CO: Ok, let’s table the first question and talk about your obsession with sex Christine.
Christine: I’m not obsessed with sex. I want a world without sex.
CO: You do know that the people in the Bible had sex, right?
Christine: I don’t agree with that. I believe the original texts of the Bible were mistranslated. Those people were just snuggling. It was cold.
CO: It was cold in the Fertile Crescent 365 days a year?
Christine: I believe so.
CO: You’re parents had sex, or you wouldn’t be here.
Christine: No!
CO: You’re parents had sex.
Christine: La la la, I can’t hear you! La la la!
CO: Wow. Let’s turn back to Sharron Angle.
Sharron: I don’t like that question.
CO: I haven’t asked you anything yet.
Sharron: I’m right about everything.
CO: One of the main tenets of the Tea Party is to lower taxes. This is an easy platform to run on, but how do you plan to pay for things without the tax revenue?
Sharron: Yard sales.
CO: What?
Sharron: Government sponsored yard sales every weekend. I have one every year and easily clear $500.
CO: In order to match the tax money brought in you would have to have 4 billion yard sales.
Sharron: No, my people tell me only a dozen or so are needed.
CO: Tax revenue is $2 trillion a year.
Sharron: No! La la la! I can’t hear you! La la la!
Christine: La la la!
Sharron: La la la!
CO: There you have it folks. The Tea Party plan for America: no money, no insurance, no assistance, no sex. Sweet death, take us all now.

A York Fair Fable

2010-09-17T22:29:00.000-07:00

Here in York County, PA every September after Labor Day we have the York Fair. It’s the oldest county agricultural fair in the United States at 245 years. The York Fair has happened every year since 1765, which is pretty amazing.

I went to the fair last Saturday and it was a lovely day. The Sun was showering us with healthy rays, leaving out the gamma, x-rays and the ultraviolet radiation. Clouds danced across the sky doing a delicate samba. Mothers were reading poetry to their children while fathers hummed madrigals in the background. As I traipsed down the midway, bluebirds alighted on my arms, singing a song they had written for me extolling my virtues and damning my enemies.

A few hours into my day at the fair, however, I made the acquaintance of the worst merchant/salesman the blackest depths of hell has ever produced. Ok, that’s overselling him, but he really bugged me. His claustrophobic tent was crammed to the rafters with t-shirts, baseball hats, stickers and sundry crap he bought off of EBay. I went in to look around and the first thing that irritated me like a prickly heat rash was that he didn’t have the price of anything displayed. If you wanted to know how much something cost you had to ask about each item, picking his brain like snatching a grape from the vine. Feeling my annoyance, the bluebirds sat outside the tent beating a drum for my vexation.

I don’t know the merchant’s name but I shall refer to him as Dipshit McGee. I perused Dipshit’s merchandise and found myself interested in 3 Philadelphia Phillies baseball caps. In my friendliest voice I asked, “Dear shop keep, pray how much legal tender are you asking for your baseball-logo adorned chapeaus?” Instead of looking at me and engaging me in conversation, Dipshit folded a t-shirt, responding briskly, “They’re all different prices.” The bluebirds’ drum beat got louder.

Continuing to fold his precious shirt he asked, “Which ones are you interested in?” I replied in a humble tone “Why, the triumvirate of Philadelphia Phillies caps hither”, and I helpfully pointed with my index finger.

Here is what I was looking for in an answer: taking a cue from my helpful first digit, Dipshit McGee walks over and using his own pointing finger, illustrates each hat one at a time and says, “This one is $8, this one is $12 and this one is $25, good sir.”

This is the answer I received: “They’re anywhere from 8 to 25 dollars” Dipshit mumbled disinterestedly while extending his love affair with the folded shirt, petting it in a seedy, sexual way while calling it “my darling Clementine” and puffing breaths from his cheeks like a woman in labor. At this point the bluebirds’ drumhead rolled like the rushing ocean waves in my ears.

I don’t know whether he was insulted by my receding hairline, didn’t believe that I actually had $8 in my pocket, or perhaps he believed his existence of selling trinkets from a tent in between cattle judging and hot tub sales was a hollow mockery of what life should be and for this he hated all his customers. Whatever the reason I determined I would not spend one ducat in his tent. I threw him a stout, “good day” and left his shop. As I passed my honor guard of bluebirds I instructed them, “Burn it down boys.”

A few vigorous flutters of their hearty wings and an ember from the stove fire of the Italian sausage shop next door lit the offending tent. By the time the blaze started I was long gone, already in line for my chocolate milkshake.

The moral of the story? Act like you want my 8 bucks you piece of crap. I know, it’s not as lofty and poetic as the messages in Aesop’s fables, but I’m working on it.

Boo!

2010-09-08T21:18:00.000-07:00

Have you ever been really scared? Like when you’re watching the shower scene from Psycho, the ending of Halloween or any Whoopi Goldberg movie. As the feeling passed over you, how did you refer to it? People have many different sayings to express their momentary frisson of fear.

You scared the hell out of me—This is actually a good thing. You should be glad to get those demons out of you, even if it took watching Sister Act 2 to do it.

I was scared shitless—Now this is scared. If you excrete every drop of waste in your body, you must have found out that you can’t afford cable or satellite TV and are stuck with an indoor antenna that picks up 3 channels. Sometimes. I was in this circle of hell for a year so you have my sympathy.

You scared the living shit out of me—Hmm. You never hear anyone say “you scared the dead shit out of me” do you? Can shit be alive or dead? Since it’s in your body and you’re alive, it must contain living particles in which case this variation has a corollary to being without cable TV. But since shit can’t eat, breathe, talk or think on its own, you’d have to say it’s not living which means this saying makes no sense. Of course, neither does me spending 60 words writing about it.

That scared the bejeesus out of me—Honestly, I don’t know what “the bejeesus” is, so I don’t know how you get it scared out of you. Possibly it’s related to the heebie jeebies or maybe the hoochie coochie but probably not the cha cha, can can or Walla Walla. To get something scared out that you knew was living inside of you but you don’t even know what it is, I believe would take listening to Celine Dion screech her way through an entire Vegas show. I choose to keep the bejeesus inside of me, thank you.

She scared the pants off of me—I’m not sure how this happens. I know alcohol can make your pants come off and category 5 hurricane force winds could do it but I’m not sure what kind of scare could be responsible. Possibly watching The View and realizing this is how far our culture has fallen.

You almost scared the life out of me—Obviously this is the ultimate and as such, is very personal. You need to figure out for yourself what could scare you close to death. Myself, it would have to be if the publishing world decided that only one author was allowed to write novels anymore and they chose as The One, the God-awful hack James Patterson.

Now I’m going to tell you something that should scare you and we’ll see what your reaction is. Let me know whether you lose your shit, your bejeesus or drop trou. Here goes: There are 3 million Americans unemployed, some for more than a year, but The Situation from Jersey Shore stands to make $5 million this year.

I need to go change my underwear.

Pick Up Your Guitar

2010-08-31T11:05:00.000-07:00

REO Speedwagon -- Flying Turkey Trot

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5Jr4R_xheeE

I’m going to talk about a guy you’ve probably never heard of, but who I think in the music world has always been underappreciated. I am a fan of 70s era REO Speedwagon. Gary Richrath was one of the primary songwriters and lead guitar player. When discussions of rock’s greatest guitar players come up Gary’s name is never mentioned. He’s basically been forgotten. His band is treated as a joke which they really don’t deserve. In the 70s they had hits with Ridin’ the Storm Out, Roll with the Changes, Back on the Road Again, Time for Me to Fly, and 157 Riverside Avenue. These were great examples of the hard rock era.

I have no problem considering the 80s version of Speedwagon a joke because that’s when douche bag lead singer Kevin Cronin turned the band into a Peter Cetera-esque treacle producing crap factory. They deserve the non-success they’ve had since Cronin took control of the band. It was Cronin who, for all intents and purposes, forced Richrath to quit the band in 1989 because Gary wanted to return Speedwagon to being a ROCK band and Cronin wanted to write and sing more brain melting ballads.

REO Speedwagon’s 1979 album Nine Lives remains one of my favorites. Back then local rock radio station FM 104 would play a new release in its entirety every Friday at midnight. I remember lying on my bed and listening to Nine Lives and loving it immediately. The album was filled beginning to end with Richrath’s attitude and great guitar playing. I went out the next day to the Music Merchant and bought my copy which I still have.

REO Speedwagon started changing to a more pop oriented sound as the decade rolled over into the 80s and had their biggest selling release with Hi Infidelity. I like the album to a certain extent but this was the first record where Richrath’s rock n’ roll soul was being subdued. Each subsequent release over the years moved farther and farther into what Bart Simpson calls “wuss rock”. Suddenly the band that Gary Richrath had put on the map with his hard edged political protest song Golden Country had turned into Bread.

After leaving REO Speedwagon, Richrath put an eponymous band together which released one CD in 1992 and toured extensively. Another CD was started in 1998 but never finished. Since then he’s disappeared from music. Apparently drugs and alcohol have played a large part in his becoming a ghost and while this is all too common in the music industry, it’s still sad. I have to admit that I paid money to see the current touring version of REO Speedwagon a few years ago and now I’m kind of sorry I did. I helped perpetuate the fraud that Kevin Cronin is passing off. I believe it was just him and Bruce Hall as original members with a bunch of 20-something hired hand musicians surrounding them.

Without Gary Richrath there is no REO Speedwagon. Pick up your guitar again Gary. Rock n’ roll needs people like you.

The Day Hell Tried to Deny Me a Tuna Salad Sandwich

2010-08-23T22:35:00.000-07:00

I still remember the day, an innocuous Tuesday. An azure sky spread over the world like a protective cloak. Wisps of cumulous clouds hung above us like ornaments on a charm bracelet. Squirrels and rabbits played in my yard, dancing to whatever music is running through the head of a squirrel or rabbit if indeed any music is running through their heads, which would be pretty cool. I wonder if scientists have ever studied that, whether squirrels and rabbits hear music when they play.

Anyway, my point is it was a nice day. I was going to work and decided to stop at the grocery store on the way to get lunch. I knew exactly what I wanted so I would only need an extra 5 minutes. When I walked to my car if I had only noticed the burning, sulfurous magma of the underworld bubbling up through the earth, I would have known how wrong I was.

The drive up to the store was idyllic. Traffic was light and a good song on the radio pied-pipered me to my destination. I pulled into the strip mall parking lot and that was where the Devil’s minions began to pick at me like gnats. I started to make a right hand turn to drive past the pet store. There was a gentleman crossing the road in front of me. To say he was taking his time would be to say Michelle Bachmann is just a little eccentric. I don’t know the man’s name but I was calling him a bad word so for editorial purposes let’s just refer to him as Expletive. Expletive was taking steps equal to the length of a paramecium. In the time it took him to cross, 3 species of animals became extinct. When I was finally able to finish my right hand turn the Sun had completed burning all its hydrogen and was now burning helium for fuel. The dude was walking really slowly.

Although most of my extra five minutes had been used up I decided to press on. I drove down to the supermarket parking lot and made a right hand turn to look for a parking space. I should have been more observant. I should have looked to see if there was a sign at the front of the aisle that read “this aisle only for people who are willing to wait as long as it takes for the first available parking space rather than moving on”.

Sitting in the middle of the aisle in front of me was a car that was waiting to pull into the closest space. They were hindered in doing this because the car aside of the space had their doors open while they loaded groceries and pre-teen children. These two characters in my little playlet shall be now known as Nasty Swear Word and Word My Mother Wouldn’t Want Me to Say.

I couldn’t get around Nasty Swear Word and they were apparently willing to wait until the end of time to get that space. Word My Mother Wouldn’t Want Me to Say was moving at the same pace as Expletive had been moving. I knew now that no matter how quickly I purchased my tuna salad sandwich I was going to be late for work so I stayed where I was and waited impatiently for Word My Mother Wouldn’t Want Me To Say to close their doors and Nasty Swear Word to sssllloooooowwwwwlllyyyyy pull into the available space. I parked my own car and walked in to buy my lunch with several of the Devil’s sidekicks nipping at my heels. As I later pulled out of the parking lot they were still hanging onto the hood of my car chattering and making faces at me. I managed to shake them off about a mile down the road and was minion-free the rest of the evening.

You may be inclined to say I have exaggerated this story, but I want you to know it is 100% true. It happened just the way I have told it here and you’d have to be a communist or a libertarian to think otherwise.

Lady Gaga, Will You Please Gogo Away?

2010-08-16T21:42:00.000-07:00

Who is this person, this Lady Gaga who has invaded our innocent planet with a Biblical plague of cheap tranny makeup, derivative music, and the costumes from a New York City Halloween parade? What thigh of what mythical creature was she torn from? Who said we needed another Elton John? I thought we were doing fine with the one we already have. Is our Elton in the shop? Is Gaga a loaner Elton?

While I think Gaga’s costumes are less about being flamboyant and more about covering up limited musical ability, I wouldn’t mind so much if she weren’t so ubiquitous. I realize publicity is necessary but does it have to be every single magazine cover I see? Does she have to be on every news and entertainment website I log on to? Last week I saw her on the cover of Bass Fisherman Quarterly dressed as a smallmouth with sunglasses in the shape of an Evenrude motor.

I understand People and US Weekly posting endless interviews and articles, because they’re bland, treacle producers and Gaga is the newest mindless, look-at-me pop princess. But why is “This Week in the Koran” doing an interview? Did The Zucchini Farmers and Gourd Consortium of America really have to do a style piece in their newsletter comparing her meteoric rise to the increased popularity of cucumbers among married couples ages 25-35?

Enough already! I would like a few of the precious days I have left on this earth to be Gaga free. There’s a sentence I never thought I’d type.

ESPN: The French Whores of the Sports World

2010-08-10T21:48:00.000-07:00

When basketball star LeBron James was ready to announce where he was going to play basketball next year, he suggested to ESPN that he do it in an hour long special they could air called “The Decision”. I wonder what other profound names they fed to the pigs to see what got shit back out: “A Complete Waste of 60 Minutes”, “Insult to Our Intelligence”, “The LeBron James Dancing Bear Variety Hour”, “Can You Believe The Shit They Put on TV” or “’What Else is on Theater’ Starring The Who Gives a Rat’s Ass Players”.

Since it took LeBron 3 seconds to say he was going to Miami, they only had 59 minutes and 57 seconds of air time to fill with sneaker commercials and prattle from the network’s legion of talking bobbleheads.

This fiasco was LeBron’s idea and I understand why ESPN said yes. James is a singular talent and the organization he chose to play for instantly became the favorite to win the NBA championship next year. They knew basketball fans all over the world would watch. That means high ratings, which translates into money which sets the suits in their ivory towers all aquiver and leaves them sweating bourbon back into their glass of ice. In the end “The Decision” was nothing more than an ode to narcissism and it left a bad taste in every sports fan’s mouth.

I’m surprised that no one at ESPN has suggested making The Decision a weekly show. For example: This week on The Decision Shaquille O’Neal decides which team to beg for a contract allowing him one more year of non-production for which he will get paid more money than some small countries have in reserve. Don’t miss next week when the Cincinnati Bengals decide to thumb their nose at the wrath of God and sign Terrell Owens for a year.

ESPN has recently compounded their affront to journalism by spending an entire day reporting AS A FACT that Brett Favre had told the Minnesota Vikings that he was retiring from the NFL. The next day we find out it was nothing more than a rumor which Brett eventually denied by saying “I have not made a final decision because I’m a prima donna drama queen who milks TV time like a farmer’s cool, morning hand on a cow’s teats.” I’m paraphrasing but that’s what I heard.

I watched and listened to some of the coverage because it was inescapable if you’re a sports fan. ESPN tied our hands and feet to an uncomfortable vinyl-covered kitchen chair using coarse horse-hair rope and held us hostage. ESPN was definitely not reporting it as a rumor. They were acting as if it were a foregone conclusion. The only reason to report it this way is the same reason they aired “The Decision”: ratings.

So while ESPN has always been about making money like any network is, lately they have become the French whores of the sports world, selling themselves for little more than a baguette and a verse of the Marseillaise.

Come On Nevada, You Can Do Better Than Sharron Angle

2010-08-05T22:08:00.000-07:00

Sharron Angle is a senate candidate from Nevada. She’s a tea bagger so she’s loaded with crazy like when she refuses to take questions at a news conference because she thinks reporters should report only the news she wants them to. Yeah, that doesn’t violate our right to free speech or a free press, you know, those pesky things we’ve been fighting for 230 years to have.

Angle is a Christian and mixes her faith with her politics. She recently said the Obama administration’s agenda goes against the first commandment: thou shalt have no other gods before me. She apparently believes that the government helping people with health care, unemployment compensation, social security and Medicare is turning the government into an idol that people are worshipping.

1st way this is ignorant: If companies sold health insurance that was affordable to the masses, the government wouldn’t need to participate in the process so the real demons here are the pharmaceutical and insurance industries who have colluded to keep prices out of reach of regular citizens while posting billion dollar earnings. Nero fiddles while Rome burns. Also, people would rather be working than be on the dole. Maybe Sharron you should spend less time complaining about the democrats and tell us your amazing ideas on how to create jobs. Typical tea bagger: all hot air and no balloon.

2nd way this is ignorant: Proverbs 19: 17 If you help the poor, you are lending to the Lord and he will repay you.
Matthew 7: 12 Do unto others as you would have them do to you
Matthew 25:40 And the King will say “I tell you the truth, when you did it to one of the least of these, my brother and sisters, you were doing it to me!”
Matthew 5:42 Give to him who asks of you, and do not turn away from him who wants to borrow from you

You need to read more than the commandments Sharron. You have to read the whole book

3rd way this is ignorant: Say hello to Bob. Bob is a Christian who lost his job and his health insurance. He exists on unemployment compensation and can’t afford to go to the doctor when he’s sick. Bob prays for a good job but he has some flaws in his character that he has to fix before God will reward him with the job he desires. So for the time being God is using the unemployment money to help Bob until he makes himself right. My guess is, Sharron, that you never thought of things this way, that God might be using our government to help his children on their way to a better life.

I need to break something else to your holier-than-thou self. You don’t sit at the right hand of God, nor the left, not at his feet or even in the first row of the auditorium. You’re still out in the hallway trying to convince St. Peter that the ticket you printed off of the internet isn’t a fake.

Sharron Angle, you believe that God told you to run for the Nevada senate seat and that may be true. However, God told me that you’re an idiot so one of us is getting our messages wrong. I don’t think it’s me because God also told me I’d never win the lottery and he’s been spot on with that one so far.

Sleep, Perchance to Sleep Some More

2010-07-27T23:58:00.000-07:00

Sleep and I used to have a solid relationship. I worked one job, day work, got home around 5 or 6, ate dinner, watched TV, then went to bed and got my needed 8 hours. Weekends came along and Sleep would slip me an extra hour or two with a wink and a nod. I never took her for granted and she was always there for me. But 2 years ago I had to take new jobs. I started working second shift with another in the early morning. My relationship with Sleep hasn’t been the same since.

I remember that first night getting off at midnight. I poured myself into the car, exhausted, my muscles heavy with fatigue. Sleep drove me home but she took me the long way, by the lake. When we reached the inlet she opened the door and pushed me out, leaving me for dead in the shallow water.

I survived the bitch’s attack. I wanted to recover and return strong like Clint Eastwood in Fistful of Dollars. I was going to show Sleep I didn’t need her. But all my brave talk couldn’t stand up to the rigors of the hours. It was only a few weeks before I was dreaming of death as if I were in the third act of a Shakespeare tragedy.

I was barely getting 6 hours a night. That’s enough for some people. There are folks who only have a casual, friends-with-benefits relationship with sleep. But I needed a commitment. I needed 8 hours a day. I wasn’t going to call her though, not after what she had done to me.

I tried the usual tricks to stay awake like consuming copious amounts of sugar and caffeine while working at night. All that happened was I gained 15 pounds, started seeing a snow shower of glittering lights everywhere I went and believed I was a small woodland creature named Frisky Fritters.

Sleep taunted me. She knew I was jonesing bad. When I would get home from my second job in the morning I’d see her standing across the street in a French maid’s outfit dusting telephone poles which even in my weakened condition I knew was ridiculous. You don’t dust telephone poles; you give them a nice sheen with a can of Pledge. Come one, I know I was tired but I wasn’t a fool.

The lingerie didn’t work so she’s started calling and leaving messages on my answering machine. They’re sexy entreaties to the wonderland of REM sleep and dreams of 13 inch memory foam mattresses with 1500 count Egyptian cotton sheets and full body pillows. I haven’t answered her siren song yet but her voice is so mellifluous; it envelopes me in a cloud. A soft, white, fluffy, drifting cloud that . . .zzzzzzzzzzzz

Out of Context

2010-07-22T00:02:00.000-07:00

The big story in the news right now is Shirley Sherrod, an employee of the USDA and an African American, resigning under pressure after Fox News showed a videotape of a speech she made where she seems to admit to showing prejudice against a white family she was supposed to help when they were about to lose their farm. The one problem is Fox edited the video before showing it. If you viewed it in its original form you find out the incident she’s talking about happened over 20 years ago and the whole reason she was telling the story was to illustrate that she realized her feelings were wrong. She changed her mind and did help the white farmers and not only saved their farm for them, but became life-long friends with the now elderly couple.

I was wondering how Fox News would feel if say, MSNBC, showed video about them, only they edited it first to, oh let’s say LIE to the public. I think it would go something life this:

In an interview night time gas bag Sean Hannity says “I’m a Dickensian scholar. Charles Dickens’ writing has guided my life”, but MSNBC airs Sean saying only “I’m a Dick.”

Prime time bag o’ shit Bill O’Reilly had this story to tell: “I was in Vegas recently. You know I’m not an easy sell, but I was knocked off my ass by an amazing show starring a clown with a monkey. There is no doubt this lends clowns new credibility in the industry.” But this is what MSNBC airs on Countdown: “I’m an ass clown with no credibility.”

Let’s say Glenn Beck was doing one of his unfunny comedy routines where he compares everything he doesn’t like or agree with to the Nazis. Instead of showing his performance as he filmed it, MSNBC put on the screen a still picture of Glenn with his arm in the air and behind him they played the soundtrack to an old Nazi propaganda movie with the crowd repeatedly shouting “Sieg heil!”

What if there was a story about the plethora of blond Stepford wives that read the news throughout the day on Fox and one of them is quoted as saying: “We got our jobs because we made Rupert Murdoch see how hard we work.” What if MSNBC re-edited that and broadcast her quote as “We got our jobs because we made Rupert Murdoch hard.”

While all of these examples would be hilarious, the fact is that doing this would be unethical and an affront to journalism. The problem is that no one at Fox News knows what the words “journalism” or “ethics” mean.

Hey, North Iowa Tea Party, Shut the #@$* Up!

2010-07-17T15:23:00.000-07:00

The North Iowa Tea Party put a billboard on display in downtown Mason City this week. The point was to say that President Obama is a socialist and socialism is bad (editorial note: no he’s not and not necessarily). The poster displayed 3 photos. Obama is in the middle, flanked by Adolph Hitler and Vladimir Lenin. That’s right, the grunting, huffing, baboons who run the North Iowa Tea Party thought it appropriate for the president of the United States, who so far has done nothing more evil than tell the Republicans to come up with better ideas or shut up, to be compared to a man who murdered 6 million Jews and another that started a revolution that led to deaths of approximately 30 million Russians.

Co-founder Bob Johnson had this to say: "The purpose of the billboard was to draw attention to the socialism. It seems to have been lost in the visuals. The pictures overwhelmed the message.” Translation: “Duhhhh, doy, duhhhhh, I’m a moron. Mommy cuts my food for me because they won’t let me use anything sharp. I think I just pooped. Duhhhhhhhhhhhh.”

There are about 200 members of the North Iowa Idiots Club. How did 200 people this ignorant and hapless find each other? Do they have mixers in Iowa so cross-eyed mouth breathers find each other to rut and breed more small-brained dipshits? “Welcome one and all to the Iowa ‘I’m-a-Dumbass’ Cotillion. Hors d’oeuvres are on the left, room keys on the right. Remember, don’t screw anyone smarter than you, we’re de-evolving here in Iowa. No more thumbs! No more thumbs! No more thumbs!”

Another delicious quote about this story comes from John White, a coordinator of the Tea Party Patriots, apparently a separate group of bigoted turds. Mr. White believes “the billboard is offensive and unproductive” but also “I can understand the North Iowa group's perception that Obama is "Hitler-esque”.”

I try to keep these blog posts light and humorous but I am so fucking sick of these Tea Party retards comparing Obama to Hitler I could, to steal a line from Bill Hicks, puke blood.

Adolph Hitler forced his way into power. Obama was chosen in a fair, democratic election. Adolph Hitler murdered 6 million Jews. Let me know when you find Obama’s concentration camps Tea Party boneheads. Hitler invaded Poland, England, France, etc. in an effort to take over the world. Obama’s trying to end the wars we’re in to bring our troops home. Hitler took over the army to use it to suppress any freedom the German people once had. You’re still free to speak the bile that spews from your mouths and carry the guns that prop up your non-existent manhood.

On the billboard under the three photos is the phrase: "Radical leaders prey on the fearful & naive."

Pretty ironic considering that’s exactly what the North Iowa Tea Party is doing.

Chats with Chumps

2010-07-12T22:15:00.000-07:00

Hello and welcome to the first edition of my imaginary talk show Chats with Chumps. Today’s guest is Ben Nelson, Democratic Senator from Nebraska.

CO: Mr. Nelson, recently congress failed to pass an extension of unemployment compensation leaving over 2 million Americans with no source of income to support their families. While this sort of behavior is expected from the Republicans whose attitude toward poor people has always been “suck it”, Democrats have historically supported social programs such as this. You, however, chose to go to the dark side this time. So my question is why are you such an asshole?
BN: I, uh . . . well . . . what?
CO: I mean what was your thinking in denying struggling families the only lifeline they currently have since the administration’s job creation program has failed like a Toyota accelerator?
BN: My thinking was to do what’s best for this country . . .
CO: And you think what’s best is for people to lose their homes and not be able to eat?
BN: Look, many of these people like being on the dole. They’d rather have the government take care of them than work for a living.
CO: Work for a living? You mean like you: making $200,000 a year to sit in meetings, talk on the phone and play golf while utilizing government subsidized health care for yourself and your family for life?
BN: Yes. Wait . . .
CO: What’s the real reason you voted “no” to helping hard working Americans while your body was clothed in a $500 suit and your ass sat in a $2000 leather chair?
BN: It’s our debt. Our deficit is $13 trillion. We can’t keep adding to it, we have to find another way.
CO: One of the ways to reduce the deficit is to kick start the economy. A way to start the economy is to give people money to spend and they receive money to spend by having a gainful job. You’ve provided no jobs and are now helping clueless Republicans take away the only source of income the unemployed have, leaving them with nothing. Explain again how this will lower the deficit?
BN: All I’m saying is that we have to start somewhere. We can’t keep adding to the debt willy-nilly.
CO: But Willy and Nilly can’t find a job. The unemployment check was the only thing keeping them afloat. Now they’re in jeopardy of losing their house and they have no money for food or the medical bills when they go into renal failure.
BN: I’m just trying to do what’s best for the country.
CO: There you have it folks: Ben Nelson believes what’s best for America is for everyone to be living under freeway overpasses and eating beetles out of the dirt.
BN: Now just a minute . . .

Join me next time on Chats with Chumps when we interview Steve Jobs and ask him why everything Apple produces is so cool but costs so damn much.

Coming This Fall

2010-07-06T23:34:00.000-07:00

The TV season used to run from September through May. There were four networks with original programming so you only had to memorize a few channel numbers to get your viewing schedule planned out. Now every nickel and dime network is creating their own original programs. The “seasons” are only 10 or 12 episodes long and they start and stop at any time throughout the calendar year. With so many new avenues I thought I’d pitch a few ideas of my own to every network on the dial and see if I can get a bite.

Bingo and Bango—Identical twin cops get re-assigned as each other’s new partner. Bingo is obsessive/compulsive, reading a criminal his Miranda rights as many as 30 times. Bango is bi-polar playing good cop/bad cop all by himself. Watch the fireworks each week as they try to blend their mental illnesses to solve crimes and not piss off their glue sniffing captain.

Scratch MacDougal—written for the David Kelley assembly line of lawyer shows, this one finds lovable curmudgeon Scratch MacDougal taking any case that walks through his door to pay alimony to 7 ex-wives and keep current girlfriend Maxine happy. Watch Scratch prepare paperwork to close on the first house for a young couple while simultaneously defending a schnauzer charged with public urination.

The Babysitter is a Ninja!—A new reality show places a real-life ninja in a duplex living next door to the Hendersons, Barb and Barry, and their two kids. In between fighting agents of the Yakuza, the ninja becomes the children’s babysitter in the hours after school before Barb and Barry get home from work. Which will get to him first: Danny’s flute lessons or the triad’s assassins?

Meet Pain—Ashley Van Lusterberg lives in apartment 6c of an exclusive building. She works in the corporate offices of a tony New York Wall Street firm and dresses in designer clothing even to go to the grocery store. Apartment 6d across the hall is soon rented by The Painhammer, guitarist for death metal band Maggot Infested Intestines. He dresses in black leather and metal studs even just to go to the liquor store. Watch what happens when they fall in love and Ashley has to introduce her new fiancé to her parents.

Diggin’ That Grave—Rafe and Frisbee are gravediggers at the Dream Lawns Memorial Cemetery. At night after a hard day’s work they like to play cards . . . with the corpses! That’s right, it’s network TVs first zombie sitcom. Will Rafe take the pot with his pair of sixes or will Mrs. Goldberg bluff him out of another week’s pay. And the hi-jinks don’t just happen at night. Watch the hilarity as Frisbee tries to keep the bodies from rising from their graves early, in the middle of the Hightower funeral!

Pam and Eggs—Conman Eddie “Eggs” Larson meets Pam “Vavoom” Greer, a hooker with a rack of gold. They join together to fleece the city for all its worth. But soon they also find themselves raising 3 young children they find living in Central Park. Every day is an adventure as Pam and Eddie teach the kids to spot the rubes and the kids teach them what it means to be a family.

Hopefully in a few months you’ll be seeing one or more of these quality shows coming to a network schedule. I’m not picky, any of them will do, even NBC.

A Rhyme, A Rhyme, My Kingdom for a Rhyme

2010-07-01T10:28:00.000-07:00

I love music and over the past 30 years have expanded my interests to many different styles, but when I was in middle school I listened to only hard rock: Aerosmith, Kiss, Kansas, Foghat, REO Speedwagon, April Wine, AC DC, Ted Nugent, etc. The other day while listening to the radio, I was thinking that no matter how much I still revel in this music you can’t argue they wrote some horrid lyrics.

The song I heard on 98.5 The Peak was Kiss’s highly suggestive “Lick It Up”. Here are the lyrics:

Don't wanna wait 'til you know me better
Let's just be glad for the time together
Life's such a treat and it's time you taste it
There ain't a reason on earth to waste it
It ain't a crime to be good to yourself
Chorus: Lick it up, lick it up, oooh, (it's only right now)
Lick it up, lick it up, ooh yeah
Lick it up, lick it up, oooh, (come on, come on)
Lick it up, lick it up
Don't need to wait for an invitation
You gotta live like you're on vacation
There's something sweet you can't buy with money
lick it up, lick it up It's all you need, so believe me honey
It ain't a crime to be good to yourself
chorus
Come on - it's only right now (it's only right now)
Ooh yeah (ooh yeah) ooh yeah (ooh yeah), yeah yeah
chorus repeats

This is God-awful. Basically they came up with a sexual innuendo for a title and then rhymed a few words to create a song. There are 36 words in the chorus and 66% of them are “Lick it Up” and another 3 of them are “ooh”. The bridge is even better: 20 words, 4 of which are “ooh” and 6 are “yeah”. Well done boys. I’m sure the 8 minutes you spent writing this was very profitable.

Ted Nugent is a master of just abysmal lyrics. I could pick any of 2 dozen songs to mock but the one I chose is in honor of my sister. I listened to a lot of Steady Teddy growing up and if I had my stereo turned up loud, my sister was forced to listen as well against her will. There was one song she could never get her head around: “My Love is Like a Tire Iron”:

Oh, baby
it’s a catastrophe what you do to me
But that’s all right honey
I find it rather funny
sympathy is what you want from me
But I got news
You’re gonna lose
My love is like a tire iron
My love is like a tire iron
My love is like a tire iron
and I like it stiff as steel

Look at me
What do you see
A man on the run
A loaded gun
check me out
what I’m all about
I got some news
you don’t want to lose

chorus

This is gibberish. There is no point to anything being sung here: no context, no story, nothing but rhyming words. And then he sings the chorus which has nothing to do with the rest of the song nor does it ever explain how the hell love can be like a tire iron. This is one of Ted’s most pointless songs.

Tygers of Pan Tang are a late 70s, early 80s band from England named for something out of fantasy novel. They never made it big but my friend Rob and I always liked them a lot. They played great, simple guitar riffs and sang some of the dumbest lyrics you’ll ever hear, such as these from “Money”.

Walk a mile in my shoes
You won't know what hit you
Wasn't born with a silver spoon
Take no ride on a fat man's tomb
Babe I need the money too
Hey, come over here you
Now I've got money for you
Do you believe that's true?
Now I've got money in the bank
Ah well, that's a prank
And I've got money for two
Do you believe that's true?

Where can I even start? It’s hard to analyze something this bad. This is the epitome of merely rhyming words without trying to have any meaning. If I said Kiss spent 8 minutes on their song, the Tygers couldn’t have used more than 2 to write this mess of unrelated nouns and verbs.

Now that I’m done trashing these songs I will reiterate that I also like all of them. But it’s obviously not for the lyrics. I’m a sucker for a cool guitar riff and at least one finger-dancing solo. While I’m playing my air guitar with the song I’m trying to sing along but usually end up laughing and that’s my challenge to you. Try listening to the lyrics of a Kiss or Ted Nugent song and not guffawing, chortling or at least tittering. That’s a double dog dare.

Circling the Drain

2010-06-28T23:20:00.000-07:00

Being a single guy I don’t do a lot of cleaning. I’ll do the dishes when I’ve run out of plates to heat up my blood sausage hot pockets and ever since I found a family of Ethiopian refugees living under a pile of newspapers in my living room, I’m more diligent about picking up trash from the floor. Other than that I’m like most men in that we can live in a certain amount of our own dirt and thrive, growing taller and more self-assured.

The bathroom is the room in the house that no one wants to clean, even neat freaks. I avoid it like Grateful Dead heads avoid showering. However, I’ve seen some signs lately that its time to clean.

I walked in the other day and found a message written on my mirror in toothpaste. Turns out the mold spores on the bottom of my shower curtain have been their so long they have evolved into new silicon-based sentient beings and they wanted to open up diplomatic negotiations with me. Apparently every morning when I take a shower I wipe out half their population, the interstate highway system and several layers of infrastructure.

But before I could take a United Nations tour of my bath tub, I heard a slurping sound that made me turn toward the sink. I watched with fascination and revulsion as the filmy layer of old soap, water, skin dirt and beard clippings from the edge of the sink had coalesced into a globulous creature resembling a BP executive. It tore its suction cup-like body away from the counter top, leaping at me with a ferocity matched only by movie critics reviewing a Robin Williams film. As it flew through the air it shouted, in a voice reminiscent of Carl Castle from NPR radio, “I’m alive! I’m alive!”

I sidestepped the beast, tripping over the toilet and slamming into the wall. The blob foresaw its impending doom and wailed “Remember me my Holy creator!” before landing in the bathtub right on top of the newly rebuilt mold home world. When it hit, the thing split apart covering my tub in a gooey paste.

From the floor I could hear the mold people crying out; their emergency vehicles speeding to the manifold scenes of destruction. Their satellite, which hovered just above my showerhead, changed position as they broadcast a hastily organized press conference where the president called for calm before being swept away to an undisclosed location by the secret service. The mold people celebrities quickly gathered in the ruins of the opera house for a benefit concert/telethon while the conservative commentators blamed liberal border control policies.

I picked myself up off the floor and decided to take the easy way out. I turned the handle marked H. Hot water rushed out of the showerhead, washing everything down the drain. My cleaning is done for another 6 months.

Lohan Mania

2010-06-21T23:11:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I’m looking for something to write about and it’s a struggle. I’m poring over the entertainment and news sites hoping an article will strike a spark. Last week I was in that position and then, like a divine lightning bolt, a member of the Lohan family did something so inane, the blog practically wrote itself.

Here is their latest nugget of insanity: Dina Lohan, the increasingly self-absorbed and toys-in-the-attic mother of the clan, went to a Carvel ice cream store to get a cake for her son’s birthday. She handed over a Carvel black card starting a kerfuffle only an elitist, entitled, Z-list celebrity can find themselves in. Apparently these cards were issued to commemorate Carvel’s 75th anniversary. For advertising purposes they gave a card to 75 celebrities allowing them to get free ice cream for 75 years. Do you see the pattern with the number 75? Ok, good.

Dina “Please Someone PAY ATTENTION to ME” Lohan hands over the card and the clerk at the counter, who is now my favorite person in the world, says: you’re not Lindsay Lohan, the card says Lindsay Lohan, where is Lindsay Lohan? At this point I’m sure Dina pulled the “don’t you know who I am?” gambit but the clerk, again—my favorite person in the whole world, sticks to his guns and says: you’re not Lindsay Lohan, the card says Lindsay Lohan, where is Lindsay Lohan?

When Dina couldn’t produce her daughter the guy behind the counter, my new favorite person in the world, refused to give her the cake AND kept the black card. Dina, feeling that this was the single most egregious injustice in the history of the mankind, called the police. For an ice cream cake. When the authorities got there they made the clerk give her the cake and the card but told her she couldn’t use the card again. Later in the day, a Carvel spokesman, my second favorite person in the world, issued a statement that the card was being revoked because Lindsay had been abusing the privilege by ordering copious amounts of ice cream for her family and friends.

Did anyone actually see Lindsay and exclaim, “Look, it’s that boozy, cokehead actress who did a couple of Disney movies and she’s carrying a Fudgie the Whale ice cream cake from Carvel’s. Let’s go get one too!” I don’t believe this form of advertising works for 2 reasons. One, I didn’t even know Carvel’s was still in business. Two, I’d never heard of these mysterious black cards until last Friday when Dina Lohan found out how much of a nobody she really is.

Have I mentioned how much I love the clerk who wouldn’t hand over the cake?

Ant Wars Redux

2010-06-16T00:01:00.000-07:00

So the ants now have control of my kitchen cupboard. My food sits in a box on the dining room table like I’m a transient waiting out another day of ennui at the bus station while holding pathological conversations with invisible rabbits. The cat is back. And holding a grudge. We’ve developed a tense relationship where I feed him and he spits invective back to me as payment rendered. I’ve also seen a few ants in the kitchen sink. Those I took care of with my secret weapon they call “The Hammer of God”. I refer to it as my index finger.

Friday night when I got home from work I dug the potato chips out of my hobo box-o-vittles and walked to my desk in the living room. As I sat down to turn on my laptop I saw an ant on the desk. Dispatching him I swore aloud and wondered where he had come from. Then I see one in the carpet. Grabbing a flashlight and ignoring the cat’s guffaws I traced their main grouping to a small garbage can a few feet away from the desk.

When I shone the flashlight for a closer look I saw that the ants had converted the base of the wooden trash bucket into a night club, “Chez Tissue Paper with Glaze from a Donut Still on It”. For a nominal cover charge the ants were allowed in to crawl over the old donut paper I had stupidly thrown in the trash. After gorging themselves they stayed for $1 jello shooters and the dance stylings of Trixie, known to have the biggest thorax in the tri-state area.

I tried talking to the door-ant but he got belligerent with me: Something about my name not being on the list and “please move behind the velvet rope before I call security”. He wasn’t so tough after I brought out The Hammer, quickly calling for the club manager. Soon I was introduced to Rick. “Great,” I thought, “an ant that’s seen Casablanca.” Rick informed me that he was the owner and proprietor of dozens of after-hours clubs throughout my neighborhood. I told him I didn’t care about the others, but this one had to shut down.

The bribes began with some miniscule morsels of cookie. After I pointed out that I had an entire bag of cookies Rick attempted to subtly get the location from me by saying, “Soooo, where do you keep this bag of cookies?” He tried to cover up his clumsiness with a quick offer of a night out with Trixie and her double jointed friend Honey Larue. For the next hour or so I had to explain to Rick the impossibilities of inter-species mating with charts, graphs and a quickly thrown together power point presentation.

Given no other choice I brought out the Hammer of God, however, Rick rallied his troops and began an attack whose main tactic was for the ants to run in all directions screaming hysterically, “Save the glaze! Save the glaze!” My index finger wasn’t doing enough damage so I had to deploy the Ducha del Muerte, the Shower of Death, otherwise known as my can of Raid spray.

My living room is now ant free. This was the costliest battle yet as far as ant casualties but I know they’ll be back. They are an enemy that doesn’t give up easily. The cat and I gave the honored dead a proper burial. They are at rest in my vacuum cleaner bag.

I will now hum taps . . .

Ant Wars 2010

2010-06-08T21:35:00.000-07:00

The kitchen. I can’t believe I’m still in the kitchen.

It’s humid: the air lies on my skin like a wet dish towel and I’m not sure I’m still breathing. Kneeling down behind the oven, the sweat coats my face in a sheen of grease leaving me desperate for a drink of water and wondering where my air support is.

The ants and I are at war again. I’m pinned down in the kitchen, my last 2 cans of Raid spray running on empty. And I’m alone in my fight since a garrison of ants carried the cat away while singing “High Hopes”. I can still hear Phantom’s plaintive meowing: “No! This isn’t my war! I just want to eat and nap!”

I had arranged for a bombing run from a rogue hive of yellow jackets but it looks like I’ve been double-crossed. My entreaties to the feral cats in the alley were met with sneers after they found out how many times I’ve taken my own cat to the vet. One of them crapped in my garden on their way home as a final middle finger.

About an hour ago I heard noises. When I peeked around the oven I saw the ants dismantling my dining room table and chairs then re-engineering the pieces into a crude trebuchet. I believe squares of my kitchen tile will soon be whizzing at my head. I’m going to have to launch an offensive of my own before they start their attack.

I’m strapping a broom and a mop to my back and turning my spray cans to full automatic. I have to make my charge now. I can hear ordnance being loaded into their siege engine. If I don’t make it, will someone rescue my cat from the P.O.W. camp? He was right. This is my war and he doesn’t deserve to suffer without his treats.

Cry Havoc! And let slip the dogs of war!

The Music in my Head

2010-06-05T12:25:00.000-07:00

Its 1982, I’m listening to FM 104 and these words come from the speakers:

Little ditty about Jack and Diane
Two American kids doing the best they can

Jack and Diane is a song by John Mellencamp or John Cougar or John Cougar Mellencamp or Johnny Cougar or whatever he was calling himself at the time (Johnny Cougar, was that the best you could do John? It sounds like the 10 year old brat down the street. “Who broke the window?” “It was that little Johnny Cougar again!”) The thing is I hated this song back then. It has a distinctive opening and I immediately knew what song it was. I couldn’t explain why, but Jack and Diane made spiders crawl out of my skin and slap me with tiny barbed clubs. The radio knob would become as elusive as sanity to Glenn Beck when I grabbed for it to change the station.

I can’t explain what it was that I hated so much just as I can’t explain why I don’t hate it anymore. I heard it on the way to work yesterday and happily sang along. Whatever made me sweat 25 years ago has dissipated with age. The same goes with Bruce Springsteen. Back in the 80s during his heyday as “the Boss” I couldn’t stand his music. Part of it I think was the moniker The Boss: The Boss of what exactly? And it seemed like everybody else in the entire world liked Springsteen. I was on an island. When I told someone I didn’t like Springsteen’s music I got stared at like rutabagas were growing out of my forehead or I had just shit in their salad and called it a burnt crouton.

Now, again for reasons I can’t explain, I like some of Bruce’s songs, especially Rosalita. I don’t like everything he does, but the stuff I don’t like I don’t hate anymore. Bruce must be so relieved.

The point of all this is that our minds are constantly screwing with us. One day I have no use for country music and a few years later I’m singing Folsom Prison Blues in the shower. In the early 90s I’m happily listening to Nirvana, smelling the teen spirit along with millions of others. A decade later they bore me to death. Why do our brains hate us so much that it will mess even with the music we listen to? I tried to have a nice friendly chat with my mind on the subject but it started playing the Bee Gees to distract me. Twenty years ago I would have resisted but now I just start screeching “Stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive”.

I don’t know what changes in us that our likes and dislikes in music alter. Perhaps our minds continue to expand and become accepting of something that was previously distasteful. To make room it kicks to the curb the songs that don’t stimulate us any longer. I don’t know the exact answer. What I do know for sure is that I still hate The Talking Heads’ Burning Down the House. Hate it with a passion.