My Holiday Wishes

I wish that I never hear another Tiger Woods “hole in one” joke. Why couldn’t Tiger have been a bowler? Oh, 7-10 split. Never mind.

I wish that laughter really was the best medicine because this cough syrup tastes like distilled ass.

I wish that the secretary on the public address system here at work would stop saying “decks” instead of “desk”.

I wish that the Webster’s dictionary people would get together and have the word “redonkulous” removed from our vocabulary. You have no idea how annoying that word is until you work with people in the computer programming arena. “This egg McMuffin is redonkulous!” Is it? Is it really?

I wish that the man in the cubicle next to me had a sense of humor, or even one social skill. He just had the most awkward conversation with a coworker, transcribed here for your discomfort:

Awkward Man: “Do you know what the Beatles original name was supposed to be?”
Disinterested Co-worker: “Um, no. The Bugs maybe?”
Awkward Man: “Do you want to phone a friend!” (very loud, laced with guffawing laughter)
Even More Disinterested Co-worker: *laughing politely* No, I guess I don’t know what the Beatles were almost called... *trailing off*
Loud Awkward Man: “Do you want to ask the audience!”
Even More Disinterested Co-worker: *small cough then silence*
(Wait for it…you know what’s coming)
Loud Awkward Man: “50-50?!?!!” *now laughing hysterically*
(then I hear a thump as the co-worker passes out from the weight of the awkward interaction crushes her spirit and her body)

I wish I could open my mouth and eject a forceful jet stream of Jelly Beans. I know I would scare the shit out of everyone, especially kids, but I think once everyone realized it was Jelly Beans, they would hail me as their new freakish hero.

I wish my kids had British accents.

I wish I could travel in time. My first act, of course, would be to save Michael Jackson. My second act would be to rethink that act and kill him myself. My third act would be to go a little farther back and save him again so he could teach me how to moonwalk. My fourth act would be to kill Macaulay Culkin.

I wish that 99 percent of people who come to this blog weren’t looking for help with Clubbed Thumbs. I had no idea how serious this problem was until Google started redirecting everyone to my dopey post. I get 5-10 searches a day with keywords like this:

“Why do I have clubbed thumbs”
“Where do clubbed thumbs come from”
“clubbed thumb sex”
“club thumb bad for my hand”
“my club thumb talks and makes me kill people”
“clubbed thumbs and fat feet”
“if club thumb is bleeding do I hit it with hammer again”
“how do clubbed thumbs control the weather”
“clubbed thumbs and ballet dancing”

I wish for peace on earth and good will towards hot women but only if you are single and trying to get them to sleep with you. Otherwise, I wish for peace on earth and cool indifference towards hot women.

I wish that snow was cocaine, and that cocaine was sugar, and that sugar was salt. That would take care of the drug problem and automatically salt the roads every time it snowed. It would make cookies taste like absolute balls, but that is the price you pay in the war on drugs.

I wish someone had told me that Brussels’ Sprouts don’t actually come from Brussels. I flew all the way there and was all like “Please give me your finest sprouts” and they were all like “What the fuck are you talking about?” and I was all like “America Rulez!” and they were all like “What?”

I wish I had Million Dollars. Hot Dog!

Lastly, I wish for you and all of my friends out in the blog world, and your families and their families families and pets and babies and mistresses and “paid escorts” to have a wonderful holiday season and make sure you remember the true “reason for the season”.

Which would be buying things and giving things to other people.

And wandering around aimlessly and saying things like “I need a list” to people you know.

And going to malls and buying five dollar cups of coffee while waiting in lines of people holding giant television boxes and looking sick about it.

And taking your kids to see Santa when Santa doesn’t want to see your kids and they don’t want to see him.

And opening a present from your mother in law which turns out to be an ugly sweater, which you then have to hold up and tuck under your chin with your arms holding the sleeves straight out to the sides so everyone can see an approximation of what it will look like when you actually wear it one day and then everyone can say “Oh, I like that sweater a lot, very nice!” while you sit in your chair looking like a palsied scarecrow with lock jaw and a sweater stuck under your chin.

Be safe, drink lots of egg nog (why aren’t there any other kinds of nogs), and I’ll see you in ’10.

MTV Finally Goes All In

They finally did it, those magnificent bastards. MTV finally produced the show of all shows. After years of failed attempts, you did it MTV! I’m ecstatic for you! I collapsed weeping in my cocoa pebbles this morning with sheer joy for you.

The Jersey Shore

The cast couldn’t be more perfect, the setting more idyllic, or the hijinx more risqué (hey now, look out!). I happened to get a list of potential castmates that just missed the cut (don’t worry, I’m sure Jersey Shore 2: The Wrath of Vincenzo is just around the corner).

************************

Joey “Butts” Digregario: Joey is from Queens, NY. Joey is Italian. He likes butts. His friends call him “The Butts.”

Maria Venantiorio: Maria is from Bayonne, NJ. She is a sweetheart, but don’t get on her bad side or you will see her totally bitchy side! She likes her men all ripped up and tanned with a lot of cologne and bad attitude!

Vincent Pasticarliorio: Vinny is a biker from Queens. He has done enough steroids to severely distend his cranial cavity and shrink his testicles. His friends call him “The Pebbles”.

Gianna Delvecchiatoriata: Gianna is from the Bronx, NY. She has a really bitchy side if you cross her, but her friends all say she is a sweetheart. She likes her men muscular and retarded.

Vitella Chiampiatelligaritoriata: Vitella is from Brooklyn, NY. She likes to do her hair and put on makeup everywhere she goes! She is a sweetheart to her friends, but don’t get on her bad side! Then the claws come out and she will turn into “the bitch from hell”.

Mark DellatorimpatantonioSabatos: Mark is a “bruiser from the Bronx”. He likes lifting weights and lifting beers with his buddies. His friends call him “The Information” because he has a lot of information about sexy ladies, and also sex.

Donatella Ciampatoriagatelanbucciagarateliantata: “Donni” is from Staten Island, NY. She has had a boyfriend for 5 years but at the same time is “looking to have a good time this summer.” She is a sweetheart but is also a total bitch if she needs to be.

Rick Bacciatiliantano: Rick is from Long Island, NY. He is a waste management expert who spends his free time “getting ripped” and working on his hair. His nickname is “The Golden Shaft” because he once fell two floors down an elevator shaft and survived. I know, I wasn’t expecting that either…

Mary Vicharenzapintellinivecchiatoriatatellifermicellispaghetarotelli: Mary is a straight-A student from Queens, NY. She enjoys reading and really wants to spend a summer at the jersey shore. She is a total bitch. All the time.

**********************

Let’s keep our fingers crossed that the ratings for this one are through the roof!

Book of T-Bone: Verse 30, Chapter 3

On the 12th day of the 12th month in the 12th year after the equinox rises over the hills of the sun king, you will text “LOL” to your brother and then despair at your laziness. You could have easily called him, laughed out loud, and hung up the phone. Whatever happened to personal contact? Amen and Godspeed, lightning-fingers.

Holiday PSA

And now, a public service announcement:

In this holiday time of giving and charity, you should know a little something about the country you live in.

There are people suffering. Right now. Right down the street from where I live. Maybe right down the street from where you live, in your neighborhood. In your community.

There are over ten million babies with no parents to watch over them in the greater DC Metro area.

Ten million.

Someone, not me because I’m very busy, but someone needs to get down there right away and get them the hell out of there, chop chop. They are just pissing and shitting all over the commuters. Pissing and shitting and shitting and pissing all over the commuters and the shoppers. It is like the worst possible hell you could imagine. The smell! Lord almighty! And the crying? You can’t even imagine. All the people at Starbucks are puking all over the place. I mean pissing and shitting and snot and crying like you wouldn’t believe. The people shopping can’t even move without stepping on fat little babies toes or slipping and falling in just rivers of piss and baby shit.

Please, do what you can this holiday season. Thank you.

Book of Zuckercorn: Verse 9, Chapter 20

The angels searched low and high for a suitable replacement for Oprah. They reached the highest mountaintops and the lowest valleys of heaven and still no one could be found. Finally, a tiny angel stood and said “Let it be me.” The angels thought long and hard about this and asked many questions:


“Will you give away free things?”
“Will you cause housewives to faint at the mere mention of said free things?”
“Will you pompously declare things?”
“Will you allow your weight to fluctuate by 200 pounds regularly?”
“Will you say the names of books which will then inexplicably cause 10 billion people to try to purchase those books?”
“Will you demand that clothing stores be closed when you are nearby so that you can shop for said clothes in peace?”
“Will you interview book authors who fabricate their words and then treat them as though they caused the earth to spin off of its axis even though all they did was cause you to look foolish?”

“Yes, I will,” said the tiny angel.

“It is settled. The new Oprah has been crowned,” said the angels and there was much rejoicing. Then, God came down from his heavenly throne and said, “You know, I was never really keen on the whole Oprah thing in the first place. No-prah.” He then rose back to his throne to leave the angels confused but resolved. The tiny angel shrugged and went back to do whatever tiny angels do. The rest of the angles were secretly relieved because they didn’t really “get” the whole Oprah thing either. Praise God and his infinite Oprah wisdom.

Urgent Questions: Volume 8

Does this midget make my ass look big?

Did you ever pull into the fast lane on the highway and just hope to God that your car goes faster than the speed of light so you can time travel and go back to this morning when you ate a cold piece of pizza with Oreos and sardines on it (you may or may not have been high) and sit down and have a heart to heart with yourself about eating ridiculous crap, and what effect that has on the bowels of a human being?

Have you ever met Tom Foolery? Doesn’t he just annoy the crap out of you?

Have you ever gotten dressed up for Halloween like a scary ghost, moaning and howling while running around waving your white sheet at everyone only to find that it isn’t Halloween, it’s April 15th, and the accountant doing your taxes is about to leave due to “excessive silliness and general no-goodery”? My accountant uses that word, so I know it’s real, thank you.

If Count Chocula bit you and turned you into a chocolate vampire, would you have chocolate milk running through your veins? Of course you wouldn’t, everyone knows there is no such thing as chocolate milk, or veins.

When you wake up in the morning, do you climb out of bed and greet the new day with open arms, whistling a happy tune and skipping into the bathroom to brush your teeth, or do you roll over and try to get some extra sleep before the hooker wakes up asking for her “damn money, sucka”?

Which came first: the B-52’s or the gay?

When you grow up, do you want to be a fireman, or just taller than you are now?

If a cartoon bird lands on your shoulder in the morning singing a sweet morning song, do you sing back, or do you stop drop and roll, hoping to crush it before it pecks your eyes out after lulling you into a false sense of complacency?

If one third of my pancakes are missing in the morning, will the other two thirds get dumped on your head for calling me “Fatty Morningcakes”?

CNN Breaking Fat News

From CNN:

Arrests made in human fat ring in Peru

Not for nothing, but it must have been easy to find? Are ya with me? High five!

This is my favorite quote from the small article:

"The fat was sold in Peru and Europe and used for commercial purposes, Peruvian officials said."

Commercial purposes?

Peru and Europe have an overwhelming demand for human fat for commercial purposes? What is going on over there? On second thought, don't answer that.

Women are from Mars, Men are from Uranus

When I was in sixth grade, I had to write a report on one of the nine planets in our Solar System. There were more than nine of us in the class, so some planets would obviously have to be repeated.

Except one planet.

Yes, that one.


And guess where I was on “planet picking day”?

Home sick.

So, lucky me, I had the honor of writing a long report on … Uranus. Get it? Uranus? Like “Your” “Anus”? I’ll tell you one thing about sixth graders, their sense of humor is not quite refined or well developed yet at that age. Needless to say, the day that I read my report aloud to the class was a day where "Myanus" was clenched tightly with stress. Here are some choice quotes from an in depth expose on our most misunderstood planet; gems I had to say aloud to a class of 16 sixth graders (one of which was a girl who I was head over heels in love with).

“Uranus is named after a Greek God.”
“Uranus is composed differently than the gas giants Jupiter and Neptune.”
“Uranus has 27 smaller moons circling it in orbit.”
“Uranus has a ring system similar to Saturn’s.”
“Uranus has existed for millions of years.”
“Uranus is icy cold and dark most of the time.”
“Uranus has its own weather system.”
“Uranus was at one time thought to be composed of moss and algae, not rock and ice, but that has since been proven false by satellites with deep probes and high resolution imagery.”

I could go on, but you can already see that this report did not go well. I got a sympathy “B” from my teacher because he knew that I drew the worst planet for my report out of the planet hat. Woe was me. I got through it, though, and I felt a tremendous sense of relief. I figured I would never have to read another report about Uranus out loud to anyone again.

I was right, the planets were history. I guess the administrators at my school felt that we had enough planet knowledge to attack the world with. Then came “World Culture” in seventh grade. Our class was assigned “South Africa” for a series of “Day in the Life” reports about what life was like for a seventh grader in South Africa plus general facts about South African cities and towns. We drew South African cities from a hat. I was there that day to actually pick my own city but figured I couldn’t do any wrong here.

Then I looked at my slip of paper.

Buttville

A Day in the Life: Ringo Starr

A rhythmic pounding is heard coming from the garage of an enormous mansion in the English countryside. It is the unmistakable sound of drums rolling along in a repetitive loop. With a loud crash from a cymbal, the drumming stops abruptly followed by low murmurs broken by occasional exclamations. Just then, the door to the garage bursts open and Ringo Starr explodes out of the enclosure.

“It’s all WRONG!” Ringo exclaims as two studio musicians follow him out into the driveway of his estate.

“I don’t get it, really. It sounded great to us!” one of the musicians says as Ringo pauses to light a cigarette.

“Hey! Beatles? Hello? Ever heard of them? I’ll take my own advice as to what sounds good, right?”

The studio musician shrugs and looks helplessly at his band mate as Ringo paces back and forth.

“Listen, it’s ‘I want to live all day, in the hay –badoom crash-- with a horsey and his mum in the barn, what do you say? Crash crash badoom crash!” The musicians look uncomfortable as Ringo works through his new song, waving his arms wildly as he simulates the drum parts. They have been working on Ringo’s comeback album for 3 years now and are hopelessly stuck.

“Ringo, I have to be honest, the lyrics sound a lot like Octopus’s Garden…”

“No, no, no! This is an entirely different song! ‘Horse’s Hay House’. We’ve been through this a hundred times!”

“I know, the title is different, and the lyrics are kind of different, but the melody and structure are basically the same. And isn’t a ‘Hay House’ really just a barn?”

“Hey! ‘Ticket to Ride’? ‘Yesterday’? ‘Let it Be’? Sound familiar?”

“Ringo, I know you were in the Beatles. You remind us every day.”

“Actually, John, Paul and George wrote most of the good songs,” the other studio musician mumbles under his breath.

“What was that?” Ringo turns on the studio musician who looks away.

“Nothing.”

“That’s what I thought! Hey, aren’t you the guy who played drums on ‘Helter Skelter’? Oh wait, no you aren’t. That was ME! SHUT IT!”

Ringo paces furiously and lights another cigarette while the two helpless studio musicians wait to see when rehearsal will begin again. He gestures wildly, appearing to play drum parts in mid-air. He pauses and glances at the two studio musicians who are milling around outside the garage studio and then pulls his cell phone out. He dials a number and briskly walks away from the studio out of earshot of the two musicians.

“Hey, it’s me. Me! Ringo! Yes, that Ringo. How many Ringos do you know?” he says to the person on the other end of the phone call. “Listen, I’m having a lot of trouble with ‘Horse’s Hay House’. I know I’m so close; I just need a little advice.”

“Ringo, I really am quite busy,” Paul McCartney says from his lounge chair as he sits poolside in Malibu. He is visibly annoyed as he holds a cell phone to his ear and tries to order a drink from the wandering waiters.

“Paul, please. It is an amazing song, it just needs a little of the McCartney touch, yeah?”

“Well, is this one anything like the other songs? What were they?”

“Well, there is ‘Monkey Garage’, ‘Sloth Tea Party’, ‘Dingo Daydream’, ‘Manatee Football Folly’, ‘Off-White Submarine’, you know, kind of a sequel really.”

McCartney shakes his head and finally gets a waiter’s attention. “Yeah, great man. Listen, I have to run. Catch up soon, right?” McCartney closes his cell phone and then turns it off after a second glance. “George used to take his calls, poor bastard. ‘Sloth Tea Party’? Good Lord in Heaven! God and Baby Jesus protect us!” McCartney says to no one in particular and then reaches over to jot down words and music to 175 new hit songs in his notepad.

Ringo closes his cell phone and wanders back over to the garage studio. “Well lads, I think I just got a wee bit of inspiration, so let’s give it another shot!” Ringo enters the studio as the two musicians he is currently working with half-heartedly enter behind him. Much crashing and discordant jangles come from every window of the studio as songs are tinkered with.

Across the street hidden in the shadows of the large weeping willow trees that line the street in front of the Starr Estate, an idling vehicle sits with cigarette smoke wafting out from behind a barely opened tinted window. The sounds of “rehearsal” coming from Ringo’s garage can be heard clearly from here. The burning butt of a finished cigarette is flicked out from the crack in the window, which quickly closes. The car slowly pulls away and drives through an intersection a mile away from the house. The car brakes quickly as an accident is nearly avoided. The passenger side window quickly rolls down, and the head of Max Weinberg pops out.

“Hey, we’re drivin’ here!” he yells at the bicyclist who swerved into the road.

Squinting at first, then gradually brightening as recognition paints his face, the cyclist says, “Hey, you’re Max Weinberg, Bruce Springsteen’s drummer!”

Weinberg tosses a hundred dollar bill at the man. “You didn’t see me here, got it? If I read this in the papers tomorrow, I’ll find you and gut you like a fish on a bike. Do we understand each other?”

Nodding quickly while scooping up the bill from the ground, the man quickly mounts his bike and pedals away. Weinberg smiles as his head disappears into his vehicle and the tinted window rises. The car pulls through the intersection on the way to a meeting with the E-Street band, while Paul McCartney gently weeps and Ringo Starr continues work on his new concept album: ‘Anteater! The Once and Future King’.

The many Faces of Facebook

Facebook is a fickle mistress. She changes her looks every month or so and spawns countless groups with names like:

“If you hate the new FACEBOOK, sign THIS PETITION!”
“Why did Facebook change? If you can’t stand it and throw up at the sight of it, join now!”
“Does Facebook’s new layout give you explosive diarrhea? Join this group!”
“GRR! UGLY FACEBOOK! JOIN!”
“Me no like it! Facebook ugly site! Where am status! Join it!”

There is no promise or hint of gain by joining these groups. Just groups of like-minded people all gathering in virtual spaces with no other purpose than to voice their displeasure at the way a particular website has things arranged on a screen. What happens in these “groups”? Are there parties? Do people post messages like “Remember how our feeds used to be in one place and now you have to click a lot all over the place? Man, that sucks!”

I just created a new Facebook group: “If the way Facebook’s website is laid out causes you high levels of anger and frustration, then you spend too much time on Facebook.”

Please join.

Letters from Real Folks Part 3: The Search for Spock

The letters just keep coming, and I am grateful for every one of them. Not to mention the fact that most people use e-mail nowadays, but to take the time to write out a hand-written letter. That is Love. To be fair, I’m assuming you are all using your hands. Without further ado (because there has been far too much ado already) here are your letters!

Dear Sexpot,

I would love to star in one of your music videos. Do you have any plans to include more backup dancers? I can also sing a little, so if you need a singer I’m right there for you. I also LOL often which should keep everyone on set entertained.

Signed,
Antsy in Annapolis

Dear Antsy,

My last music video was an unmitigated disaster. I threw up and strained my hamstrings. Both of them. At the same time. At this time, I am cancelling all future music videos. At least ones with me in them, with no music or clothing. I’ll keep you on the shortlist for any future musical endeavors. Thanks.

Dear Fatty,

I ran straight into a brick wall at a high rate of speed. My teeth are out. My nose seems to be in a different place than yesterday, and my elbows bend the wrong way. My feet are twisty and my buttocks are sore. My left ear got all scraped up and my shoes don’t fit. My back is dislodged and my hair is parted incorrectly. My kneecaps rolled under the car and my neck is all like ‘Whaaaat?’ Can you help me?

Signed,
Concerned in Cleveland

Dear Concerned,

Step One: Get rid of that brick wall! LOL! Step Two: Everything happens for a reason; just know that God has a plan for you…as a circus freak! Oh SCHNAP! Step Three: In all seriousness, Just Dance; dance for your life you silly son of a bitch. Step Four: Changing the part of your hair is sometimes that last little tweak in your appearance that you need to make women stop spraying mace in your eyes, although the lack of teeth and displaced nose may be a few steps backward in that regard. I wish you good luck, my friend; kneecaps can go a long way once they get to rollin’.

To Whom It May Concern,

If I had to compare your blog to something, I would compare it to a swamp: A giant pool of stagnant water that smells excruciatingly horrible and is surrounded by stunted trees and exotic bugs. Good day to you, Sir.

Signed,
Indifferent in Idaho

Dear Indifferent,

If I had to compare your letter to something, I would compare it to a warm Summer day: It makes me sweat uncontrollably and run around in circles swatting awkwardly at bees that probably flew away already.

Dear Jeffrey,

We cannot continue like this. The letters must stop. The phone calls, the unsolicited genital photographs, the half hour voice mails, the balloon sculptures, the murals made out of your fingernails, the increasing amounts of dog feces on my lawn and roof and porch, all of it. Please cease and desist or my lawyers will have to become involved.

Signed,
Harassed in Harrisburg

Dear Harassed,

I find it odd that you insist on calling me Jeffrey, even though my name is not that. Definitely not. But just out of curiosity, did you see any artistic value in the fingernail murals? Not that I made them. I am not Jeffrey. But did you get the artistic meaning there? Paired with the dog feces and the balloons and the pictures? There is a thread running through all of that which would truly amaze you and I think even fill your heart with a lot of love, if you let it. Um, Jeffrey called and told me all of that. On his telephone.

Dear Writer,

I have a conundrum. What does conundrum mean? Is it a type of drum?

Signed,
Curious in Caracas

Dear Curious,

You raise an excellent point here. The word ‘conundrum’ from the Latin ‘con-in-drum-us’ which means ‘with drums there is loud’ leads us to believe that the Spaniards had it right when they said “Conundrums, me no like it.” That being said, not for nothing and so forth, when all is said and done and we arrive at our conclusion, the best bet is to understand. I hope I cleared this up for you.

Dear Helpy Helperson,

I could use your help. I find myself engaged to be married to a hedgehog (long story, LOL). I wish to end this engagement immediately for a variety of reasons. The main reason being that he is a mean SOB. He drinks and calls me horrible names and tried to knife me once. How do I gracefully end this relationship?

Signed,
Desperate in Dallas

Dear Desperate,

Of all the “I’m engaged to a hedgehog” letters I get, this one concerns me the most. Are you giving him a fair shot? Maybe the knife was supposed to be a bouquet of flowers? Maybe he drinks because he is embarrassed about being a hedgehog? What I’m saying is, give him a chance to redeem himself. Hedgehogs are notorious drinkers, but they make up for it in loyalty and love. Plus they look cute in Christmas cards. Don’t give up hope, my little dumpling. Love will find a way.

Ummmmm....

I went to Starbucks the other day, and I looked at the menu. I was all like "Latte? Why don't you just call it 'Large' like everywhere else? I mean like...*snort*...come on.

And, uh, why are the um, pillows on airplanes so, um, small. Pillows are usually bigger. In beds. Um.

*crickets*

Blocked

I just wrote a 5,000 word essay on the minutiae of Cell Phones and their various ringtones and then realized that I have nothing interesting to say. Today. Tomorrow is a new day. Wait, something is coming. Hold on…

Hey, what’s the deal with *67? Why isn’t it *007 to scare people and uh…

Forget it. Store’s closed. Nothing to see here.

The Hoax of all Hoaxes (everyone light your smokes-es)

Get ready. I am about to blow your mind. For free. Are you ready? You don’t look ready. You definitely aren’t dressed like you are ready. Is that how you are planning to wear your hair for this? You have no idea how incredible this will be, so I think you should be prepared. Are you sure? Those shoes? Really? I’m talking apocalyptic news here. If you want to go with that jacket / blouse combo then that is your prerogative. If any of you are men, then yeah I said you are wearing a blouse. Deal with it. Anyway, you can go with that ensemble, but I think later when you review your day and you think ‘I remember exactly where I was when I heard that amazing bit of news from that blog guy and OMG, I can’t believe I didn’t get dressed up. He even gave me a chance to go change my outfit. What an amazing guy he is. And his eyes…I can’t stop looking at his eyes. He haunts my daily life with his words and eyes and abdominal muscles.’ Hey, don’t say you weren’t warned.

Anyway, here it is: The ‘balloon boy’ story was apparently a hoax. There, consider your minds exploded. You are welcome.

When I first heard about this story, I brought up CNN.com and saw a big breaking news headline at the top of the page in bold white letters with a blaring red background:

“Oprah picks new Book of the Month selection! Video to follow…”

Underneath that, a few lines down, in a much smaller font, there was this:

“6-year-old boy floating over Colorado in homemade balloon. Air traffic being diverted.”

My first thought was: He pulled it off. Some 6-year-old in Colorado finally did what millions of 6-year olds have been dreaming of their entire 6-year-old lives. I pictured a patchwork colorful balloon with a little basket tied underneath with shoelaces. I pictured little Timmy leaning over the edge of the basket dropping tiny plastic army men on a serious mission. Then I read reports about how he may have fallen out, and they were hoping it would land soon, and it was obviously more serious than everyone thought.

I finally caught a glimpse of the balloon and then immediately felt like an idiot (which I am used to). People really thought there was a 6-year old boy floating over Colorado in a Jiffy-Pop Popcorn container? In fact, I thought I was looking at a Jiffy-Pop picture that someone put up as a joke. Nope. Homemade balloon. Carrying a 6-year old boy. Turns out the boy was in a box in an attic or something after all. Regardless, there are 20 million 6-year old boys trying to patch together Jiffy-Pop foil right now into a makeshift aeronautic device. Alert all the major airlines: You are going to be flying through a lot of popcorn pretty soon.

Balloon spotted over Colorado with what appears to be hundreds of little boys with physical deformities.
The end result is linked above; it turns out to be some hoax perpetrated by the parents for unknown reasons. I’m all for a good practical joke. I saw a hilarious one on TV where they put a life-sized human dummy in a wheelchair and then rolled it down a hill to see people’s reactions as a supposed real person was careening down a street in an out of control wheelchair. The balloon thing I’m failing to find the humor in. ‘Hey, wouldn’t it be knee-slapping hilarious if everyone in America thought our 6-year-old son fell to his death from 8,000 feet out of a homemade balloon that I made out of Tin Foil and cardboard?’ The sound of crickets should have let the parents know that maybe they should just try the ‘pull my finger’ thing next time when they are trying to get some laughs.

Wait, this just in. Oprah read another book! This one is about orphans, in metallic balloons, floating to heaven carrying their Teddy Bears. In related news, CNN has just been rebranded "CNN-prah". We are through the looking glass here, people.

Book of Buster: Verse 10, Chapter 3

And so, in the great Movie Theater of Heaven, it came to pass that there was a midnight showing of “Leprechaun in the Hood (working title: Leprechaun in da Hood)”. The angels and archangels and prophets and such all gathered in front of the great golden movie screen watched in silence. God arrived late (as usual) and sat in the back row noisily crunching away on some popcorn.

God leaned over to John and said, “Fuck is this?”

John said, “’Tis ‘Leprechaun in da Hood’, O Great One.”

God squinted and said “Is that Coolio?”

Nodding, John said, “'Tis, my lord.”

Clearly baffled, God stopped eating and said, “Seriously, what the hell is this?”

John, looking over at the Supreme Being said, “You should know, you made it did you not?”

Shaking his head vehemently, God said “Uh-uh. No way no how. No way I made a movie about a Leprechaun terrorizing Ice-T and Coolio. Nope.”

Shrugging and turning back to the movie, John said, “As you wish, my Lord, but you did create all things in Heaven and Earth. This movie would be one of those things, would it not?”

“Gotta go!” God said suddenly and ran from the theater leaving John shaking his head watching the conclusion of one of God’s greatest follies.

Unnecessarily Confrontational

A co-worker cheerily came up to me today and said "Whatcha havin for breakfast, Champ?"

I said, "Fuck You Charms. They're magically awful."

Yes, it was totally uncalled for. Especially since I was eating a bagel. I'm no champ, so don't treat me as such. I'm not even a contender today, maybe top 50. Maybe.

So I continued down the hallway and another co-worker innocently asked for the time of day. I said, "Half past yo momma. Oh wait, I'm sorry, I misread my watch. *squinting at my bare wrist* It is five past my balls." He ran away in tears. I may be hard to deal with, but I tell it like it is. The time in my world is five past my balls. Don't ask questions to which you do not want the answer.

The piece de resistance (translation: The piece of resistance) came when a third coworker met me at my desk and said "Great weather out there, isn't it?" To which I replied, "Sure, if you like insecticides." He then asked me what I meant, at which pont I screamed in his face, "ENGLISH, MOTHERFUCKER! DO YOU SPEAK IT?!?!" Hey, you got me, I am difficult to get along with.

He called HR on me. Bad move, man.

Bad move.

Bath Bombs: Scent from above

This is the first entry in my new popular series: Products that sound like they could kill you but in actuality add a certain degree of femininity to your life. Here is the Wikipedia definition of “Bath Bomb”

A bath bomb, one form of bath fizzie, is a bolus which, when placed in bath water, dissolves partly or completely and effervesces, also in some cases adding scent, color, and/or other properties or materials to the water.

I could write seventeen pages about all of the problems I have with this definition (‘bath fizzie’? ‘bolus’?!?!?) Point being, a bath bomb is just a fizzy bubbly thing that makes your bathwater stink and change colors (like the ‘bath bomb’ you used to do in the tub when you were a kid. You were a kid when you did that, right?). The only sinister thing I can take from this definition is the mention at the end of ‘other properties or materials’ added to the water. What? Other properties or materials? Can you buy a “meatball” bath bomb that turns your bath into a delicious Italian gravy? Can you get one that adds nails and sharp glass? Can you buy bomb that adds asbestos to the water? That would definitely be less than optimal. Barring the mysterious ending to the definition, Terrorists need to come up with a plan B because bath bombs aren’t what they may think they are. I know that one terrorist was recently arrested for maxing out his American credit card buying hydrogen peroxide at many beauty supply stores across America. I guarantee this conversation also took place at one of those stores:

Terrorist: *low voice* Do you have any bath bombs?

Beauty Supply Worker: Why yes, we have many varieties!

Terrorist: What is the blast radius?

BSW: I’m sorry?

Terrorist: The blast radius, damn your ears! How much damage could someone theoretically do? Does it explode with a great roar? Will it bring heretics and BLASPHEMERS to HOLY JUSTICE!? Eh, theoretically?

BSW: Well, there would certainly be an explosion of color and fragrance! Er, and as for radius, I’m sure everyone in your house would enjoy the wondrous scents and fizzieness!

Terrorist: *squinting and staring confused*

BSW: Would you like a sample?

Terrorist: Good day to you. *picking up his bags and leaving quickly*

As my great-great-grandfather always used to say, ‘Ain’t nothing terrifying about French Vanilla and tons of fizzy bubbles all up in your business.’ I agree. The bottom line here, Bath Bombs are not terrifying or dangerous. They have no blast radius and are basically useless in a land war. Feel free to get as many as you want and stink up every bath tub in your neighborhood. If you happen to find any “Kit-Kat” based bath bombs, buy me a couple. I’ll owe you one.

The worst job interview in the history of jobs. And interviews.

Tom Johnson walks confidently into the office of Bill Richardson, CEO of Diatzu Motors. Tom is looking to be hired as a high level executive in the business.

“Hi Tom, I’m Bill Richardson. I’ll be conducting your interview today.” Bill says, extending his hand to Tom.

“Thanks Bill. Can I call you Bill?”

“Uh yes, that is my name.”

“Can I call you Will? Like Willy Will? Like Willy Mo Pena? Billy Bear?”

“Absolutely not!”

Tom considers this for a full minute of silence and then says “Call me Bill.”

“You want me to call you Bill?”

“I’m sorry, I forgot the comma. I meant ‘Call me, Bill.’”

“Call you? On the telephone?”

“Yes, please.”

“Now?”

“Please.”

Bill shrugs and picks up the phone at his desk, dialing Mr. Johnson’s cell phone number. Tom’s phone rings and he quickly flips it open, turning his back to Bill and hunching over as if being secretive.

“Yes?” Tom whispers while furtively glancing over his shoulder.

“Yes what? It’s me!” Bill says with a frustrated tone.

“Me who? I have no time to talk, I’m having an interview with King Blah Blah of the Car People.”

“Tom, I don’t have time for these games. Can we start your interview now?”

Tom makes a loud fart noise into the phone and then flips it shut dramatically. He straightens up and turns to Bill as he puts his phone in his pocket.

“Sorry about that, had to take that call. So what, you want me to sell cars to people? Like ‘Buy this car, it drives on wheels.’ ‘You want a red car? Absolutely Mr. Havasham!’ ‘I can definitely give you a car with seats, Mrs. BluBleeBlee!’ ‘Right this way, Mr. bopbopbop, blah bloo blee GPS.’ No sweat. So do I have the job? In all honesty, a monkey could do this job. A retarded monkey.”

“This is extraordinarily silly. I have no time for this. Your interview is over.”

“Is it? Or is it just beginning?” Tom asks with a devilish glint in his eye.

“No, it is over.”

“Can I call you Bill?”

“I told you that is my NAME!”

“Ha! That comma again! I meant…”

Bill leaps from his seat and grabs Tom by the elbow, forcibly taking him to the door of his office and pushing him into the receptionist’s area. The door slams in Tom’s face.

“Well, I think that went well,” Tom says with his face pressed into Mr. Richardson’s office door. Two security guards appear on either side of Tom as he straightens his tie. “Looks like you’ll be working for me soon, gentlemen. Just call me Mr. Manager!”

Tom is escorted to street level by the security guards and left on the sidewalk. Tom looks around and whistles sharply. Just then, LuLu Tom’s retarded monkey pet comes running around the corner and climbs up onto his shoulder.

“LuLu, I think we got the job!” Tom says as he laughs loudly frightening some passers by. In response, LuLu takes a huge crap on his shoulder.

Book of Michael: Verse 9, Chapter 9

On the tenth night of the tenth month, the weary travelers reached the Kingdom of Gold. They immediately complained about their tired feet, and the walls being too bright, and why is everything so shiny, and yadda yadda yadda, bitch bitch bitch. God threw an apple at them and said “Ye are in the Kingdom of Gold! Can’t ye just be content with knowing that no mortal soul has ever seen these golden halls before?” The travelers responded, “Well, yeah, but everything is so yellow and there aren’t even any restaurants or anything and my Blackberry has like zero service.” God threw another apple and tendered his letter of resignation, marching towards Mars to try again with the Martians.

New Reality Show Idea #2

Reality TV shows have really been leaning towards contestants with a “story” rather than just normal every day people. “The Amazing Race” has a contestant with “Asperger syndrome”, two Harlem Globetrotters, and one of the contestants has no arms, legs, eyes or heart (or fashion sense, OMG LOL). He was eliminated before the show started due to “inadequate sense of direction and lack of blood pump.”

My first attempt at a new Reality Show didn’t go as well as I hoped. It tested well with infants and viewers over 80 (because they both fell asleep with the TV on), but no one else caught on. My new idea is a million times better than the old one. “The Supertastic Mailbox” is the working title. One mailbox will hold mail and the contestants will try to retrieve the mail each day. On the way to the mailbox, they will most likely be shot and killed unless they can win the “Immunity Hooker” who will keep them safe for a week (if you consider Herpes ‘safe’). Each week the winning contestant will read the mail to the rest of the contestants. Whoever doesn’t get a letter will be “Returned to Sender” via a high velocity slingshot. Sender = Atlantic Ocean. Here is the list of applicants I’ve received so far:

John Wilson, 25, Construction Worker: John has an artificial head made from titanium that he received in a 450 hour operation after losing his head in a freak croquet accident.

Harvey Stort, 54, Corporate Attorney: Harvey is a douchebag. No reason given.

Lucinda Stort, 55, Corporate Attorney: Harvey’s wife of 32 years. She is an alcoholic diabetic. She believes that man never landed on the moon. Also believes JFK’s assassination happened on the moon. Contradicts herself often. May be bipolar.

Mitchell Ratcheson, 34, Birthday Clown: Mitchell has severe OCD and is a Gulf War veteran. His “kiddie birthday shows” usually include some kind of dangerous weapon and a 15 minute rant on “government intervention” and have resulted in 15 restraining orders and 65 house arrests.

Bobby “Bubba” Bublow, 38, Sanitation Worker: Bobby accidentally raped a cardboard cutout of Henry Winkler during a drug fueled rampage in 1998. His conviction is currently being appealed.

Mary LeFleur, 45, Telemarketer: Mary was born with no elbows or knees. Her friends call her “Stiffy Sticklady” due to her lack of flexibility. Her goal in being on Reality TV is to let other people know about her affliction and to get someone to itch her nose for her.

Frederick Charles Masterson III, 23, Party Planner: Trust fund baby who has never worked a day in his life. Friends call him "F-Chuck". Owns 35 cell phones and 451 Blackberries. Suffers from a rare disease which causes his skin cells to explode if exposed to orphaned children or homeless people.

Moose, Age Unknown, Job Unknown: No full name given. Had his jaw fused shut by a freak lightning storm while wearing braces. Uses sign language to communicate. He has been known to defecate in public without warning. Allergic to clothing of any type.

Feather Moonwind, 30, Palm Reader: Feather believes that “all the planets were created to hold the energy of the universe for safe keeping”. She also believes that love is a “precious pearl that should be cradled and cherished for all eternity.” Divorced 5 times.

If you know anyone else looking to be in an exciting Mail-related reality show, please forward their application info. Filming starts in the spring. At that time I will also begin development on “Funnel of Love” which will involve funneling beer into as many 20-something men and women as possible and then locking them into a hotel room for 48 hours. Whoever gets the most STDs or unwanted pregnancies wins! Should be a surefire hit on VH1.

F-Bomb

I think it is time we retired the term “F-Bomb” commonly used when describing the “F-Word” (Franks, as in Franks and Beans, oh, excuse me, “F-bombs” and beans).

“I just ate 17 F-bombs tonight and they all had mustard!”
“Man, I can’t believe there aren’t any F-bombs at this barbeque!”
“Who the Fuck put this F-bomb in the middle of my salad?”

I know you want to temper the impact of this explosive piece of vocabulary, but really it’s just a Hot Dog in the end. I think we can eliminate the “F-bomb” term and give “Frank” its rightful place back in the American dictionary of love and good times.

Don’t even get me started on the “N-word” (Night-sweats).

More Awkwardness

I just wanted everyone to see the new "picture face" I will be making in every photgraph taken of me from this day forward:

Awesome. Totally Awesome.

Famous people love my blog

It is true. Famous people from all over the world travel here via the Internetweb to read what I have to say about things. Why, even now, I bet they are reading and waiting to comment on this...

Urgent Questions Volume 7

If Superman flew up to the moon and took it with him to all the other planets, smashing little pieces of it to make new moons for all the other planets, will you ever go on a date with an actual woman?

When you send a letter using the Pony Express, do you get completely frustrated when the letter always comes back to you 30 seconds later undelivered? Do you realize that isn’t the Pony Express, it’s a Merry-Go-Round at the county fair, and even your 7 year old son knows that the Pony Express hasn’t existed for years, and most people use e-mail now anyway, old-timer?

Have you ever taken two steps forward, only to find that the person in front of you just took two steps back? Do you think that you and that person go together because opposites attract? Well let me tell you something, friend: It ain’t fiction, it’s a natural fact.

Have you ever opened up a treasure chest expecting to find gold and jewels in there, only to realize that you aren’t a pirate and that treasure chest is just your laundry hamper with 35 cents in it that you put in there the night before (planning on playing pirate the next morning)?

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, throat punch? Sometimes I put question marks on statements just to make them seem like questions.

Has this pickup line ever worked for you? ‘Is it raining, because I’m going to take you back to my apartment and sleep with you, and possibly make you breakfast in the morning?’ Believe it or not, that worked for me on six separate occasions.

Have you ever gone to the bathroom in a public stall, flushed the toilet, and then done a giant side leap out of the stall screaming “TA-DAAA!” just in case someone was expecting a magic show in there?

Have you ever taunted a Polar Bear in the following manner: “Fuzzy Wuzzy was a BEAR (poke in the eye), Fuzzy Wuzzy had no HAIR (poke in the other eye), so Fuzzy Wuzzy wasn’t FUZZY (kick in the groin) WAS HE?!?! (Leg sweep)? A polar bear is a good choice for that, because they are friendly and just drink Coke all day, so you could out run them if they really took exception.

If a parrot starts speaking Spanish, would a Seeing Eye dog strike a pose and be all like “What’s Up?” And then the iguana stands up on two legs and starts doing the Macarena, right? And all the goldfish start circling each other, threatening each other with tiny knives, trying to assert their fish tank dominance. You know what; I think someone put something in my coffee…

Have you ever gone to a parade, only to find that it starts raining making everyone sad, and you shout to the Heavens “GOD? You have cried on my parade for the last time!” stomping off through the puddles of God-tears, only to realize that your family has already left you, and you live alone in a one-bedroom apartment that God actually set up for you, calling in a few favors? For the record, God was crying because you were naked at the parade (again), and the police were taking you to jail (again). Talk about raining on a parade…

Did you ever take the training wheels off of your child’s bicycle and try to put them on your car to see if you can stop yourself from rolling over doing 100 mph around a tight turn while drunk and screaming into your cell phone at your ex-wife who is trying to rain on your parade again?

When a traffic light turns from red to green, does that make you think of Christmas, or does it make you fishtail out of that intersection, burnin rubber and screaming like a Viking warrior on his way to the Shop-Rite for some eggs and misplaced youth?

Book of G.O.B: Verse 30, Chapter 22

And in the fiery aftermath of the Apocalypse, a new race will be born: A breed of half man, half Fireman which would basically just look like a regular Fireman since they are half man already by their nature. And these new half-breeds will put out all the fires and then hang around their Firehouses drinking beer and washing their fire trucks over and over and over and over again. Praise to half-breed fire people and ridiculously clean fire trucks.

Book of T-Bone: Verse 10, Chapter 2

And so it came to pass that the Trees became the tallest natural creation on Earth. And the Trees stood tall and strong for many Millennia. That is, until God created lightning and Trees started getting zapped and burned to the ground. The Trees tried to kind of bend over and not be so tall any more, but God immediately reprimanded them: “Stand tall and proud, ye Trees of God! Stop slouching!” To which the Trees responded, “But all this lightning! We don’t want to get hit by lightning so much! It stings and burns and stuff!” To which God responded, “Fine, squat like washerwomen taking a dump. I don’t care.” The Trees felt bad (and a little offended) and remained tall and true in the face of lightning and hurricanes and tornados and all the other bad things God threw at them. When the Trees realized that God was mocking them with these trials, they quickly invented lightning rods and attached them to bushes. Hey, free will, right God old pal? God sulked for a week and then got over it. Soon after this squabble, God created platypuses which made him giggle and smile again. Praise to the tall Trees and the Burning Bushes.

This Just In

“The Bus” has finally ground to a halt due to upwards of one billion human bodies being thrown under it while moving. “The Train” reports no problems and continues to run unimpeded. “The Boat” is all like ‘What about me?’ The “Horse and Buggy” have retired.

Commencement Address

I have been contacted by Harvard University to give the Commencement Address at their 2010 graduation ceremony. I naturally declined at first due to prior commitments (eating, sleeping, slapping old ladies for sassin’ me and fudge). After hours of agonizing thought (sleep) I finally relented and over the past few months I’ve been working on my first draft. Here is what I have so far:

Dear Graduates,

I stand before you today because sitting would make me invisible behind this podium. Then it would seem like you were being addressed by a talking piece of wood. But enough about the Italian puppet Pinocchio! *pause for raucous laughter and standing ovation* I am humbled by the level of intelligence contained in the crowd of people sitting in front of me. It makes me want to belittle you in any way I can think of. I will most likely pick on your clothing or your hair styles. This will make me feel like a smarter and better person than you. Do not worry; you will get the same treatment in the real world.

Now that I have brought it up, let us talk about this ‘real world’ that you have consistently been threatened with as you reach the end of your college careers. No, not the Real World on the MTV television channel! *pause for gales of laughter, joyful hoots and suggestive catcalls* I am talking about the real world that we all live in and that you will soon be joining. This is a real world where you can succeed if you set your mind to it. Take me for example: I started writing a humble blog a year ago, and now I have over six hundred million readers every second and a successful line of baby rainwear *pause for swelling applause and standing ovation* You may be asking yourself ‘Can I one day design tiny raincoats and floppy hats made out of waterproof material?’ No, you cannot, because that would be a patent violation punishable by law with mandatory prison time.

The real world is a scary place. There is no ‘beer pong’ in the real world. If you ask someone in the real world to play beer pong with you, you’ll get a black eye for your trouble and a night in jail. There is no ‘marijuana’ in the real world either (to my knowledge). Real world folk get high on love and understanding! There is no such thing as ‘sex with strangers’ in the real world. You most likely will not have sex at all, and if you are lucky enough to actually have sex with someone, it will be someone you know very well who will hate you. *pause for another standing ovation*

You think you know it all right now, and some of you actually might, right Harold? *shield your eyes like you are looking for ‘Harold’ in the crowd. Risky, but chances are that there will be a complete spaz named Harold who knows everything. Pause for knowing laughter from Harold’s friends* From the looks of some of you, you may know everything on Earth and some Saturn stuff too. Let me tell you, all of the knowledge in all of the books in every library on this planet will not help you in the real world. You must work on your fighting skills. Karate is a start, but you must be trained in weapons. Bow weapons, staff weapons, projectiles. Arm yourselves well, because the people you meet outside of the safety of Harvard will all be gunning for you. Even now, as you sit in those chairs, there are seventy five snipers surrounding you with their sights trained on your knowledge filled heads. Will Calculus save you now? Will 18th century American Literature shield you from the Grim Reaper? Will Short Story Analysis keep you alive when a bullet tears through your Harvard-y brains? Death is knocking. Will you deny him? Will you live to see the end of this speech? *pause for effect (10 minutes minimum)*

But hey, the real world can be fun too! They have amusement parks! *pause for delighted laughter* Ice cream socials! *pause for joyfulness* Work release programs! *standing ovation probable* I don’t want to get too ‘doom and gloom’ here, but there are some other things you have to look out for. I care about each and every one of you and I want to make sure you are prepared when you leave this campus. The single most dangerous thing you will have to face in the real world is bee stings. Those fuckers are fast and resilient and really really pissed off. Your best bet is to run everywhere you go and stay really low. Don’t drive with your windows open and keep some type of flame thrower with you. Contrary to popular belief, Doctor Schitzhammer *look over at Doctor Schitzhammer with a comical expression* bees are not flame-retardant! *pause for standing ovation while Doctor Schitzhammer feigns embarrassment (NOTE: Embarrassment may be real)*

There are at least twenty five to thirty other things you need to fear in the real world, but my time is short. I want to leave you on a positive note. *sing a high C note and hold it for 5 minutes* Good luck with your post-college lives. This is the time for you to join the rich tapestry of failure that eighty percent of you will experience when looking for a job. Now is the time to stand up and say ‘YES I MIGHT!’ Here is your chance to run headlong into the brick wall of ‘5 years experience minimum required’! The time is now to stride confidently into the job market and get your genitals whacked off by the long blade of the U.S. Economy!

Thank you and I leave you now with this time-honored quote from William Shakespeare: Yale sucks! *pause for thunderous ovation*

Methinks

Is there any other word in the English language that annoys me more than ‘Methinks’? Methinks not. ‘Anywhoo’, ‘Whatnot’, ‘Hinky’, ‘Oprah’ and ‘Theresnomorefudge’ all run a close second, but ‘Methinks’ takes the cake. What is with all of these people running around like Ye Olde English Barons using ‘Methinks’ like they are on their way to a medieval crowning ceremony?

“Methinks my DVR has not recorded Battlestar Galactica for the full amount of time.”
“I would like to go to White Castle and partake in a suitcase of cheeseburgers, methinks.”
“Methinks I have overstayed my welcome at this particular Red Lobster.”

Who are you kidding? You are 42, overweight, and play video games all day. ‘I thinks’ that you are trying to sound more educated than you really are. Knock off all the pseudo-intellectual philosophizing and join us all in the real world. Stop prancing around like you are about to burst into verses of Shakespeare; you are not the fifth duke of Wilkenshire.

Methinks I am getting cranky in my old overweight age.

A Moment with my Children

It was a quiet Sunday morning. I was sitting at the breakfast table with my son and my daughter; all of us eating breakfast together. My children are two and a half years old and talking more and more every day. They were chit-chatting about what they were eating, the fact that it was sunny outside, they spotted a deer on the lawn and got excited and started yelling about animals. But then, things took a strange turn. My son turned to me and said

“The laughter of a child is life’s most precious gift.”

I paused with my spoonful of cheerios halfway to my mouth and looked over at him. Just then, my daughter looked at me and said:

“Would that I could catch a butterfly in my hand and learn its beauty. And thus be fulfilled for all eternity.”

I started looking for hidden cameras or cleverly concealed microphones but found none. I said to them both, “What did you just say?”

“I see a deer!” my son exclaimed followed by my daughter saying “I like cheerios!”

“No no no, before that. What did you say before?” I asked but was met with confused looks.

I finished my breakfast quickly and went to the sink to clean up while my kids finished their breakfast. Then, from behind me, I heard a note-perfect rendition of “America the Beautiful” in two part harmony. I ran over to the table just as it stopped. “What was that?”

“I pooped!”

“You were singing! Where did you learn that?”

“I going to school later!”

I frowned at them both and we ended up having a two minute stare down with my kids smiling and me frowning in confusion. Finally I cracked and started cleaning up the dishes. The kids jumped down from their chairs and ran into the other room to play. I finished cleaning and walked in to the other room. My son was sitting on the floor with various tools and a transistor radio opened with all of its parts scattered around the floor. He was in the process of re-wiring the main circuit board with a very precise set of pliers. My daughter was sitting in the recliner wearing a pair of reading glasses with an open copy of “Crime and Punishment” in her lap. She was on page 543. At this point, my mind broke.

“How old are you? How old are you really?!?”

“I two daddy!”

“How old are you?!?!?”

“I two daddy! I two daddy!” followed by laughter.

At this point I ran for the phone and called my wife at work. She was not at her desk, so I left a voicemail:

“Honey, the kids are older than 2. They have to be! They sang two part harmony and quoted stuff and now they are fixing the radio and reading Crime and Punishment with the tiniest set of reading glasses I’ve ever seen. I think they know I know! I need help! Where did the toolset come from? How did she hide the glasses?”

This voicemail was the final piece of evidence used against me when I was committed to a nuthouse. The kids visit me with their Mom and bring me elaborate hand-made Christmas ornaments and delicate wood carvings. My wife says they were bought at a store. I know better.

Language Oddities that should go away

“I could care less”

Could ya? This is actually a statement of how middle of the road you currently are. I could care more, I could care less, I’m basically right in the middle. In its essence, it is a ‘nothing’ statement. If you are trying to tell me how utterly indifferent you are, you are leaving the window open for actually caring less than you do, so it isn’t all that definitive now is it?

“Not for nothing”

“Not for nothing, I really enjoyed this Chicken Scapellini.” What are you talking about? So this statement isn’t for absolutely nothing? OK, thanks for letting me know. When would you use a statement that is actually for nothing? “For absolutely nothing, I have a cracked tooth.” How would you react to that statement?

“For what it’s worth…”

“For what it’s worth, I really enjoyed this Chicken Carbotellini” Why does that statement have to have a pre-set worth? Can’t the statement just stand on its own? I liked your chicken. Done. Don’t try to preface it with some kind of importance scale. Where does the scale start? The proceeding statement will not be worth much, or may be worth a lot, I’ll leave that up to you to decide.

“Any Italian-pronounced word with the ending vowel chopped off”

Most people know someone who is 100 percent, or at least mostly, Italian. If you do then you also know they have a curious habit of dropping the ending vowel off of words, mostly food for some reason. “Mozarell” (instead of Mozzarella) “Rigot” (instead of Ricotta) “Rigaton” (instead of Rigatoni) Why is this? I sure as hell don’t know. Anyway, just when you have them all figured out, they start including vowels for apparently no reason. Pepperoni (instead of “Peperon”) Spaghetti (instead of “Spaghet”) What the hell is going on here? And why is it only food? Are they trying to mess with me? Why isn’t it

“God Bless Americ.”
“I’ll see you next Frid.”?
“I bought a car this weekend. It’s a Hond Civic.”
“Welcome to New Jers, the Garden Stat.”
“I certainly am enjoying this Bologn sandwich.” (Another food one)

Give me an instruction manual or a map or something.

“FYI”

“For Your Information” Wow, thank you. For my own personal information. For me to keep in my own information warehouse. How kind. “FYI, you must wear pants in this library.” Because obviously, my information database was missing that entry before.

“Everything happens for a reason”

The king of all nothing statements. Everything happens for a reason? You’ll quickly notice that people only use this phrase when something good is about to happen (or just happened).

“I cut my toe off with my weed whacker, but when I went to the hospital, they replaced my toe with a solid steel Swiss army knife, and I got a date with the hot nurse who took care of me!”
“See, it’s like I always say, everything happens for a reason.”

Are you honestly, with a straight face, sitting there and telling me that the reason I cut my toe off was so that I could have it replaced with an all purpose tool used for a variety of everyday tasks, followed by a dinner date with Nurse Bimbo? I thought the reason I cut my toe off was because I was completely drunk and trying to use a weed whacker to remove the little hairs on the top of my foot. That is also a reason. “Everything happens for a variety of reasons” maybe? Some things happen for a reason, some things just happen and then other things happen after that, followed be even more things. Possibly related, possibly unrelated. I guess that’s too long of a phrase to say at a funeral.

“I’ll keep you in my thoughts”

Another thing you say to someone going through a hard time. I can think about my 3rd grade math teacher for 1.2 seconds, and technically I just kept her in my thoughts (for fewer than 2 seconds). Did that help her (or me) in any way or do anything discernible other than divert my attention away from my triple cheeseburger? No. This is a nicer way of saying “I won’t visit you, or make contact with you, other than to let your name pass through my brain once in a while. Won’t that be nice?”

Let’s make an effort to identify and eliminate all language oddities. Yes We Can!

More Letters from Real Folks

Well, after I published some letters from real American folks a few weeks ago, the response was overwhelming. I got even more letters and emails than ever before! My mailman threw them at me and tried to choke me because his back hurt from carrying them all (I don’t even know how he carried the e-mails! OMG!). I pinched his fat little cheek and said “Chin up, mailworker! The sun will come out tomorrow!” With this, he side-kicked my knee and tore my ACL. Luckily for you, I don’t need working knee tendons to write a blog post! LOL! Without further ado, here is some correspondence from my dear readers:

Dear Douche,

What is your problem with Twitter? I use Twitter all the time to tell people my whereabouts and whatnot. Not for nothing, Twitter is a godsend. Everyone who knows me knows what I am doing and where I am at any minute of the day. If I don’t update at least every 5 minutes, I get 10 phone calls from my friends saying “Where are you? What are you doing? Update your Twitter!” and I say “OK.” Then I hang up and update Twitter again. Lay off Twitter. Sounds like someone is jealous?

Signed,
Tweeting in Tahoma

Dear Tweeting,

If Twitter is a godsend, then God must have also sent a retarded stick down from heaven for you to bash yourself in the head with. Update your status with that.

Dear Atoms Man,

Can you help me with my math homework? You appear to be very bright and mathematically inclined, so I figured I would ask you. I have attached five pages of algebraic equations that I have to balance. Please help me.

Signed,
Desperate in Delaware

Dear Desperate,

x+y = (1/3x * y). If x is 5, then y is ask your parents and stop bothering me with this useless crap. Write that answer down for every equation on all five pages. Thank me later.

Dear Willow,

My dog is staring at me. He won’t go away, but he also won’t tell me what is wrong. What do you think his problem is?

Signed,
Dogged in Denver

Dear Dogged,

My sorority name was Willow. How did you know that? What else do you know about me? Did your dog tell you? Anyway, there may be nothing wrong with your dog. He may just be waiting for you to get up so he can sit in your seat. He also may be infested with rabies. Swine Flu is also possible here. Use caution.

Dear Sweetie Pie,

I read your blog the other day and immediately broke out in hives all over my body. I think I’m allergic to your brand of humor. Would you consider writing in a different style? Maybe like ‘early-90’s Friends’ or ‘Cheech and Chong’? Let me know, I am in considerable discomfort but can’t stand the thought of never reading you again.

Signed,
Itchy in Iowa

Dear Itchy,

Sadly, I have tried to write in the styles you mentioned but then I broke out in hives. Must be a cross-generational hives thing. Here is a sample, hope it helps with the hives:

Ross: “Hey Joey, I want you to meet my new girlfriend Sophie.”
Joey: “How YOU doin’!”
Ross: “JOEY!”

Dammit, see, now I’m covered in hives. Please don’t write to me ever again.

Dear Mister Fun,

I would like to put on a play. OK?

Signed,
Hopeful in Houston

Dear Hopeful,

This is a thoughtful letter, but I’m not sure what you are asking me. Do you want me to be the lead in the play? If so, then I accept, but only under the following conditions:

1. The play must be ‘West Side Story’.
2. I must be a ‘Jet’. Because when you are a Jet, you are a Jet all the way.
3. I must be allowed to use a real knife for all fight scenes.
4. My “singing double” must be Neil Diamond. The real Neil Diamond, not some Vegas lookalike.
5. Neil Diamond must be knifed and killed by the end of the play.

I have no ulterior motives here, so stop looking for them. My fee is 100,000 American dollars.

Dear Mr. Awesome,

I took a picture of you at your house while you were taking out the garbage. I was hiding behind your bushes, so the photo came out a little blurry. Plus, it is now covered with knife marks and dog excrement. Can you send me a clearer picture? Maybe autographed? Thanks.

Signed,
Fingers-Crossed in Fairbanks

Dear Fingers,

Mom, you always know how to cheer me up. It’s nice to know I’ll always have a fan in you. Of course I’ll send you an autographed photo. Just send a check for 45 American dollars to my P.O. Box. You should receive your photo in 6-8 weeks. No refunds.

Dear Blogger,

Would that I might bend your ear for a moment’s breath. Ere the dawn fall and the night tower over the sky like a mighty hammer poised to strike, I am eager to communicate my ideas. ‘Twas early and the fog rolled over the meadow like creeping dread pausing only to allow the wind to interfere with its fiendish plans. I am a sun god ready to wield my flames like a torn lover wields their heart: with bitter words and furious bloodlust. Hear me and cower in your corner you worthless dog.

Signed,
Mailman in Driveway

Dear Mailman,

Well well well, who knew Mr. Mailman was Shakespeare Junior? Keep those letters coming. In my mailbox, OK? Not on the street, or in my trees? Thanks.

The Twitter Blackout of '09

From CNN.com:

Twitter blackout left users feeling 'naked'

Apparently, Twitter.com was down for about two hours yesterday morning. I know, two hours. Not two minutes, that would have been manageable. Two. Hours. According to the article above, users felt "jittery" and "naked" and one "social communications" expert compared the outage to breaking your writing hand or having a stroke. Some users commented they felt like "their heart was gone" or "they felt empty inside".

I'm sure when Twitter came back up, everyone was relieved to be able to get back to telling every internet person what they ate for lunch or what color shoes they were wearing and their hearts grew three sizes and their souls came back.

Is it any wonder that I don't take anything on the internet seriously? I can't really add anything to the article above, I think it speaks for itself. But like they say in the article, I will say that you should put together a backup plan. For the sake of your children, have a backup plan. If Twitter hits the dirt again, and it might (Maybe even for three hours, or a half a day!) then for Christ's sake have a backup plan. Don't just run around with no heart and empty insides trying to talk to people or write letters or operate a telephone. I think we need a minimum of 15 backup twitter sites (Spitter, Shitter, Whipper, Whittler, Flipper, Whistler, etc.) just in case this ever happens again. Make it 30 backup sites, and maybe a state-issued megaphone for every man woman and child. This way, you can stand on your lawn and use the megaphone (if it has a siren button, use that first to alert everyone of the incoming message) to let everyone know what TV show you are about to watch.

"I am about to watch DESPERATE HOUSEWIVES! TOM DENTON IS SO HOT!"
"I am cooking white rice and beans! LOL! *feedback*"
"What is the deal with BRITNEY SPEARS! Give it up girl! LOL LOL! *feedback*"
"My kneecap itches! And I can't find my HARRY POTTER KEYCHAIN! *feedback*"
"I just pooped a little bit while I was on my treadmill! I can't wait to have waffles for dinner! ROAFMEALORMQWF!!"

Anyway, I will now return you to your regularly scheduled blog. Don't get caught with your twitter-pants down again, damn you. (Twitter-pants is a registered trademark of Millions of Atoms limited.)

Wheel of Nonsense

This is a theory I’ve had floating around in my head for far too long. Thanks to the good people who created ‘The Internet’ I finally have the forum to detail this for you good people. Just making this available in public subjects me to possible assassination, so I hope you appreciate what I’m about to tell you.

The American game show, Wheel of Fortune, is fixed. It is a sham; a total fabrication. Really, it is.

Watch the next episode of this show. Pay close attention to your screen at the end of the show, during the credits. Ready? The wheel, the basis for the entire monetary reward system of the show, is spinning BY ITSELF! I swear the thing is running on a motor. What is stopping the producers from hitting a switch to temporarily juice the wheel onto the bankrupt space? 5,000 dollars? I don’t think so. Turn on the motor…wait for it…and bankrupt. Who is monitoring Pat Sajak? Is Vanna White under surveillance?

Multiple telegrams to the Governor have been returned to me unopened. Numerous letters to the White House have gone unanswered. Countless emails to God have gone un-replied to. One impassioned speech to my son, my only son, was met with a knowing smile. He gets it. I digress. I am opening this story wide open now in the hopes that someone out there will pick up the torch and run with it. By doing this, I put me and my entire family at risk. The Wheel must be stopped. Please do not buy any more vowels.

Please do what you can to end this national travesty. Thank you.

Thats Amore?

When. The.

Moon hits-a your eye like-a big pizza pie

It fucking hurts.

Let's compare "Amore" to something a little more pleasant.

When. Your.

Fat little feet avoid stepping in sheet
That's Amore.

When you open your mouth and two dollars come out
That's Amore.

I know all 'bout Amore.

Book of Bluth: Verse 2, Chapter 3

And lo it was written that the heavens would open and bring down a golden egg unto the hands of the Chosen One. The Chosen One would be found to be hungry, so he would make a golden omelet thus severely devaluing the miracle egg from heaven. The heavens would close up again quickly and realize the folly of dropping a golden egg on any human as they often overlook the inherent value of heavenly objects and eat a lot of things they shouldn’t. The heavens would then be told that they should have listened to their wife, and will no doubt be reminded of this fact all throughout the holidays. Glory to the egg catchers and their wives.

Urgent Questions Volume 6

Have I told you lately that your hair reminds me of a sweet cinnamon bun? I must have been starving, or high, because right now your hair just looks like hair.

Do you ever wish you could just while away the days drifting down a lazy river with one hand dangling in the water and one foot bitten off by a 20 foot crocodile because this is Florida and someone didn’t take any time to read the 10 warning signs by the side of “Crocodile River”?

Have you ever laughed so hard that your pancreas and liver get up and shake hands, and your gall bladder does the Nicaraguan two-step? If you answered yes, then you are humoring me, and stop it.

How many times have you skipped across a puddle on the sidewalk, giggling as you land on the other side just as your umbrella blows open unexpectedly, only to realize that you are a police officer, and that wasn’t an umbrella?

If a stitch in time saves nine, how many does a stitch 20 minutes early save? What if the stitch is 15 minutes late because Grandma wouldn’t get out of the slow lane? Does that mean you owe like 4 or 5?

If I have six of one, and half a dozen of another, could you just ignore the fact that I’m talking about various types of genital warts?

Will the leaders of the world ever learn their lesson and realize that all wars can end with one phrase: “Whatchoo talkin’ ‘bout Willis?”

If I asked you an honest question about a donkey, a garden rake, a pair of nipple clamps, and a poster of New Kids on the Block, would you reserve your judgment of me until you see how damn sexy this all turns out to be?

Book of George Michael: Verse 1, Chapter 1

Repent and beware ye sinners and saints, for the hour cometh near in which you shall be visited by three spirits. The first spirit will yell at you in Spanish; the second spirit will scream at you in Latin; and the third spirit will try to cheer you up and explain what the first two screaming spirits were trying to communicate to you. Bottom line: stopeth eating Cheese Whiz at 3 in the morning, or else you will be visited by lots of things starting around 4 in the morning. It is written.

Book of Maebe: Verse 23, Chapter 10

The North Star shined down on the fields of Bethlehem as the Son of God was born. He received many gifts from visitors far and wide. In later years, the Son of God would complain that he got “gypped” because his birthday and Christmas are on the same day.

Letters from Real Folks

Every day I get millions of letters from readers all over my street. The letters are literally left all over my street every day. It’s like the mailman has letter diarrhea all over my street and sidewalk. I called the post office about this and asked them if the mailman could consider my mailbox his figurative “toilet”. They hung up on me. Anyway, enough about my problems. I decided to start posting some of these letters and my responses. Enjoy.

Dear Blog,

My boyfriend and I are always trying to kick at each other. Not full roundhouse karate kicks, just little foot flicks. Do you think this is something I should be worried about? He is also cheating on me with his Mother.

Signed,
Worried in Walla Walla

Dear Worried,

I don’t think you should worry about the little kicks. As is written in scripture, “Little kicks are like little kisses from God.” As for the cheating thing, we again turn to scripture for our answer: “If Momma is hot, you gots to take a shot. If Momma is ugly, kick her ass under the rug-ly” John 3:19.

Dear Man,

I am drunk and have shot my scrotum off.

Signed,
Ball-less in Baltimore

Dear Ball-less,

Ah, I see you are preparing for a catastrophe! Fret not, little angel, your scrotum will regenerate in its own time and be all the stronger for the effort. In the meantime, attach a small leather purse where it used to be and make a fun art project out of it! Use beads and rhinestones and don’t be afraid to add a splash of color!

Dear Light of Existence,

Is there any way you can escort my daughter to her prom next spring? She would be very surprised if you showed up, especially since you are in your thirties. Please do whatever you can to make my daughter’s special day memorable. She has brain cancer and lost a foot to frostbite while hiking to the summit of Mount Everest last winter. She reads your blog every day and the only time she smiles is when she sees there is a new post from you. Her dying wish is to meet you and let you know how much your words mean to her. What say you, kind sir?

Signed,
Hopeful in Wabashaw

Dear Hopeful,

I have five rules that must be adhered to before I agree to this:

1. I must be allowed to wear my beard in a pencil-thin style much like Justin Timberlake wears. I must be allowed this.
2. The limousine procured must be no less than 100 feet long with at least three different types of lighting inside. Your daughter must ride in the trunk of this limousine. No exceptions.
3. Three words: Top Shelf Liquor.
4. The band ‘Men At Work’ must perform at least an hour long set during the prom. ‘Who Can It Be Now?’ must be dedicated to me at which time I will perform a solo dance to the song. At this time, the entire dance floor must be cleared and all prom patrons must turn their backs to the dance floor while I dance. The dance is elaborate and dangerous and is not meant for human eyes.
5. I am willing to shave my head and wear a wig to make your daughter feel more comfortable. The wig will be provided by you and will be cut in the style of Katie Couric from the Today show. I will not remove my own foot to show solidarity for your daughter, so don’t even ask.

If you agree to these terms, I’m sure an arrangement can be made. By arrangement, I mean a steep financial obligation.

Dear Millions of Atoms,

Why are M&Ms so delicious? Do you think they have trace amounts of cocaine in them? I do.

Signed,
Wondering in Orlando

Dear Wondering,

I ask myself this question every day. I decided to do a little research and I found no trace amounts of cocaine, but what I did find was very interesting. Each M&M has microscopic bits of fecal matter in them. I wouldn’t think this would contribute to the addictive qualities and incredible taste, but apparently this is the magic ingredient! Doody! My assistant insisted that it was just microscopic bits of chocolate, but I openly mocked and shamed her until she ran away. I freely admit that I’m no scientist, but tiny bits of poop in each M&M seems like a reasonable hypothesis to me. I’m going to try adding microscopic shit particles to other foods to see how much their taste and addictive quality improves. I will report on the results in a future post.

Dear Assface,

Thanks for nothing. Your blog sucks. In your case, ‘Blog’ is short for ‘Big Log of Shit’. TTYN.

Signed,
Fuck Off in Ottowa

Dear F.O.,

I am sorry you feel you have been let down by my blog. Obviously with my face in this shape, it is hard to write well and see clearly (because I have an ass instead of a human face! LOL! Who knew?). I only wish that we could have been friends. You know, real friends. The kind that hug all the time and laugh until our ribs hurt. The kind of friends that hold hands and kiss sometimes. The kind of friends that stand uncomfortably close and suddenly find themselves naked for no apparent reason. The kind of friends who get arrested at parades for defecating at random intervals along the parade route just in time for the marching band to arrive and then the band leader gets all loud and starts yelling about shit covered boots and Tubas and Flutes and Trumpets and whatnot. What was I saying? Oh yeah. I hate you. Godspeed.

Dear Typer,

I have a dilemma that maybe you can help me with. I find myself quite embarrassed. It seems as though I have farted in the middle of an important senate session and with the acoustics here and the silence of the other senators, it ended up sounding like a barrage of gunfire. There was no question where the noise came from and the other senators have now ostracized me. How can I get back in their good graces?

Signed,
Flatulent in D.C.

Dear Flatulent,

This is a tough situation you find yourself in, but I think I have a viable solution. Bring an actual gun (semi-automatic if possible) to the next session and fire it off in the middle of a vote. Let everyone know that you are planning on bringing guns to the senate to remind everyone of our freedoms and what our forefathers had to go through when they founded our great nation and blah blah blah. If anyone gives you any lip, shoot it off for them free of charge. Then tell them the next one is coming straight at their dumper and that they should bend over and prepare for impact. The best part is, while you are shooting your gun you can fart all you want and no one will give a hoot. I am a big advocate of using gunfire to mask embarrassing flatulence. I’m actually planning on starting a foundation around this theory and could use your support. Thank you for your time and your question.

Dear Miss,

I am thinking your horse is on fire. My book is flying. Will you purchase an umbrella? Maybe one time we won’t come to the picnics. Where do hamburgers register? This banana is giving me some heartburns. My English is having a baby. I am words.

Signed,
Flip Flops

Dear Mr. Flops,

I can’t tell you how many times I hear similar sentiments from other readers. You raise some very good points here. Good luck with your baby and please keep reading.