April's Ms. World Class Stupid

Janie Fredell isn't your average Harvard student, but clearly a fish out of water type. She's a "good Catholic girl" who was horrified, simply horrified, to discover her school's "hypersexualized culture . . . instruct[ed] young people to have sex," and ridiculed those who didn't go along.

"An article about [abstinence group True Love Revolution's] ice cream social appeared under the headline 'Not Tonight, Honey, I Have a Brain Freeze.' A columnist who wrote about the group joked of getting 'very, very aroused' just thinking about virgins and wondered if such people might be available for 'dry humping.'

"'It’s an odd thing to see one’s lifestyle essentially attacked in The Crimson,' Fredell said."

Naturally, she had to take action. She became a chastity activist, lecturing students, talking to reporters, appearing on CNN. Because, gosh, her lifestyle may be different, but it still deserves respect and acceptance and tolerance.

To which I say: stuff a sock in it, you whiny little brat.

See, prior to Ms. Fredell's move to Harvard, she lived in Colorado Springs. Making her quite possibly the stupidest person I've encountered in all my years here at World Class Stupid: somebody who had to leave the bigotry capital of America to find bigotry.

Colorado Springs is Ground Zero of evangelical conservatism, the home of Focus on the Family and Ted Haggard's New Life Church. The place has become so identified with discrimination that they had to introduce a public relations campaign extolling their tolerance to attract non-crazy employers to the region. They actually formed a diversity council consisting of twelve hetero whites and one hetero black.

But Ms. Fredell didn't notice. She also didn't read that officers and faculty members at the Air Force Academy "used their positions to promote their Christian beliefs and failed to accommodate the religious needs of non-Christian cadets," that one student was denied permission to form an atheist group, and that the chaplain frequently told cadets to accept Christ or "burn in hell."

She didn't see intolerance when one of their state representatives argued before Congress that gays shouldn't have equal rights, and she didn't read a recent opinion piece in the Colorado Springs Gazette that said discrimination against gays should be legal in both employment and housing. (And she didn't notice how, in that same paper, angry homosexuals automatically become homosexual activists.)

No, Ms. Fredell had no problem in Colorado Springs. It's when she ventured out to the big city that she found bigotry. It's like Ronald McDonald saying the food at Le Cirque isn't good.

And so, Ms. Fredell wins April's Ms. World Class Stupid title. She screams and yells about intolerance for her "lifestyle" when nobody's trying to fire virgins. Nobody's trying to throw them out of their homes. She reads a snarky little headline and a lame joke in an opinion piece, and then it hits her: The world needs to change. The world needs to be more accepting of different lifestyles.

When I first wrote about Colorado Springs, I got an angry email from a prominent member of the community saying if I didn't like it I should move away. Pretty difficult, I thought, since I've never lived there. In the spirit of that sentiment, though, I'd like to say this to Ms. Fredell: if you really want to fight intolerance, why don't you move back?

Janie Fredell, Harvard Student, Steadfastly Fights For Her Right To Be Dumb

This'n here is me and Biff the farmhand. I'm the young'un on the right in the cowboy hat and boots. This is a pretty dern typical scene from my day I reckon.

Usually I gets up when the rooster starts a-crowin', and I takes a bath if it's Friday or jes' dusts myself off if it ain't. Then I mosey downstairs where Ma has breakfast a-waitin'. Shucks, me and Biff must go through two hunnert pancakes and four dozen eggs 'tween us. A man can sure work up an appetite workin' on the farm.

After breakfast I climbs on ole Blue and with a gee-yup I rides around the ranch, checking the fence so'n to see if there ain't no holes big enough for our Gurnseys to mosey through. We got ourselves a pretty big spread -- pert near five hunnert acres -- so this takes most of the morning.

Then I ties up ole Blue, slops the hogs, feeds the chickens, and either milks the cows or cuts off their heads and slices'em into steaks. Round about this time the sun's gonna be goin' down, so odds are Biff's naked and standing on top of Pa's ole Chevy Luv pickup.

I like Biff. When he first moseyed down the dirt path to our farm looking for work I remember thinking he looked dern peculiar. Then one night we're sittin' 'round the campfire drinkin' hooch and tellin' stories when jes' outta the blue he pulls his Wranglers right down 'round his ankles and shows me this metal ring he got clamped tight 'round his privates and sticks some kinda air fresh'ner under my nose that gets my heart a-twitchin' like a Cuban bandleader, and I'm thinkin', yup, Biff is dern peculiar. But Ma and the cattle like him, so I cain't complain.

So's prob'ly on this here day it's round'n about when the sun's settin' and I found Biff standin' naked as a jaybird on top of Pa's ole Chevy Luv pickup. Sometimes I says, Biff, what on God's green earth are you doin' up there? And he says, Roman, I jes' had a hankerin' for some sun. Care to join me? And I says, shucks, don't mind if I do! So's I'll strip off too, 'ceptin' for my boots and my cowboy hat, and jes' lay up there naked as the day I was born. We tell stories, look for shootin' stars, and sometimes whup each other 'cross the buttocks with the radio antenna.

I reckon Biff is doin' his impression of a chicken here. It's fun as hell to watch, but damned if it don't leave a man sore as the dickens afterwards.

So's that's how's I spend most of my days on the farm. But I don't recollect what that brown smudge hoverin' over my privates is, or how I got that tan line, or where my armpit hair went.

Last Thursday Ryan Phillippe was a guest on the Tonight Show With Jay Leno. He used to play a gay character on One Life to Live, so Mr. Leno "hounded" him to stare into the camera, pretend it was his "gay lover . . . Billy Bob" who "has just ridden in shirtless from Wyoming" and give it his "gayest look."

Now, naturally, the gays have a website where they share their gayest look with Mr. Leno. Yes, they're all flipping him off, and no, none are shirtless or particularly loving. (Via Mr. Sardonic)



Bonnie Fuller, high priestess of Star Magazine, thinks it's horrible, simply horrible, that Britney Spears' parents are "pimping" their daughters out.

Complaining about prostitutes while using them. Somewhere Eliot Spitzer is rolling around . . . that's it, just rolling around.



After being caught by police with machine guns, Rapper T. I. will avoid a lengthy prison sentence by lecturing high school students about guns, drugs and gangs, and telling them not to make the same mistakes he did.

Mistake #1: Signing with a punk-ass record label.



Actress Lindsay Lohan has signed on to play a member of the Manson family.

She says she's loved Shirley's records ever since she was a kid.



A swan that lives in a German park has been reunited with the swan-shaped paddleboat it loves.

The pair broke up late last year after the bird caught the boat with a couple oars.

Those gays get offended about everything. I mean, Howard Dean was being sensitive. He was speaking out for our side. Still, when he said that the Republican Party is so white-bread that Hispanics and blacks and gays would have to be crazy to join, it was bound to piss some of those crazy folks off.

"Apologize! You do not have to be nuts to be a gay Republican."

Sigh. This old film reel predicting future fashion makes me nostalgic about the past, when women were glamorous, men were manly, and snappy commentary was written by the gays. Naturally the female guesstimations take center stage, and they hit pretty close to the mark, with dresses straight out of Alexander McQueen. As for dudes, well, slap a soul patch and a utility belt on somebody and we'll call it square.

Ten points for predicting that we'd all carry around phones. But never guessing we'd find a way to make them small? Still, their biggest miss is not realizing that men would become peacocks too, and that "soo-wish!" could do equal time.

Every other day I see another commercial that gets me worried about retirement. Some authoritarian voice tells me how much I need before I can stop working, and I don't need to whip out a calculator to realize I'm far short.

"Multiply your age by 3000. That's the amount of savings you should have in the bank."

Brutal, huh? You thought it was sad when people lied about their ages; buddy, I'm sitting here trying to convince myself that in the right light I could pass for one.

Three thousand dollars saved for every year of your life. It sounds like a preposterous amount of cash, but the commercial defends itself. "Studies have shown that you'll need two million dollars in the bank if you want to retire comfortably."

Two million dollars? To retire? Who did this study, the St. Tropez Societe de Champagne et Caviar? I've been living on maybe ten thousand dollars a year for my entire life, and I don't see myself switching to Dolce & Gabbana undershirts after my chest hair goes white.

To press a little salt in the wound, the commercials offer "advice" on how to save money. "Disconnect that cable box! You'll save a thousand a year." Uh, not if that cord is spliced into the neighbor's cable. "Bring lunch to work once a week. The savings could add up to five thousand dollars a year!" What, is everybody eating at El Mocambo? I'm getting take-out from the Mexican joint by the car wash, where they give me two bucks off the combo platter because I'm dressed worse than they are.

The commercials end, but the mood lingers on. Anger. Frustration. I don't know ANYBODY who's got this kind of money, and I've had my car washed in Connecticut. Where was it all supposed to come from? How were we supposed to get $3,000 a year before we even turned eighteen, especially when every birthday card I've ever gotten had slots to slide nickels in?

Eventually reality sets in, and I realize what the commercials are: bullshit. Because I've read a few conflicting studies. Like, 98% of all Americans have less than eight dollars saved, and that's if they've been to CoinStar recently. These ads aren't run by non-profit foundations: they're sponsored by investment companies that want you to bring in money so they can earn commissions. How can they get you to save more if they don't make you feel inches away from homelessness first?

As much as I despise these ads, I desperately want to follow their advice. The problem, though, is I CAN'T, and I'm not sure anybody can. The days are gone when we could walk into our boss's office, demand more responsibility and ten percent more take-home pay. The days are gone when we strolled down Sixth Avenue past all the millinery shops and said, "Dash the rent! Sweetie, I'm buying you that fabulous hat!"

No, the only splurge I make is paying full price for the newspaper instead of waiting for people in Starbucks to use the restroom and then running off with theirs. There's a reason the New York Times prints articles like "How to Make Dinner Using Food From the Ninety-Nine Cent Store," though I'm relatively sure it's really a humor piece aimed at the city's society debs and stockbrokers.

Still, in the end I'm not really worried. Sure, I could have more money. Maybe I could even save more. But I remind myself that I'm pretty well covered by the Hot Gay Guy's Retirement Plan.

Take your penis length. Multiply it by 10.

That's the probability that somebody else will be paying the bills when you turn 65.

New York's new governor, who recently disclosed that he committed adultery with several women, said yesterday that he used cocaine and smoked marijuana.

Gov. David Paterson admitted in a television interview that he ''tried [cocaine] a couple of times'' when he was ''about 22 or 23.'' ''And marijuana probably when I was about 20,'' he told NY1 cable news.

The good news is they probably won't catch him driving around with no panties on.



Police in Pennsylvania are looking for a man who pretends to be a basketball coach and scams McDonald's restaurants out of food and money using bad checks. The man drives up in a school-type bus and orders about $50 of food for his "team." He pays with a $150 check that appears to be from a school district and takes his food and the change in cash.

Police have put out an APB for a middle-aged man with one hundred dollars and diarrhea.



A driver in Washington state was stopped on suspicion of being a terrorist after his radioactive cat was mistaken for a bomb. Anti-terror cops using specialized radiation detectors on highway traffic flagged down the man, but a search of his car revealed only his cat who had undergone radiotherapy for cancer three days earlier.

The man says he didn't mind being questioned, but the cat's still a little sore from being disarmed.



Easter in the Philippines is very strange. To atone for a year of sins, the people take to the streets, whipping themselves senseless and sometimes even nailing themselves onto crosses to reenact Jesus' fate.

And the tourist board is still warning people to stay away from the street food.



Two entrepreneurs have started a company that manufactures wheeled carts for disabled pets. Eddie and Leslie Grinnell, founders of Eddie's Wheels, built their first cart in 1989 when their Doberman lost the use of her rear legs. Since then they've built carts for cats, llamas, goats, and sheep, and they even keep a few on hand small enough for a gerbil or a hamster.

In unrelated news, Richard Gere announced that he's now wheelchair accessible.

Ben Stein's Money

Years ago, when dinosaurs ruled the earth, the New York Times had a few good writers. Along with the Brontosauri and the T. Rei, they've hit the road, and now most of the paper's articles leave the reader shaking his head and wondering, "Why is this in print?" Their favorite columnists seem particularly short on qualifications and even shorter on shareable knowledge. With each new piece their lack of talent becomes more glaring, until the curious reader takes it upon himself to find out what prompted this "journalist"'s promotion to the big leagues.

Alex Kuczynski was an attractive, upper-class blonde who married a billionaire, winning herself a few fans at the Times. When she became an aging blonde desperate to preserve her last vestiges of youth by almost daily plastic surgeries, she won over the rest of the crowd. Now she's the paper's go-to girl for insight into keeping unsightly wrinkles from driving that rich man away.

Harry Hurt III's father owned an oil company, which may have played a role in his decision to become a professional golfer. One day Harry decided he'd bumped elbows with enough rich people to write a book about them, and he did. Today his work for the Times Business section centers around how to get a close shave and where to find a good cigar.

And then there's Ben Stein. I'll give Mr. Stein one small token of admiration. He parlayed a lack of personality into worldwide fame as everybody's favorite boring teacher, turning up in "Ferris Bueller's Day Off" and various school-based commercials. Obviously this kind of self-exploitation isn't easy, though Paris Hilton has left him far in the dust.

Like the previous two columnists, though, he had rich parents and a privileged upbringing, leading one to realize that a disproportionate percentage of the Times' column inches are written by billionaires, the girlfriends/wives of billionaires, or their more distant relatives. And suddenly one realizes why the paper devotes so much energy to finding, say, the perfect cummerbund.

Writing for the Business section, Mr. Stein's thoughts can be summed up in one line: "Is this a great country or what?" This pronouncement can have some weight coming from a self-made man, but not when Mom and Dad gave the dude that huge honking pile of cash. As a businessman Stein ranks with Donald Trump, who offers Learning Annex classes on how to grow rich without saying Rule #1 is Get Yourself Wealthy Folks.

Given his family history, perhaps it's understandable that Stein is optimistic: he's never experienced anything BAD. At some point, however, he turned into Pollyanna. Week after week he wanders up to a corner of a crumbling room and declares, "Oooh, isn't this wallpaper gorgeous?" This week Ben declared categorically that the U. S. isn't in a recession. Rather than basing this opinion on the markets or trade deficits, though, it's the very picture of hair-splitting. The definition of a recession, he says, is two or more sequential quarters of downward growth. We don't know if a quarter has positive or negative growth until it's over, so in fact we can never actually be in a recession. Q. E. D. we aren't in a recession now.

Mr. Stein goes on to be horrified -- simplify horrified! -- that all these people are declaring that the U. S. is in a recession when by definition we can't be. Are they morons? Do they know nothing of economics? Don't they have DICTIONARIES? It's sad that the brilliant minds of this world have to be saddled with such maroons.

It's an interesting argument, for about a millionth of a second. But then you realize Warren Buffett, a man with a bit more money than Mr. Stein, says we ARE in a recession, and you start to think that something is seriously wrong.

Here's what's wrong: Mr. Stein is an idiot. He's a cheerleader, like Our Esteemed President, who think it's more important to obscure the truth than to acknowledge it. I'll clear it up for Jimmy Kimmel's ex-sidekick: when someone says America is in a recession, here's what they really mean:

"I think America is currently in one of those negative-growth quarters that is either following or will precede another negative-growth quarter, and the sum of the two quarters together will be judged, after that period is over, to be a recessionary time."

Gosh, you think, why don't folks just come out and say that, instead of "I think we're in a recession"? It's just laziness, isn't it? I mean, it just takes eighty or ninety more words to torture your thoughts to fit the dictionary definition. Now you're not concise or succinct but you're correct. Don't listen to all those folks who say, "What the hell is he talking about?" There's a dual English/Economics major somewhere who'll jump out of his leather club chair and shout "Bravo!"

In short, it's your typical column from Mr. Stein. He jabs at those negative folks who say America is in a recession. He sniffs at those folks negative enough to ask the question.

Because in Mr. Stein's world, it's the words that are important.

When you've got that much cash, it'll take care of itself.

Recession? SHUT UP!!!

Newly-Found Evidence Forces Sociologists to Rewrite Ashley Dupre Skank Timeline

Ten Things I Learned From Watching "Atonement" Last Night

1. When a movie features Keira Knightley as something other than a paperweight, prepare to be disappointed.

2. Sometimes a completely serious movie will start with a line like, "But I accidentally sent her the naughty letter -- the one that said I wanted to lick her lady bits."

3. Fountains in England are frequently eight feet deep, and the cement bottoms are cleaner than my kitchen floor.

4. If you film a scene where a wounded soldier meets his long-lost mother on a distant battlefield, smear Vaseline on the lens so people know it's not real.

5. The really smart, insightful people always become writers in the end.

6. If you screw somebody really badly in real life, you can make amends by making them happy in a book.

7. Women frequently go sixty or seventy years without changing their hairstyles.

8. When you're old and prone to dementia, TV interviewers let you ramble on and on.

9. Long, continuous Steadicam shots are to directors like Humvees are to men with tiny dicks.

10. Crap + Vanessa Redgrave = Crap

If anybody's curious whether they'll be getting a tax rebate with President Bush's economic stimulus package, I just got this form in the mail. Maybe you'll have better luck with it than I did.

Thrilled, Chilled, and Possibly Killed

Tall men don't find a lot of amusement at amusement parks. Ridiculous admission prices, sure. Stomach-churning fast food, definitely. And Juicy Couture-wearing midwesterners who shove Mickey Mouse aside to stalk us, screaming "HOW TALL ARE YEW?" and "ARE YER PARENTS TALL?" But fun? Not a chance. Because when you're six foot eight, thrill rides are more of a genuine fright than a casual thrill.

Now, I'm not talking about those traveling carnivals that skinny tattoed dudes set up in the parking lots of your local Pic N' Pay. They'll scare anybody with a brain, and not just because you'll find thicker metal in Halle Berry's bra. No, I mean the roller coasters at major amusement parks. Space Mountain, Disneyland, Six Flags. The Matterhorn, the Cyclone, Colossus.

We start to worry when we hear the warnings: "Please keep your hands and arms inside the car at all times." This has always confused me. Isn't there a way of phrasing it where the two body parts don't sound completely distinct? I feel like replying, "Well, I'll keep my arms in the car, but where my hands go is anybody's guess!"

We replay the words over and over in our heads, slowly deciphering what they mean. They're saying that our little roller coaster car will barrel past things that are both (a) stationary and (b) cement, and they'll be within the average-sized person's reach. They're saying that an average-sized person stands a chance of death or disfigurement if they protrude too far from the car.

All the regular-sized folks, of course, couldn't care less. They laugh and joke and suck down their eight-dollar sodas, knowing that any amusement park that endangers their puny little asses is just asking for a lawsuit. They'll go crazy on the ride, waving at friends on the ground, flinging their arms around so they'll fly up out of their seats, trying to snap off bits of passing stucco for souvenirs. They don't give it a second thought, and there's no real reason they should.

The tall guy, though, senses there's a problem. He's gone through life protruding too far, in at least a couple different directions. Blithely wave your hands in the air while we're careening down that hill and you're not even going to reach my Adam's Apple. In fact, you're in serious danger of picking my nose. Once I scratched the back of my neck on a cruise ship and I knocked three folks on the Lido Deck overboard. If they're saying size could be a problem for average folks, you know it's going to be a problem for us.

While everyone is blithely chattering away, then, the tall guy has gone paler than usual. He tries to maneuver toward the speakers to get further details, like there's storm warnings coming, and screams like a banshee so folks'll shut up. He realizes he's got no defense in court: with all the warnings they give, he'd be pulled apart like crockpot chicken. "Your honor," the defense lawyer would drone, "the man was six foot EIGHT. Six foot EIGHT. Too big to fit in a FORD. Longer than a CANOE. Too tall to wear UNDERWEAR. We were warning REGULAR-SIZED folks to be careful -- why on earth would HE get on? Surely he must have realized that getting onto this ride was like leaping headfirst into a CUISINART."

As the sweat accumulates on our foreheads, we try to imagine: how tall do amusement parks think people get?

We're painfully aware of how estimates vary. We've strolled down sidewalks where tree branches have been meticulously trimmed to a five-foot clearance. We've seen pedestrian tunnels with six foot ceilings, and we've stumbled into low-hanging power lines that wrapped around our necks like rubber chokers. Heck, I had to duck to get inside the Taj Mahal. Somebody's made an assumption here, and we suspect that in a most unfortunate incident we're going to find out what.

We imagine the scene when this coaster was built. "According to our studies," the designer declares, "ninety nine percent of all people are under six foot two. I suggest, then, that we make allow at least a six foot six clearance in all the tunnels, to allow for puffy hair or Stetson hats. Sure, maybe once in a while we'll get somebody taller in the park, but that 'hands and arms' recording will definitely scare them away."

"I wonder if I'm too tall for this ride," I tell my friends as the next available car halts in front of us. "It's sounding kind of dangerous."

They laugh. "Jeez," Steve says. "For a tall guy, you're really a wimp."

And so with fingers crossed the tall person steps in, buckles himself up, and the car speeds off.

Two minutes later his train pulls into the station, just like every other. All the riders are exhilarated and exhausted and just plain out of breath . . . except one. He doesn't wave to the patrons waiting to board the ride, doesn't undo his seatbelt, doesn't clamber his way awkwardly out of the car. Because he's had his head sheared clean off. He's sitting there perfectly still, but blood is shooting out of the neck and splashing all over the white vinyl seats.

The attendants look at him, all strapped in, his white knuckles still gripping the lap bar, and they share a shocked look.

"Wow," one says. "I wonder if his parents were tall."

The New York Post wears its heart on its sleeve, the must-read rag for right-wing nutjobs. They're got an agenda, dictated by a billionaire who makes Lex Luthor look logical, and they don't let no stinking facts stand in their way. Last week an opinion piece by Michelle Malkin analyzed the anti-war movement and came to the conclusion that it's a dangerous left-wing conspiracy that desperately needs to be stopped.

"From Pittsburgh to Berkeley, anti-war extremists have smeared recruiters as 'death pimps' and 'child predators,'" she says, as if pointed words are the worst danger facing America today. "The militant Code Pink group continues to organize in-your-face protests to drive recruiters from major metropolitan areas." Yes, she's complaining about protests. About people standing around WITH SIGNS.

She whines on and on, seeming to be newly annoyed by all this free speech stuff, before getting to the cold, hard facts. She's compiled eighteen particularly egregious examples of anti-war terror over the last five years to show "the ongoing campaign against military recruiters." Anti-war "zealots" splash blood on recruiting posters. Handouts are torn apart. "Anarchist symbols were scrawled in red paint on the building," making me think the culprits were more likely Sex Pistol fans. Manure is hurled! Door locks are ruined with Super Glu! "At UC Santa Cruz, 'peace' thugs drove recruiters off campus after an hour-long demonstration of shouting and window-banging."

Ohmigod. Have they no honor, these peace thugs, raising their voices and rattling glass? WILL NO ONE PUT A STOP TO THIS HORROR?

"There will be no end in sight," Ms. Malkin warns, "until lawmakers, law enforcement, the media and the public open their eyes to the hate and stop coddling the increasingly crazed and emboldened anti-military militants before more bombs go off - and innocents get harmed - in the name of 'peace.'"

Yes, WHAT ABOUT THE INNOCENTS? That's what all the news anchors here wondered as they interviewed military recruiters after the Times Square bombing. Would the imminent threat of death keep them from sending more young people to steal us some oil? Were they scared witless, worried about those dastardly bombers hitting again?

No, they said. Because, you know, they don't usually hang around the office at FOUR IN THE MORNING, SITTING IN THE DARK.

It's easy to make lists, to make isolated instances seem like a concerted threat. Ms. Malkin ignores the thousands of demonstrations that have attracted literally millions of peace-loving people, instead focusing on a small number of relatively harmless incidents, and concludes that something drastic needs to be done.

Two can play at that game. Below is a list of eighteen police officers who have been arrested for drunk driving. I had a larger pool to choose from, though, so my list just dates from this year. Five were involved in crashes. One killed a fellow officer.

Is there any end in sight to this horrible string of violence? When will the media wake up and take action? When will the right-wing force these badge-wielding demons to stop harming innocents?

I wait for the Post's report.

Until then, should I be wandering some darkened street at four in the morning and see an antiwar activist bicycling towards me from one direction and a cop car coming from the other, I know which way I'm going to run.

January 1: Police officer Irving Simmons was arrested for DWI after running off the side of the road and wrecking his patrol car.

January 17: Police officer Donald Meredith was arrested for DWI after crashing his car.

January 24: Police officer Anthony D. Germany was arrested and charged with drunk driving. Germany has been reprimanded twice since 2003 for alcohol-related offenses, according to police records.

January 26: Dallas police officer Dwight L. Govan was arrested on suspicion of driving while intoxicated.

January 29: Police Department sergeant Sgt. Robert Lund was arrested on suspicion of extreme DUI, striking a curb near South Harrison Road and East 22nd Street.

January 31: A Palm Bay police officer faces charges after investigators said they caught him driving drunk. Police said Officer Joseph Marsala was off-duty when he was involved in a crash at Emerson Drive and Jupiter Boulevard.

February 15: Kenneth Canterbury, a Myrtle Beach police officer, was arrested for driving under the influence.

February 16: Roanoke City Police Officer Andrew Page was arrested for DUI after he wrecked his cruiser.

February 23: Sgt. William Rollin, a California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation sergeant, was arrested for driving under the influence.

February 24: In Gustine, California, Police Chief Kris Anderson, was arrested on a drunken driving charge.

February 26: Police Sgt. Christopher Sands was arrested after a coworker found him slumped over the wheel of a car idling in a major intesection at around 3 a.m. Tuesday.

March 5: Jacksonville police officer David Angelo Escobar was arrested on DUI charges, his second such arrest since 2005.

March 8: Deputy James Mathis, 31, was charged with driving under the influence.

March 8: The Tennessee Highway Patrol arrested Officer Mike Early for DUI early Saturday morning.

March 9: Deputy Elizabeth Dillon was arrested for DUI.

March 9: Dallas Senior Cpl. Billy Ailey has been charged with drunken driving in his second such arrest since December.

March 10: Lieutenant Todd Exline, a Kane County sheriff's deputy who once served as director of the county jail, has been fired as he awaits trial on drunk driving charges.

March 16: State police arrested Vanceburg police chief Joe Billman on suspicion of drunk driving.

March 17: Rookie NYPD officer Danielle Baymack was arrested for DWI after a crash that killed Officer Marlene Rivera.

Peacenik Thugs: Anti-War Vandals Burn On

German police report a super sheep that outran police patrol cars and beat up a police dog.

Police in the northern German village of Guester say the sheep ran through the streets of the town at more than 30 miles per hour, leaping over police cars that tried to stop it and scaring off pursuing police dogs.

In unrelated news, this weekend Michael Vick bought a panpipe and a crooked staff.


Former Beatle Paul McCartney was ordered on Monday to pay Heather Mills $48.7 million dollars to settle an acrimonious divorce dispute after four years of marriage.

When told that works out to nearly fourteen hundred dollars an hour, Eliot Spitzer said, "Wow, I have got to hit me some of that."


An old woman had to be rescued after she fell asleep while trying out a sofa bed at a German furniture store.

Gertrude Muller, 72, called emergency services to report that she was locked inside the store. She said she went in to test a sofa, and next thing she knew she woke up in the dark.

Once the woman was freed, the store's staff laughed about the incident -- not like the folks in the toilet shop she'd visited earlier.


Rachael Ray hosted a music showcase at Austin's South by Southwest festival, offering bands such as The Raveonettes and her husband's group The Cringe.

As a special treat, Ray cooked three dishes, including a seven-layer slider and macaroni and cheese, that were served up to the packed crowd.

Drunken revellers were startled to find the food looked better going out than coming in.


A Russian grandmother caused a minor riot when she went to a police station with a purse full of live hand grenades.

Irene Fedorova, 67, said she wanted to take advantage of an arms amnesty program to get rid of the weapons that her late husband had kept under their bed.

After opening the bag, the police immediately vacated the building, saying if they'd gone off they'd have seriously injured everyone within fifty feet.

When asked by reporters if the woman was incompetent, a police spokesman replied, "Well, she dribbles a little."


A cornflake that looks like the state of Illinois is currently going for more than fifty dollars on eBay.

Okay, that's it. I am definitely going to list my Cheerio shaped like Heather Mills.

Inch for inch, human hair is stronger than steel.

Which is why the police in many metropolitan areas use new Ponytail Cuffs.

Operatic

I've been an opera fan ever since I was a kid, and when I moved to San Francisco it was easy to indulge. They offered ten or twelve different operas every season, with cheap seats or standing room that even a starving student like myself could afford.

Being a poor but hot young thing, I also had the occasional daydream of somebody rich and successful dragging me away from all this. I'd come pretty close: John, the company president, had offered me a position as his live-in gardener. It was tempting: a mansion, a salary, a rich boyfriend. And he couldn't have been more generous, buying me watches, shoes, and clothes. Unfortunately, the first time we slept together he gave me a slightly more irritating gift.

Michael was another. Though he'd gotten millions when his ex passed away, he wasn't quite as generous as John. Our first date was at Red Lobster. He drove an old Ford. On our first weekend away he booked a B&B where our bathroom was down the hall. Call me crazy, but it's hard to be romantic when you have to wait in line to clean up after sex.

I'd have gone to the opera anyway, but every time I got near the building the thought popped up in my head: would some sexy senior finally snap me up? Would I have to call school and tell them -- not quite tearfully -- that I wouldn't be returning any time soon? When David queued up in line behind me, I hoped that day had finally come.

David was tall, beautifully dressed, and had a dimple in his chin big enough to hide Jimmy Hoffa. He wore an impeccably tailored black suit with a white shirt open low enough to expose a sexy splodge of chest hair. When I got to the front of the line, he followed me to the window, and after changing my order from one to two and standing room to front orchestra, he gave the clerk a black American Express.

"Au revoir," he said to me, and as butterflies fluttered in my stomach I knew eight o'clock couldn't come soon enough.

Classes kept me away until late, and when I finally arrived he was sprawled out like he owned the place. Sparks flew. "You're awfully young to be an opera fan," he said, moving in close enough for me to smell cologne that cost more than my education.

"I've liked it ever since I was small," I said.

He looked me up and down, but mostly down. "That must have been a long time ago."

The overture started and I took my seat. We exchanged surreptitious glances throughout the first act. He was attentive and quite affectionate, I realized, as his hand wandered over to warm my knee. I couldn't wait for intermission so I could see him face to face again.

"So, who are your favorite composers?" he asked after everyone else had filed out to stretch their legs.

"Oh, I like a million of them, but I think Wagner is probably the best."

He laughed, but it was so robust and manly it didn't matter that he was laughing at me. "VOG-ner," he said. "Not Wag-ner. In German, W is pronounced as V. Who else?"

"The French pieces are so romantic. Bizet, Berlioz, Massenet. Don Quixote is great."

"Key-shoat," he instructed. "The book and the musical are Key-Yoe-Tee, since they're in English, but obviously the opera is in French. What else?"

I ran through my favorites in my head. There was absolutely no way: Ariadne auf Naxos, Der Rosenkavalier, Daphnis et Chloe, Les Pecheurs des Perles. I decided to stick to English. "I heard an amazing piece on the radio the other day. Schoenberg's Gurrelieder."

When he looked at me like I was kidding I figured I'd mispronounced it slightly. But when he laughed loud enough to get the conductor staring at us, I figured I'd done worse than that.

"Yes, that's a nice piece," David said, once he'd resumed the power of speech. "Any more?"

"Puccini," I simply said.

He chuckled again. "Noel Coward once said, 'Never underestimate the power of cheap music.'"

As I glanced over at him and pictured his moustache sliding down my stomach, I could think of a thousand other, less-prickly subjects we could have shared. But no, we had to talk about opera. I swung the conversation over to him, and he grabbed hold of it and shook it to death. His tongue danced and leapt over all the odd words, trilling and rolling every letter. I tried to distract myself by picturing his moustache pressed against me, but when the lights went down and he finally shut up it wasn't a moment too soon.

When the opera ended, David leapt to his feet. Well, he's enthusiastic, I thought, as the memory of intermission faded. And for a guy in his forties, he's in terrific shape. "Bravo!" he yelled. "Bravo!" Then "Brava!" and "Bravi!"

He turned back to see me staring at him, picturing his pants sliding off and his hard muscles pressed against mine. "One yells 'Bravo' at a male performer," he explained. "'Brava' at a female, and 'Bravi' at a group of two or more."

The opera house was a fit setting for us: two doomed lovers applauding two other doomed lovers. I took one last look, snapping a mental picture of what might have been, then I darted toward the aisle.

"Adios," I said, a foreign word I was secure with. And then "Adias" and "Adius," just to cover all the bases.

Leave Elliot Alone!

One day I was utterly starving, but I had a dinner date with Raoul. We'd be in a restaurant soon enough, I told myself, so rather than grab an emergency muffin I decided to tough it out.

"So," Raoul said as we sat in his apartment, "where do we want to eat?"

"Gosh," I said politely, "anywhere is great."

Now, say this to some men and they're fine. They'll respond with something like, "Hey, a new Hungarian place just opened up down the street. Why don't we give that a try?" You'll nod, you'll head to the car, and in ten to twelve minutes Chicken Paprikash will be coursing through your bloodstream. You'll be so impressed with your man's confidence and charisma that you're fogging up the car windshield three minutes after dessert.

Raoul, unfortunately, wasn't one of those guys. He took my politeness as indecision, which compounded his own. "Yeah," he said, ratcheting his La-Z-Boy to horizontal, "I can't decide either. Let's just chill out here and it'll work itself out."

This wasn't exactly where I wanted this conversation to go. Dinner plans don't work themselves out any more than gonorrhea does. I had to take matters in my own hands. "How about Italian?" I said. Everybody likes Italian.

"I had Italian a week ago Thursday," he said, "so that's out."

"Mexican?"

"Makes me gassy."

"Japanese?"

He made a face. "I saw this thing on the news about sushi worms -- "

I had to cut him off if I ever wanted to eat again. "Where do you want to go, then?"

He thought for a minute. "I feel like going somewhere Asian, but not entirely Asian. French fusion would be nice, but country-style rather than formal. I want the place to have small rectangular tables placed parallel to the walls, and I want a small, subservient waitress named Tatsuo to read me the specials while groups of traveling musicians entertain us with songs from their native land."

I waited for him to say he was kidding but he didn't. And ninety minutes later -- after flipping through the Zagat Guide, the Yellow Pages, and eighteen old copies of "New York" magazine -- it turned out he was more tired than hungry. I dumped a can of tuna on top of a frozen waffle and ate that while he slept.

Now, if all this sounds familiar, it's how Americans pick politicians. We want charismatic, ambitious, driven men . . . who happily go back home to their wives every night.

Riiight. Tell you what -- you find a guy who fits that order, and I'll go open up the tuna.

There are certain combinations that just don't go together, and it's stupid to pretend they do. We elect egotistical control freaks -- Bill Clinton, Michael Bloomberg, Rudy Giuliani -- and then freak out when they act egotistical and start controlling things. What, you thought guys like this actually waited for old ladies to cross the road? You thought they only slept with the chicks they're married to? Where's the challenge in bedding a woman who got a pillow embroidered with "Tonight's the night!" for a wedding gift?

We're breeding Rottweilers, and then we freak out when we find pawprints on our chintz.

Me, I like Mr. Spitzer. Born into a billionaire family, he could have ended up like Don Trump Jr., who I'm convinced -- just based on his family and the coat of arms on his suit -- spends eight hours picking out which pinky ring to wear before he collapses, exhausted, on the bed. With a chip on his shoulder even his successor can see, Mr. Spitzer wants to make something of his life.

And he's making an okay start of it, except for the personality thing.

Of course, I understand the package. Would I cry if Elliot wasn't faithful to me? Would I explode if I came home and found somebody else's plaid boxer shorts in the glove compartment of our car? How stupid do you think I am? I'm reasonably certain Steadman doesn't burst into tears when he finds strange lingerie under the couch.

Even though we don't have any victims, we have a crime. Why, he violated the Mann Act! He's transported hookers across state lines. Please. If that thing were really enforced, there'd be nobody to push the drink trolleys on airplanes. It's like ninety-eight percent of the Bible: maybe it made sense before refrigeration or lawyers, but it's all just useless crap now. Maybe years ago pimps used to saddle up the horses and drive their whores where the money was. They'd hit up all the horny gold rush dudes for a few month, then hop back in the covered wagon and head to D. C. for Chester Arthur's inauguration. Food probably ran short, tempers probably flared, and it was probably tough for the hookers to be seated for long periods of time. But, you know, we've got BIG METAL BIRDS now. Spitzer's hooker got four thousand dollars, a trip to New York, and a night in a posh hotel. Throw in a "Blades of Glory" DVD and a leg cramp and that's the hottest date I've had in twenty years.

Which is why I'm about two minutes from posting a "LEAVE ELLIOT ALONE!" video on YouTube. We need to start judging politicians on what they do for us, rather than what they do in bed. Elliot Spitzer is a good man who deserves a few happy nights with his Free Trade whore. If we're making a list of politicians who should be thrown out of office, he wouldn't even show up until page two. He's screwed exactly two women, while there's one other fellow out there who's screwed all the rest of us.

The Vatican, well-known for being mired in ancient history, has recently shown a move toward becoming green. Solar panels have been installed on some of their buildings, and the Pope himself has expressed concern about climate change.

This explains an odd encounter I had the other day. I told a priest I wasn't sure global warming really existed, and he put my hands on his ass.


Simon Cowell said he was offered two million dollars to appear in a TV commercial, but he turned it down.

He told Glamour magazine, "Last year my agent rang me and said: 'You've been offered an incredibly big deal. It's to be the face of Viagra'. And I just said: 'Sorry, but that has to be a f****** insult'."

Besides, it doesn't make any sense. If you want to see how Viagra works, you don't start with a giant prick.


An Indian grocer has made it into the Guinness record book for having the longest ear hair in the world.

Radhakant Bajpai, 50, has tufts that sprout an incredible 5.2 inches at their longest point, long enough for two small ponytails.

Bajpai insists anybody can do it. Just keep it out of sunlight, don't pull on it, and shampoo it every day with the opposite of Suave.


Amsterdam city government recently passed two new laws covering the 120-acre Vondelpark. They made it legal for people to have sex in the park, but made it illegal for dogs to run around.

The good news is, now when something starts humping your leg, you can pretty much guess what it is.


The town of Nottingham, England, apparently set a world record for the largest number of people dressed as Robin Hood. Over a thousand men packed into the small town, every one of them wearing a tunic, a feathered hat, and green or brown tights.

And running with scissors suddenly becomes the second-easiest way to poke out an eye.

Rerun Monday: Tall Tale

All you need are three matching traits before you start to look like somebody famous.  If you’re thin, blonde and your face is stretched tighter than bongos, you look like Joan Rivers.  If you’re skinny, wrinkled, and you’ve got an enormous mouth, you look like Mick Jagger. 

Me, I’m tall, bearded, and have a big nose.  We’ve got a few people to choose from, ranging from merely ugly to stop-the-clock horror.

Back when I had long hair the comparisons hovered toward the high end.  “You look like that guy from the Who” was something I heard a lot.  I wasn’t a big fan of the group, but it wasn’t hard to guess who they meant.  Not Roger Daltrey, the athletic lead singer.  Not John Entwhistle, the band’s Darren Stevens.  And certainly not Keith Moon, the cute, spunky sparkplug.  No, I looked like Pete Townshend, the stoop-shouldered, hook-nosed guitarist.

This comparison took me by surprise.  I pictured the two of us hanging out together, like twins, perching atop cactus, and occasionally circling the desert in search of roadkill.

A few years later another big-nosed tall guy made the charts, so naturally the comparisons changed too.  Now when I wandered down the street everybody screamed “Hey, look, it’s Fleetwood Mac!”  This puzzled me, as frankly it raised more questions than it answered.  I certainly didn’t look like the entire group, having hardly enough tulle for one.  And no part of me whatsoever resembled Stevie Nicks.  I didn’t twirl, read Tarot, or snort cocaine off pale, hairless stomachs.  My suspicions raised, I popped into a record store to confirm my suspicions.  Yes, there was a tall guy with a beard and a big nose in the group.

Perhaps the word “ugly” should be thrown in there as well.  Before “tall,” in fact.  And maybe we should circle it, in sparkle marker.

Eventually the eighties ended, and I decided to change with the times.  As the barber snipped off my long, luxurious locks, though, I wasn’t just losing a resemblance to faded rock stars, or a rat’s nest that sucked up eight ounces of Dippity Doo a day.  I was gaining a horrifying new resemblance.

I didn’t get five feet from the salon before it smacked me in the face.  “You know who you look like?” some white-bread dad asked me.  He wore pleated khaki shorts, and had a cellphone the size of an ironing board strapped to his belt. “Abraham Lincoln,” he declared.

Now, I guess I should have been pleased.  After all, the man had a brilliant political mind, and was one of the major statesmen of the nineteenth century.  And he freed the slaves, and was supposedly a pretty good speaker.

But -- here’s the important part, casually tacked on -- the guy was not attractive. He was thin and gawky, always wore a stovepipe hat, and toward the tail end of his life didn’t even have the back half of his head.  And sure, maybe I don’t have the best complexion in the world, but that’s still a good-sized leap to a faceful of warts.

Plus, he was more than a little strange.  Supposedly he stored stuff in his hat, he had a voice like Meg Tilly, and once when he bought a bed, he brought the salesman home too.  Who spent the next seven years sleeping next to him, totally platonic.

One place where I totally identified with Abe, though, was with the stupid questions.  I get thirty or forty of them every day:  when did you start getting tall?  Did you parents feed you tall pills?  What’s the weather like up there?  And Lincoln got one of the worst.

One day after making a speech a female fan approached him.  She took one look at his long, lanky limbs, and asked, “Mr. Lincoln, exactly how long should a man’s legs be?”

He thought for a second before answering.  “Just long enough to reach the ground,” he said.

Now, let’s set the stage here.  It’s a pivotal time in American history.  The Civil War is raging, with almost two-thirds of a million people killed, we’re at war with Mexico.  But the thing this chick thinks is most important is how long this guy’s legs are.

This doesn’t reflect too well on women.  You start to wonder if maybe this Garden of Eden thing wasn’t such an isolated incident after all.  I mean, what was this woman thinking?  How do you get to a question like this?  She spots the president in public and she thinks, “Gosh, I’ll bet I can get away with one quick question.  What should it be?  Let’s see -- something about chickens?  No.  Game shows?  Nope.  I’ve got it!  I’ll ask him about legs.  Girth?  Hairiness?  Nah.  I’ll make it length.”

I can’t imagine anybody asking a president something so personal -- or so weird.  Picture this:  you’re seated in the third row of the Presidential Press Corps.  All the other reporters are asking questions about Iraq and the economy and employment, and you’ve been dying to get your two cents in.  Finally the press chief points to you, and you’re on.

“Mr. President,” you bark, “can you show me some more of them sweet, juicy feet?”

I guess times haven’t changed much in a hundred-something years.  Folks still ask ridiculously personal questions without even a thought to foreplay.  Where Abe got incomprehensible weirdness, though, I get an idiot’s guide to porno science.

“Is everything in proportion?” everybody asks me.  “You know, big hands, big feet . . . ?”

I’m no world class orator, so I tell them what they want to hear.  “Are you kidding?” I say.  “You can see mine from space.”

Okay, it isn't “four score and seven years ago,” but at least I don’t need to buy a mattress to find myself a man.

Movie Review: 10,000 B. C. (No spoilers)

One million years B. C. was the perfect time to make a film. Angry dinosaurs battled in primeval jungles. Volcanoes exploded, spewing boiling lava. Hunky cavepeople scurried around in fur swimsuits.

Ten thousand B. C. isn't quite as much fun. The dinosaurs have died off, so there isn't much to hunt: antelopes, sheep, a wandering band of wooly mammoths that all look exactly alike. There's no farming yet, and only crude tools. When making a film set in this period, there isn't much difference when the cameras are turned on. All anybody does is stand around and chat, pausing occasionally to darken their eyeliner or slap on another Crest White Strip.

About eight hours into the movie, while our ragtag tribe lurches about aimlessly, you start to wish the filmmakers had set it in a better time. If this were 4,000 B. C., we could see them forge weapons out of bronze. If this were 3,000 B. C., we could watch Sumerians invent cuneiform. But no, it's too late to choose, so we're stuck with dudes who makes the folks on "Big Brother" look ambitious. "Historically this is a difficult period," one character admits. "We must transition from hunter to gatherer, but unfortunately seeds haven't been invented yet."

"On the surface we may look quite placid," another character replies, "but it can be quite stressful switching to an agrarian way of life."

If I were to write a tagline for the film, in fact, it'd be something like, "Watch a band of primitive peoples struggle to survive in yurts scattered along the Siberian foothills." Which pretty much explains why this summer blockbuster is being released on March 7.

On the plus side, these folks have a rudimentary language. While caveman movies are undeniably exciting, character development can suffer when the dialogue consists of lines like "Ooga booga!" Here, words are plucked out of the air like it's all a big game of Scrabble. They know the word "circle," though the wheel hasn't been invented yet. Boats are called "big birds that fly across water." Snow is called "white rain," and rain is called "water that falls from the heavens."

This was before logic was invented, you realize.

D'Leh's father left the tribe long ago. He went off to find food, but told everyone he was deserting because he didn't want them all to follow him. Right. Like he'd hear "I shall accompany you through dangerous, uncharted territories" more than "Bring me back a burger and a shake." When Egyptians kidnap most of the tribe, D'Leh sees a chance to prove his courage. He takes all the men that are left and pursues them. The farewells are tearful, as the women are too polite to say, "What the hell are we supposed to live on -- peanut butter cups?"

D'Leh and his band follow the marauders for many moons through the desert. With no food or water, they're slowly roasted by the unrelenting sun. "AIEEE!" one man finally screams. "I cannot go on! URKKK!" He clutches at his parched throat and collapses in the sand.

The others exchange glances. "Lucky it's just him!" they say, and they stroll on.

If CGI costs a million dollars a minute, there's roughly a million dollars worth of thrills. They run into some giant turkeys that escaped from Jurassic Park. A saber-toothed tiger appears for about as long as Robin Williams is in the "I F***ed Ben Affleck" video. And eventually they reach Egypt, where big-nosed bad guys are fought.

I'm not saying the ending is crap, but here's the same writer's conclusion to King Kong:

The beast is buffeted by endless rounds of bullets, until he just can't take any more. His furry grip loosens on the Empire State Building and with one last glance of resignation he plummets toward earth.

NARRATOR: Suddenly, just seconds before Kong hits the ground, gravity stops. No one knows if it got tired, or somebody finally figured out a way to repeal this ancient law. Whatever the reason, Kong was certainly happy about it.

KING KONG (confused): Rowr? Rowr!

NARRATOR: Discovering he now has the ability to fly, he flaps his mammoth paws back to his homeland where he finds a deck chair and a Corona waiting just for him.

KING KONG (giving a thumbs-up): Rowr!

-- FIN --

Still, it's been educational. I've seen what happens when good food is scarce. I've learned how to adapt to an ever-changing climate. And I've witnessed first-hand the chattering of an unwashed, uneducated people whose vocabularies consist of a few dozen words.

After they checked their cellphones for the eightieth time, though, I resolved to wait another few thousand years before I went to see another film in New York.

Breaking News

Notorious Russian Arms Dealer Captured



And -- what, taken to a Denny's? I'm thinking nothing short of a Rooty-Tooty Fresh N' Frooty breakfast could keep this sociopathic Satan from hopping through one of those windows.

Make Money At Home!!!

Hello readers. Many of you have asked me: Roman, you don't seem to have a job, yet you have a fabulously louche life on the outskirts of a fashionable part of New York. How on earth do you do it? My answer is, I work from home! In this high-tech capitalist mecca there are always thousands of companies developing new products, and these companies are desperate for happening young trend-setters to offer their critiques. Every day I get another few emails frantically asking: Roman, how do you feel about this? How do you feel about that? And there's always, always, a paycheck involved.

Yes, to put it bluntly, I make a living answering surveys. I stumbled across one years ago and since then it's turned into a never-ending font of cash. I pooh-pooh all those stay-at-home moms who blame their poverty on a dearth of useful skills. Um, what kind of skill does it take to check a box asking whether you're male or female? Or those unemployed, hopeless folks who keep whining about going to back to school. Who needs an education when you can rake in the bucks without even leaving your easy chair?

Greenfield Online is one of largest of the survey companies, sending me an average of three or four a week. Here's one I got just yesterday:



Sure, it raises a few questions, like "How are they going to get useful information when financial experts probably balk at making sixty cents an hour?" But let's not bite the hand that nearly feeds us! Just click on a few hundred boxes and wait six weeks for the cash to clink in. Where else are you going to find that kind of silver bounty? I mean, aside from on the ground. And sure, you could just ask somebody for a quarter and save yourself twenty-four minutes, but that's not the work ethic that this country was founded on! A hard day's work for a hard day's pay, that's what my dad always says. Does he complain about being fired by Ford after thirty years' work? No! He's filling out those surveys as fast as he can, and by noon he's earned almost enough money to buy half a can of beans.

So, tell your friends! Tell your co-workers! Just don't tell anybody in the government, because they might try to shut down this money machine. And don't tell any foreigners, because if these things get outsourced to India, Dad and I are up shit creek.

Ten Reasons to Suspect Your Husband is Having Sex With Your Vacuum

10. Whenever you say Hoover he says Schwing!

9. You ask if he has any protection and he says 100% HEPA filtration.

8. He yells "Eureka!" while you're having sex.

7. While you orally stimulate him, he tries to turn the suction up.

6. You ask him if he's vacuumed recently and he says, "You mean, on the floor?"

5. When you buy a DustBuster he says, "Man, I am sooo gonna bust my dust!"

4. During foreplay he lifts his feet up.

3. When he says an exotic blonde taught him how to do it, he means the Dyson guy.

2. You come home early from a night out with the girls and find lipstick smeared all over the Roomba.

1. Downstairs he's got Don King's hair.

Two German Air Force sergeants are reportedly in hot water for using human blood to make sausage. The men now face court martial after being photographed "siphoning off their blood to mix with onions, bacon, spices and breadcrumbs."

Their bologna not only has a first name, it's got a pulse as well.


A construction worker has been fired for having sex with a vacuum cleaner at a London hospital. A security guard spotted the stark-naked man on his knees and in a compromising position with the machine in the staff cafeteria.

When asked if the man was using a Wet Vac the security guard replied, "It is now."


''American Idol'' contestant David Hernandez reportedly worked as a stripper at a club in Phoenix.

The 24-year-old finalist from Glendale, Ariz., worked at Dick's Cabaret until last September, appearing fully nude and performing lap dances for the club's ''mostly male'' clientele, the club manager said Monday.

This explains something that confused me on last week's show. After Hernandez sang, Randy Jackson said he wasn't feeling it. Hernandez said that for another twenty he could.


According to Show Biz Spy, Jennifer Lopez hired a color therapist for her newborn twins.

As of this morning, they're a lovely Tuscan Taupe.

This Just In!

The tabloids are abuzz with the question: Is Paris Hilton engaged? She was spotted in Los Angeles over the weekend sporting a suspicious-looking ring on that finger along with a sparkly necklace dangling a 'B' pendant -- the first initial of Good Charlotte guitarist Benji Madden.

Somebody pointed at the necklace and asked her, "Shouldn't you have an 'ITCH' up there?" and she said, "So far it's confined to downstairs."

How to Vote in Texas

(according to an illustration in the Wall Street Journal, via Alex Balk)



1. Walk into the polling place (center left). Remember that doffing one's hat is a sign of respect, so feel free to leave it on here.

2. Enter the polling booth. Remember, you can help choose the opposing party's candidate, so write in the most preposterous, most unlikely guy you can think of, like Richard Simmons, the Cottonelle Diarrhea Bear or Governor Jeb Bush.

3. To exit, walk right through the polling booth. It's a lot like the metal detector at the airport, except here they aren't such commies about your gun.

4. Walk past the cactus and give a carrot to the horse parked outside. Make a mental note to write in "Mr. Ed" as the opposing party's candidate next year.

5. After the polling place closes, go back in and take part in the opposing party's caucus. Insist that Miley Cyrus would totally get the kids' vote.

6. Watch as the returns come in. Since Republicans outnumber Democrats by five to four, their total loser candidate wins.

7. Take off your hat and express your approval of the democratic process. Yell "Congrats on your re-election, Governor Bush!"

Monday's Meanderings

Oprah Winfrey's new show, "The Big Give," has been getting horrible reviews. The camera jerks around like Katherine Hepburn on a Tilt-a-Whirl. Horrible Coldplay-style music swirls up out of nowhere to underscore particularly moving moments. And it seems more than a little ironic that they take ten people who want to help others and one by one declare them losers.

Me, I think they're ignoring the point. Sure, the show has its problems, but it also carries a very important lesson, something that I've known for years.

People are basically good at heart, and they will totally give you money if you tell them Oprah's involved.


A man was arrested after making a threat on the president's life last week during a phone conversation with a former girlfriend who called 911.

A bail hearing was scheduled Monday for Charles Madrid, a 50-year-old radio technician. A police spokesman said that when questioned Madrid admitted he wanted to kill the president.

When reporters asked if he was insane, the spokesman said, "We believe he is, but that's still no reason to want to kill him."


An Australian man had to be rescued after he got stuck 200 feet up a tree while paragliding with his pet chihuahua.

Paul Hansen, 42, became entangled in a giant mountain ash tree shortly after take-off near Melbourne. He was left dangling, with chihuahua Emma strapped to his chest, for five hours, reports the Melbourne Age.

The man is okay. The chihuahua is okay. The tree is very, very wet.