Thursday, August 30, 2012

Highlights From Clint Eastwood's Speech At The Republican National Convention

  • Go ahead: replace Medicare with granny coupons.

  • This is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off. You've got to ask yourself one question: "Are all his bullets legitimate?"

  • I know what you're thinking. "Did Mitt hide his money in a sandwich in the Canary Islands or in a canary in the Sandwich Islands?" Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement I kind of lost track myself.

  • Sure, we Republicans own some guns. But we don't have to fire any bullets to make our horses dance.



Levi Aron, who kidnapped Leiby Kletzky as he walked home on a summer day in Borough Park before killing him and stuffing some of his remains in a suitcase, was sentenced Wednesday to 40 years to life in prison.
But don't dump the hat! Maybe God gives extra points for attitude.

Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Last night on The Late Show with David Letterman they aired a short piece where comedian Andy Kindler went to the Republican convention. The highlight comes when he meets Michelle Bachmann at the 1:27 mark:




KINDLER: Hi, Ms. Bachmann -- I'm with the David Letterman show. Do you have any comment? The David Letterman show.

MICHELLE BACHMANN: Hi Dave! Hi Dave! We watch you at night. Bye-bye!

This little non sequitur baffled me. I mean, what was she trying to say? Did she spend several years vainly attempting to watch David Letterman during the daytime before she finally gave up? He's only on at night. There's no option. It's like saying, "I'm carrying an umbrella because I don't like rain from the sky."

After much thought I decided that she's doing something that I do: when we run into somebody -- or somebody's representative -- we wrack our brains for some little tidbit that we know about them, and we volley it into conversation. Hearing about Kindler's affiliation, Ms. Bachmann wrangles up everything she knows about Letterman. She doesn't like the top ten lists. She doesn't chuckle at those skits with Biff. Nope, all she knows is that he's got a TV show, and it's on at night.

Somebody else might give her points for trying, but personally I think she looks dumb. I mean, when I meet somebody unexpectedly and desperately wrack my brain for conversation topics, I have a minimum relevance requirement you just can't ignore. Failing a stronger correlation, for instance, I won't remark that this person and I both have an affinity for clothes. If the person is a male, I won't say, "Hey, you know about blowjobs, right?" If the person is a female I won't say, "So how's that vagina working out?"

Smart people check that minimum relevance requirement and toss out everything below it. If Stephen Hawking met a guy from NASA he wouldn't say, "Hey, how about those rockets always shooting up into space?"

I'm thinking Ms. Bachmann's nonsense-spouting is a right-wing thing. When people aren't exactly smart, they frequently wrack their brains and come up with no information, so they can't afford to have a minimum relevance requirement. Ms. Bachmann doesn't want to appear baffled by the lamestream media like Sarah Palin was. If somebody asked her about newspapers she'd probably say, "Oh, gosh, I just love reading those really big folding sheets!"

As always, I'm tempted. I yearn for the comfort of stupidity. If I met Ms. Bachmann I just might toss out that minimum relevance requirement and tell her that I love hearing her say all those words.

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

I'm startled by how much stupider America has gotten in a surprisingly short period of time. Just twenty years ago, for instance, we were watching Julia Child cook ambitious French dishes, with the hope of replicating them ourselves. Now we just watch fat white guys eat stuff and tell us what it tastes like.

HGTV is grabbing the Food Network's model and running with it. Think you'll get decorating ideas from Design Star? Think again. If you tuned into the latest season, you're left with a repurposed Amish basket full of honest-to-god tips like these:

  • When you're shopping, think about what you want, and then go try to find it.

  • Want to change the color of a room? There's nothing quite like paint.

  • Easily add interest to a room by putting something interesting in it.

  • If you live in an inexpensive house, consider decorating with a youthful theme so no one will know adults live there.

  • Here's an easy way to get rid of clutter: throw away everything you own.

  • Want some art to personalize your space? That's easy, provided you re-define the word "art" to mean "photographs of crap you found outside" or "scribbles on a dry-erase board."

    And my favorite, from Hillari:

  • Want to make your entryway look bigger? Open the front door.

Monday, August 27, 2012


Stauer, you've convinced me. I want somebody who makes $8 an hour after tips asking where I buy my jewelry.

The Top Three Things in "Based On A True Story" Film The Possession That Maybe Didn't Exactly Happen In Real Life

3. Millions of locusts appear out of nowhere and circle a little girl's bed.

2. A doctor looking into a little girl's mouth sees the fingers of a creature trying to get out.

1. At a garage sale, a little girl sees an old wooden box with Hebrew writing on it and says, "Mommy, would you buy this for me?"

Tuesday, August 21, 2012


Nobody likes Jennifer Aniston, do they?

Endurance swimmer Diana Nyad was pulled from the water this morning, ending her historic Cuba-to-Florida swim.

63-year-old Nyad was attempting to become the first person to swim from Cuba to Florida without a shark cage. Her lips and tongue had become increasingly swollen overnight, puffing up because of salt water, and the health threat forced her to give up.


Ohmigod -- it looks like they got her out just in time.


Monday, August 20, 2012


Then he should hang out by the piers and keep his fingers crossed.


Everybody knows I'm not politically correct, so this little rant should come as no surprise. Though the rest of the world is screaming like a banshee, I'm going to go out on a limb here and defend Representative Todd Akin's recent comment that victims of “legitimate rape” don't get pregnant.

See, a woman's body is a beautiful thing, and I'm not just talking about her tits. She's got tubes and wires and knobs and stuff that'd have a Dell repairman scratching his head. As for their reproductive system, hell, it makes Mitt Romney's tax returns look like a kid's letter to Santa.

One thing scientists agree about, though, is that a woman's body knows why she's having sex when she's having it, and it reacts different when her motives are pure.

When a woman is having wonton sex with some random dude, her parts downstairs go, "Hey, if she wants it, let her deal with the consequences!" It lets all the little sperms in and nine months later she's got another mouth to feed.

If she's being raped, though, her parts sense that she isn't doing this voluntarily, so they shut what scientists call the Nuh-Uh Gates.

The Nuh-Uh Gates are like the velvet rope at a fashionable club. If you turn up at a club in expensive clothes, then the velvet rope will part. If your shoes are polished and it looks like you got a little heft to your wallet, the door opens and you can go in. If you aren't dressed well, though, the vagina doorman goes, "Oh, nuh-uh!" and all the sperms are diverted to the bladder. It's the body's equivalent of Applebee's.

As for the words, "legitimate rape," well, I don't know why there's any kind of fuss about this. Akin simply wanted to distinguish real rapes from those encounters that start off as rapes but end up as, say, dance parties. See, everybody knows that if a man starts a fight angry, he's going to end the fight angry. After some dude stabs him in the eyeball, he's not going to think, "Hey, I wonder if Bradley would like to go for a soda afterward."

God endowed women, though, with a nurturing side. You start off assaulting them and about halfway through they figure that maybe this isn't so bad and the guy might make a fine baby daddy if he just dealt with his anger issues. She might fool herself, though, but she can't fool her body. The minute she starts enjoying herself it takes that velvet rope down. She can picture all those sperms in cargo shorts and striped tank tops, but in reality they went home and put on blue blazers.

End result? No sperm at Applebee's.

That clear things up? I think so. I never really called myself smart, but I think this explains everything short of their Acapulco Sausage Melt.


Hi. My name is Thrillist, Bob Thrillist. I was passing by and I heard your party. Please please please let me in. I'm amazing. Everybody loves me. It's incredible just how much fun I am.

Tell you what: If you let me into your party, I'll enter you in a contest where you can win an iPad.

Oh, great. Thanks. Whoa! There be some sweet bitches in here! I'll have these drunk sluts banging' and begging for this playah's pole like a mothafuckin' --

What? I'm sorry, you didn't win the iPad. Okay. Just click here and I'll go.

Hang on. First, let's make sure you know what you know what you're doing. You really want me to go?

Oh. Okay. Well, just to be on the safe side, let's verify you are who you say you are. What's your home address? What's your name? What's the first dog you ever had?

I'm sorry, that's wrong. I'm guessing you're an impostor who's trying to get me to leave this party probably just out of spite. What, you forgot the name of your first dog? Click here and I'll email you the name.

Yo, that sweet lil' slut got titties on her that'd make a --

Wow. You sure got that email fast. Okay, okay. Here are a bunch of boxes, some of which are checked and some of which are unchecked. If you want me to show up somewhere, check an unchecked box, and if you want me to leave somewhere, uncheck a checked box.

Okay. Got that. Of course, it could take eight to ten days to process your request.

Good morning. Yes, I've been here for five weeks now. Why am I still here? Let's see: oh, it appears you said you wanted me to leave "Your party" but you didn't say you wanted me to leave "Your house."

Pass the oj and a waffle. Whoa! Look at this mothafuckin' slut on the cover of the Times.

Thursday, August 16, 2012

At the end of “Crotch (all the Joseph Beuys references in the world cannot heal the pain, confusion, regret, cruelty, betrayal, or trauma....),” a 2009-10 solo show by the performance artist Keith Hennessy, he sat naked but with his groin covered in lard. He gathered us, the audience, around him onstage. Pushing a needle with blood-red thread through scars in his own flesh, he sewed the thread through the clothing of the three people in the audience seated nearest him.

Wow. And I thought it was hard to leave early when you're stuck in the middle of a row.


If there's a TV and a little window for food delivery, I'll take an extra tall.

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Arkansas Police Re-Enact Handcuffed Man's "Suicide" Using People Who Have Honestly, Seriously Never Worked For The Circus

When I was a teenager, I used to read voraciously about the supernatural. So many people were experiencing bizarre phenomena I was convinced a spiritual world had to exist.

It didn't occur to me that the world was full of liars. I didn't even piece it all together when I turned on the TV and saw an endless stream of anonymous actors insist that a giant sack of sand was the secret to weight loss, or that it was ridiculously simple to make salsa with the patented Razor Blade On A Stick.

After years of feeling betrayed, I've reached the point where I begrudgingly applaud these liars. Some industrious entrepreneur took the boring story of a drunk fat guy falling into a fire and invented spontaneous combustion. Some charlatan created a whole new publishing industry by inventing astral projection. "You can mentally travel anywhere in the world!" he crowed, pointing to his books for instruction. I blame my own stupidity for not guessing that this was crap, since the only proof he offered was a picture of him sitting cross-legged in his living room captioned, "Look! In my mind I'm floating over India. Wow -- the Taj Mahal is really big!"

And then there's lucid dreaming. That's where you learn to control your dreams so you can do whatever you want while you're asleep. You could fly. You could rule the world. You could find a $5 sandwich in New York. I was wasting my time chasing giant chickens in a motorized burrito.

Naturally I was hooked. I bought the book and devoured it. At its heart was a simple secret: you train yourself to recognize odd behavior, and then you say to yourself, "Gosh, this is all so weird it just has to be a dream!" Armed with this all-powerful awareness, now you can do anything you want.

News flash: nobody gets past the first part.

See, you can't really train yourself to say, "Gosh, this is all so weird it just has to be a dream." If something weird happens, you automatically say it. If you're walking down the street and you see a duck holding a machine gun, you'll realize something's up. You'll question reality when a ninja Grace Kelly pelts you with tangerines.

In dreams, though, you don't. And you can't force yourself to.

Last night I dreamt I saw a dog that was shaped like a stack of donuts. It was about twelve donuts long, and you could see all the way through it to the cement it was standing on. I went to pet it, but I couldn't decide which end was its face. I acted like this was nothing out of the ordinary, like it was yet another yappy Maltese.

In real life, red flags would have been raised. I wouldn't have thought, "That's a cute little dog!" but instead something like, "HOLY SHIT! IS THAT A YAPPY STACK OF DONUTS ON A LEASH?" After I finished freaking out, I probably would have thought, "That can't be a dog. Where the fuck are its internal organs? And where the fuck is its face?"

Then I'd have realized it's a dream, and that's when horny George Clooney would appear.

It's with some sadness that I let go of these so-called alternate realities with all their vast possibilities. I'll never see Tokyo from the comfort of my living room. I'll never go to a movie and see a fellow patron burst into flame. I'll never see a ghost, never get picked up by a UFO, never run into Bigfoot. But I'm smart enough to deal with cold, hard reality, and its smaller possibilities.

Fingers crossed this bag of sand will burn away my love handles and my next batch of salsa won't look like a zombie flattened by a bus.

Sexy Dancing With the Stars regular Derek Hough donned some shiny silver pants and shook his fanny at a popular Salt Lake City gay club — but then freaked out when a fan tried to take his picture!

“I’m a big fan of Derek’s, and I always thought or HOPED he was gay,” said club regular Ken Lee. But when Ken approached Derek for a photo, the dancer freaked out. “He couldn’t have been more rude or a bigger diva!" Ken said.

“Derek very well may not be gay,” he added. “But he sure was dressed pretty and threw an impressive hissy fit when I asked for a photo!”


Well-dressed and petty? He's two snaps away from a Pride Parade, girlfriend!


Monday, August 13, 2012


What's the CamiSecret? They sold exactly zero back when it was called HideYatitties.

Now that the Olympics are over, Ryan Lochte is looking forward to peeing on a double-decker bus.


The good news is, everybody's talking about Paul Ryan.

Thursday, August 9, 2012

If there's one thing I'm learning from the Olympics, it's that women are definitely stronger than men.

When men play golf, for instance, everybody in the audience has to be quiet. One single word and the whole match is ruined. The golfer lines up his shot, gets ready to hit, and if one ailing grandma clears her throat the whole thing is ruined. The player flings his club into the lake and storms off in a huff, screaming, "HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO CONCENTRATE WITH ALL THIS NOISE?" Security guards hustle the old lady off the premises with a stern warning never to return.

Compare that to the women's gymnastics. It's actually louder during a performance than before or after. It's not the audience, either: it's the other members of the team. They continually, repeatedly scream miscellaneous stuff at the top of their lungs, and apparently the athletes are cool with it. One night it was all, "Aly! Aly! Go Aly!" It sounded like somebody was trying to give directions to a Chinese guy.

The balance beam, I'm sure, is a sport that demands complete concentration, but you wouldn't believe it with all the yelling. Before a woman does a particularly difficult move, her teammates yell, "YOU CAN DO IT! YOU GO, GIRL!" It must be so great to hear those words of encouragement. I guess that's why they're always smiling when they fall to the floor. Even then the yells continue, though now they're saying girlfriend still has a shot at the bronze despite snapping a femur on a judge.

With this in mind, it's hard to believe the Olympics used to be so sexist. For men the focus has always been on athleticism and brute strength, but for women the focus was on artistry. All of their events were set to music, including wrestling and pole-vaulting. I'll bet even Michael Phelps wouldn't have won 20 medals if he had to swim to "Rock Me Amadeus." In the gymnastics events, women were considered so delicate that they weren't even allowed to do tricks. Back then the team members in the audience had to scream out baking tips. "I KNOW YOU CAN'T DO A SOMERSAULT, GIRLFRIEND," a 1950s athlete would have offered, "SO HERE'S MY RECIPE FOR CLAMS CASINO!"

Luckily, that sexism is long gone. Now men and women are treated equally, even by TV commentators. While that might not mean anything to Pistorious, Phelps, Lochte, and Bolt, I'm sure it's a comfort to Gabby, Aly, Misty May, and McKayla, though I wouldn't touch their clams with a ten-foot pole.


Wednesday, August 8, 2012


At first I thought, "Whoa, what an idiot!", but then I realized that's what he'd say if he saw me trying to cross a pool.

Monday, August 6, 2012

NBC Olympics Coverage, Live

Ryan Chester is truly living the American dream. He's 6'5" and 210 pounds, and quite a looker, as the ladies say. He's currently single and spends a lot of time with a Boston terrier named Bloo. He's a Virgo and he loves backpacking in the '73 Dodge Durango that he and his dad restored.

His competitor is Chinese.

If I have one complaint about the Chinese athletes, it's that they often seem soulless. Perhaps that's because the talented youth are taken from their families and made to live in sports facilities where they train hour after hour after hour.

Ryan's mom is his biggest fan. She drove him to meets at 5:30 in the morning for six long years years. Look at how proud she is. She can't believe her son is a shoo-in to win Olympic gold. She certainly did the right thing leaving him at the Tallahassee Gymnastics Camp when he was thirteen.

It must be intimidating to the other athletes to see Ryan warming up. What can they be thinking? They all know he's in a totally different league, head and shoulders above the rest. They're not wondering who's going to win: they're wondering who's going to come in second. If you take Ryan's worst scores over the last six years and average them, he'd still win the gold by a mile. There is absolutely no danger of the Chinese stealing this medal from him.

Oops. Slight bobble there. Looks like a case of nerves. Oh no. Oh no.

This is totally unlike Ryan. This is incredible, just incredible. The judges awarded him just 71.26365 out of a possible 97 given a 3.82 degree of difficulty.

The Chinese guy got more. And that's it. The Chinese have won.

Unbelievable. Unbelievable. Still, this is a win-win for Ryan. He's shown the world he's a brilliant athlete, and he's a great role model for kids. And I'm not bringing this up just because of the way things turned out, but at some point we need to talk about performance-enhancing drugs.

God, I don't know how anybody can take this Olympics track & field shit. Boing boing, bounce bounce, stretch, swing, shake. And that's just the runners' genitals.

Friday, August 3, 2012


Somebody accidentally hooked up the sprinkler to paint instead of water at my local Chick-Fil-A.

Welcome back to the TV Watching Olympics. This is RomanHans reporting from my vinyl La-Z-Boy. Our next event is the Not Gonna Blink challenge, in which our athletes see how long they can go without refreshing their eyes.

In lane one we have veteran sports reporter Bob Costas. Bob is a newcomer to this sport, with some veteran TV watchers reporting that they've seen Bob blink as late as 2008. He's mastered the sport with remarkable skill. I've watched probably a hundred hours of the real Olympics and haven't seen him blink once. Bob's eyeballs must be like dried apricots by now, which is the mark of a true competitor.

Below we have live feed of Bob courtesy of a satellite TV channel airing uncut Olympics coverage. I've been watching it for a few hours now and the man has barely moved.



With his eyebrows permanently lodged mere inches from his jet black hair, the sixty-year-old definitely looks surprised -- perhaps by all the attention he's getting. Somehow he maintains his composure, with absolutely no wrinkles in the top half of his face. In fact, with the way the skin is stretched taut it almost looks like he's incapable of closing his prenaturally-large Little Orphan Annie eyes. You'd have to go back to Bruce Jenner to find an athlete so --

Wait, I've just received a news flash. The Chinese team have filed a grievance, saying they believe Mr. Costas has benefited from performancing-enhancing treatments.

We'll keep you updated as events unfold.

Thursday, August 2, 2012


When Pat Boone emerges from his crypt to support you, you can be pretty sure you're on the wrong side.

Wednesday, August 1, 2012


Well, I'm an incredibly talented writer, and I think your face looks like poop.


An irrelevant artist, a new direction. Evidently reggae is country music for black people.


I'm on the fence. I don't know if the punchline should include the words "melting shuttlecocks" or "Michael Phelps" and "weed."