World Class Stupid

2012-01-30T19:02:00.002-05:00

Just once I'd like to see a crook on Cops tell the truth.

COP: We gonna find any drugs in your car?

DISHEVELED GUY: How good you gonna look?

2012-01-30T12:28:00.001-05:00

Hi. You're good-lookin'. He's good-lookin', ain't he? Mama likes nice-lookin' men. Look at those dimples. You could crack a walnut in them dimples. Mmm. Is that a dill pickle in your pants?

You heard me. No, I ain't shy, and I ain't jerkin' no gherkin. No, I'm just joshing. I'm a married lady, so I'm not gonna do anything. Well, maybe I'll just say a quick hello.

Honestly, darlin', I think you're packing some heat, but it's like trying to pet a kitten in a bag. Can I pull it out? You mind if I pull it out? I'm going to pull it out. Ohmigoodness. I would never have thought a nice man like you would be packing a weapon like that.

Tell you what. You showed me yours, so it's only fair I show you mine. See? There's my oven for lovin'. Ain't she pretty? Ain't --

Oops.

I slipped.

Honestly, darlin', I'm sorry. I certainly did not intend for this to happen. I'd pull it out but it was red and swollen when it went in and I don't want to make it any madder than it already was.

HAW!!! Ain't I naughty. Ain't I a stinker. Mama gets what mama wants.

Well, long as we're stuck together I might as well make myself comfortable. Yeah. Mm. Sugar, stir that pot. Stir that pot, and after we're done maybe Mama will let you lick the spoon. Yeah, that's it. Better hang on tight, honey, because this blender got twenty-one speeds. You hanging on? Let's slide this sucker up to FRAPPE.

Yeah, that's nice. That's nice. You know how to make Mama's milkshake. Now, punch that button and let's move on up to FRAPPE. Whoa! You just might be my favorite Kitchen Aid. Okay, sweetie, Mama's ready. Mama's ready to LIQUEFY. Punch that button. PUNCH THAT BUTTON! YES! YES! YES! YES! WOOWEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!! AIEEEEEEEEEE!

Three years later.

Hi. This is Paula Deen for Herpeez.

2012-01-27T14:01:00.005-05:00

Immigrants are ruining English. For instance, people used to think Miralax was a contraction of "miracle" and "laxative." Now they think it means "Look! Laxative!"

2012-01-24T17:05:00.015-05:00

As Hugo opens, we meet a cute little boy and his new friend, a cute little girl. Next we're introduced to a middle-aged gendarme who has a crush on a single female who's around his age. And then we meet an old man who's desperately trying to pitch woo with an old woman whose dog just doesn't like him.

At Minute Two of the movie, we know the question: Will these couples overcome the obstacles and end up together? Which is why I was screaming at Minute Three, "GET THIS SHIT OFF MY TV!"

NBC's new Smash follows the contrary construction. (How did I get to preview it? We slightly-popular bloggers don't adhere to the same tedious programming rules as you regular folks.) Instead of each character being paired with an eligible partner, though, they're all weighed down by one giant problem.

Debra Messing and her hubby want to adopt, which is why she's taking time off from writing boffo musicals. Her best intentions go awry, though, when her writing partner comes up with a brilliant new idea:

DEBRA: A musical about Marilyn Monroe entitled "Marilyn: The Musical." That's incredible. Clearly you've spent a lot of time thinking about this.

Yeah, because the best I could come up with was Some Like It Washed Down With Nebutal. Even before they've written the first song, critics proclaim the show a smash, and the next day it's in previews. But what about the baby? It's not like a rich white woman can hang around a piano all day and raise a child at the same time. (Take that, bitches who try to have it all.) If Debra comes out of retirement, will her husband finally reach his breaking point?

Dark-Haired Marilyn Wannabe (Katharine McPhee) has unattractive parents who think she'll never fulfill her dreams of stardom. Can she prove them wrong? The director has the hots for DHMW, but Iowa girls don't leap into bed until wedding rings and cheese curds appear. Will Blonde-Haired Marilyn Wannabe sleep with him and steal the lead?

All of this is just as artificial as Hugo, and just as unsatisfying. Totally unacceptable, though, is what they've done to Marilyn. Audition after audition shows they've morphed our shy little flower into an American Idol-style belter. She's got Liza Minnelli's self-confidence, and she's belting out songs to the rafters:

MARILYN: CAN YOU HEAR ME IN THE LAST ROW, FELLAS? I WAS SINGING, 'HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MR. PRESIDENT, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO SKIDDLY-DADDLY-DWEE-BOP YEW-OOOO-OOOO!!!'

If that makes you cringe, just wait for the scene where Marilyn decides she wants to date Joe DiMaggio, so she visits the Cubs' locker room. Yes, because five minutes of a ninety-minute Marilyn biography should consist of guys in pinstripes carrying her around while she caterwauls about peanuts and the difficulties of getting to second base. This boisterous broad only gets breathless after she's rotated the tires on her Jeep Cherokee.

So, adios Smash. Ride your silly conflicts into the sunset. And good luck, Actual Marilyn. I hope people remember you like I do, all breath and restraint and shy smiles, before you became so loud and confident you seemed a cinch for a Der Wienerschnitzel ad.

2012-01-24T14:29:00.001-05:00

"I haven't had anything done!" Paris declared. "I've just been getting a lot of sleep."

What I Was Thinking

2012-01-20T12:03:00.004-05:00

I am the Fort Myers, Florida policeman accused of tazing a disabled gay man after hearing what I thought was gunfire. I know some people may believe I did something wrong, but after they hear my story I think they will understand. Here is how the scene underwent.

I'm outside a strip club about to serve a warrant when I hear a loud BANG. And then another. Then another! It totally sounds like a gunshot, except for the part that sounds like somebody opening a car door in between. I look over toward where the sound came from and see seven men standing in front of a gay bar, laughing and joking. They're closer to the sound, yet they are laughing and joking. In that split second I decide that they are probably deaf.

So, I yell "GET ON THE GROUND!" at them. The fact they remain laughing and joking in front of a gay bar after one of them has fired a weapon repeatedly but very slowly causes me to think they are a really badass gay gang to whom human life means nothing and who may suffer from arthritis. I run at them with my gun drawn, repeatedly ordering them to get on the ground. They all do, except for the overweight one with the cane I call "Mr. Badass." "Mr. Badass" refuses to drop to his knees. Instead, he keeps touching his throat, where there's a hole. I think he's telling me, "Hey, I'm going to shoot you just like somebody shot me," so I taze him.

At this point he collapses onto the ground, and I am informed that what I thought were gunshots were actually somebody slamming their car door.

I probably would not have tazed this man if I had known this, or if I'd known he's disabled and can't actually lower himself onto the ground, or if I'd known he'd had a tracheotomy and he can't talk without pressing his throat.

But I'd still call him "Mr. Badass."

2012-01-17T19:05:00.005-05:00

I've seen some other claimers to the throne, so it's about time I made this official. I'm the world's biggest J. J. Abrams fan.

Super 8 was my super favorite movie of all time. In it, a small town is torn apart by something weird. Cloverfield was a close second. In it, a big city is torn apart by something weird. What other writer/director has that kind of range? True to its name, though, Lost lost me. So many details! If his fans were good with following plot lines, we wouldn't watch movies that are guaranteed to end with the line, "Whatever it was, I hope it never comes back."

J. J. Abrams completely reinvented the Mystery genre. Before him, they suffered from a fatal flaw: they were either too easy or too difficult to solve.

On the easy end is Murder She Wrote. Anybody with have half a brain realized that for 14 straight seasons the killer was the special guest star. Robert Goulet making an appearance this week? Well, you know, stars of that particular caliber don't sign onto projects just to be suspects. They're not spending four hours in makeup for one little scene:

JESSICA FLETCHER: What exactly were you doing when Colonel Parker was clubbed with a brass candlestick at Shady Penguin Cove?

SPECIAL GUEST STAR: I . . . I . . . I was selling postcards in my little souvenir shop. I didn't hear anything!

JESSICA FLETCHER: Oh. Okay. You're clear.

On the other end of the spectrum is Arthur Conan Doyle. He's a reasonably fun read, but he punishes those of us who have short attention spans. See, when I finish a book, odds are a year or two have passed since I started it. Seasons have come and gone; hell, my pets have come and gone. When I get to the end of Sherlock Holmes, rather than feeling a sense of relief, I'm pretty thoroughly annoyed:

SHERLOCK: The murderer is . . . Mr. Carstairs!

(MR. CARSTAIRS runs for the French doors, but a pair of burly policemen emerge from behind the curtains and grab him.)

MR. CARSTAIRS: Drat!

Maybe some folks will proclaim, "Mr. Carstairs! Of course!" but personally I'm saying, "Who?" I forgot who Mr. Carstairs was about eighteen kittens ago. Here's how Mr. Abrams would solve the problem:

SHERLOCK: The murderer is . . . a teleporting unicorn!

(A GIANT TWINKLING UNICORN materializes in the center of the room, where it hangs in midair.)

MR. CARSTAIRS: Well, fuck me with a rock!

I don't know why nobody thought of this before. It neatly solves the Mystery flaw: there's no way we can guess the culprit, and we don't feel any pressure to try. We can enjoy the spectacle, knowing that while we're watching New York City being destroyed by an oversized alien, no smartypants is going to leap up and proclaim, "I KNOW! I KNOW! IT'S A LEPRECHAUN FROM THE TWELFTH DIMENSION!"

Needless to say, I'm totally loving Abrams' new Alcatraz. Just before the island-prison closes for good, 300 residents mysterious disappear. Flash-forward fifty years later and they're back -- without having aged a day! This is classic Abrams: we get to watch supernatural entities rip shit up, and there's no chance in hell some brainiac will figure out why.

In closing, I'd like to address the idea that Mr. Abrams' work is sheer escapism. On the contrary, it helped shape my philosophy of life.

You never know when a time-traveling pony is going to get you, but you can be pretty sure one will.

Double-Chinned Fast Food Addict Brings a Fiery Lecture to the Fit and Healthy

2012-01-16T17:13:00.000-05:00

New York's cardinal-to-be Timothy Dolan delivered a no-holds-barred sermon on morality Sunday, telling his flock to resist a sinful culture that seems to coerce young people into premarital sex.

"God-fearing Catholics are treated as outcasts for following church teachings," Archbishop Dolan said at St. Patrick’s. “We're belittled because we take exception to the rampant promiscuity that's overtaken our culture. Pop culture is constantly marginalizing us, labeling us with words like 'uncool' and 'uptight,' but this is one four-hundred pound man who won't shut up just to join the hip crowd."

Dolan didn’t mention any one show or star by name, but he clearly seemed to be targeting the bedhopping popularized by shows like Jersey Shore. “All too often today, the one who tries his or her best to be pure and chaste is often thought of not as a hero, but as a freak. But we will not retreat! We have the word of God behind us. If Jesus were here today I think he'd say to our youth, 'Listen to these men who are very wise despite the fact they cannot see their feet.'"

Dolan linked “sexual immorality” with society’s ills — violence, sex crimes, disease and broken families — and called on his fellow puffy priests to fight it with hard lectures and taut writings. "Attractive, hip youngsters will surely listen to reason, even if it comes from a guy who never dated and has more chins than the Shanghai phone book."

“Besides," he concluded, "it's not like there aren't alternatives to sex. Instead of coming across as a naysaying, puritanical nag who's always saying ‘No, no, no,' I suggest we say, 'Why not have a cannoli instead? How about a bucket of KFC? What's wrong with Cajun fries?' Because immorality will eat your eternal soul, but gluttony is no sin."

Dolan then exited the altar clutching a bag of Cheetos as a few well-sculpted arms shot up in the air.

2012-01-13T15:05:00.006-05:00

I really worry about young people today. Because of relentless peer pressure, too often they feel like they have to starve themselves in order to fit in. They don't even eat any more: they "graze." They eschew a burger or tasty plate of pasta for a carrot stick with a side of raisin. This can result in tragic consequences! If you watch TV even a little, you know what I'm talking about. I haven't seen a real, full-boned adult in years: instead, it's an endless stream of pencil-armed little girls. It's gotten to the point where I wonder if some of these twig-like bones are going to snap every time I turn on Monday Night Football.

Of course, I'm talking about you, Eli Manning. In fact, I'll bet the average person can't pick out which of the following arms are yours, and which belong to the Olsen Twins.

(1)

(2)

(3)

(4)

(5)

(6)

(7)

(8)

ANSWERS:
1, 3, 5 and 7 belong to the Olsen Twins. 2, 4, 6 and 8 are Eli Manning. Dude, eat a sandwich!

2012-01-12T17:21:00.004-05:00

The school board of Union Township, New Jersey is moving to dismiss Viki Knox, the teacher who posted a nasty anti-gay diatribe on her Facebook page.

In her post, Knox described gay people as "perverted spirits" whose sin "breeds like cancer."

"Breeds like cancer"? Oh, puh-leeze. I've had sex with dozens of men and not one of them ever wanted to do it again.

2012-01-12T14:53:00.001-05:00

I guess it just muddies the water if we consider this foreplay.

2012-01-12T12:15:00.003-05:00

Whew! I was worried I'd be toast since I killed that drifter.

2012-01-12T11:44:00.005-05:00

Why is cheese the most popular item to smuggle out of supermarkets?

Because toilet paper doesn't have a pointy end.

2012-01-09T17:27:00.001-05:00

Coincidentally, that's the same graphic they use when advising priests to use lubricant.

2012-01-09T15:00:00.007-05:00

(To the tune of Bette Davis Eyes.)

Here comes a customer!
What a crazy surprise.
Welcome to Papa John's,
pretty Lady Chinky Eyes.

No sauce and extra cheese
on a medium size?
That's fourteen eighty-three,
pretty Lady Chinky Eyes.

Pepperoni
and baloney
it all tastes like Rice A Roni.
Mozzarella
Got a fella?
Is the rest of you really yellow?
You sure do make my dough rise,
pretty Lady Chinky Eyes.

Your pizza's coming soon.
I won't tell you no lies.
You really make me swoon,
pretty Lady Chinky Eyes.

No, this pizza ain't yours --
it's for Cellulite Thighs.
Just hold onto your drawers,
pretty Lady Chinky Eyes.

Want a cheesestick?
They make me sick.
Long and yellow, like Chinese dick.
My stick's growing.
Why you going?
Me so solly we be slowing.
Want a Splite, or side of flies? --
Goodbye, Lady Chinky Eyes.

2012-01-06T14:15:00.005-05:00

Archbishop Timothy Dolan's declaration upon his elevation to Cardinal:

It’s as if Pope Benedict is putting the red hat on top of the Empire State Building, or the Statue of Liberty, or on home plate at Yankee Stadium; or on the spires of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral or any of our other parish churches.

Uh, no. It's as if a dude who protected child molesters really, really likes you.

How to Act Like a New Yorker

2012-01-06T11:18:00.002-05:00

When someone says: Happy new year!

You reply: Gawd, is it December 31 again? Well, happy new year, darling. I'd kiss you but that looks like a cold sore.

2012-01-05T13:46:00.010-05:00

I'm too stupid to write a book review. My friend George Snyder has written a fabulous new book entitled Down the Garden Path, and I'd love to be able to recommend it. But I have absolutely no idea how.

First, I question people who recommend things put out by their friends. I mean, it's a slippery slope. Today you're exaggerating slightly, and tomorrow you're Jimmy Fallon telling 14 million people that Jack and Jill is the best thing ever put on film.

Second, I don't regularly review books here. If I had exactly one chance to tell you to buy a book, in fact, I'd say pick up Pride and Prejudice, and George can go fuck himself. Which I'd rather not say, since I'm one of those folks who prefers nice surprises in the mail.

And last, I don't know your circumstances. I don't know if you have $13.95 to spend on something that isn't an electric bill. I'm still peeved at a PBS pledge break telling me that the $120 annual membership was less than I'd spend for lunch. I sat there with my mouth open thinking, "What, has somebody really ordered 84 burritos at Taco Bell?" I'm constantly irritated by those clueless boobs who claim, as a recent Broadway reviewer did, that Hugh Jackman's smile alone is worth a $150 ticket. Because we had more than a few of these scenes while I was growing up:

ME: Mommy, I'm starving. What's for dinner?

MOM: Sweetie, we can't afford food today. (WAVING A PHOTO IN FRONT OF MY FACE.) But get a load of those dimples!

So, here's what I'll say. George and I became friends because I loved his writing; I don't love his writing because we're friends. If I reviewed books regularly, I'd tell you to go buy Down the Garden Path, because it's smarter and funnier than anything I've read in years, recalling everybody from Evelyn Waugh to Paul Rudnick. It's self-assured and effortless and I get a little sadder with every page I turn, knowing I'm a year away from his next book.

And if money's an object, well, cut back on food.

Hey, it worked for me.

2012-01-05T12:46:00.003-05:00

So, I'm creating an account with an online company. I type in all my info, and on the next screen they want me to confirm that it's all correct. It is. Do I click this button or not?

Doing the Gas-Soaked Rag

2012-01-02T15:49:00.001-05:00

(Jauntily, to any kind of tune)

Twelve-hour days and working every weekend
I finally snapped and hollered at my boss.
Lost my job and lost my health insurance.
Spent Christmas Eve just huffing on some cloth.

I feigned a couple panic attacks
then spent my 20s zonked on Xanax.
One day I'll laugh about
doing the gas-soaked rag.

Missing the vacations and the paychecks
but Blue Cross was the best part of my job.
I was such a fan of Roche and Pfizer;
and now I suck on scarves under my Saab.

Now I see fireworks all evening long.
Who cares if my skin smells like Techron?
Everyone's happy now
doing the gas-soaked rag.

I know the FDA won't be too happy.
I think my two front teeth are coming loose.
Fire the folks who make all of those downers
now I'm riding on the huff train's big caboose.

Hey, Abbott Labs, I ain't gonna share --
look, something's leaking from that Bel Air!
Everyone's passing out
doing the gas-soaked rag,
chewing a grass-smoked flag,
wooing a rash-stroked slag,
screwing a half-coked fag.

2012-01-02T14:12:00.002-05:00

Coincidentally, that's what in the cupcakes too.

2011-12-29T14:13:00.001-05:00

Today they're all OMFG.

Inspirational Stories

2011-12-29T14:01:00.012-05:00

I've heard all the clichés about New Yorkers, but here's a little story that proves them all false. Contrary to popular belief, even rich and smug Manhattanites can teach us a lesson once in a while.

It seems a busy BMW owner kept getting speeding tickets. He'd careen to work, race home, zip around on vacation. His gas pedal was permanently stuck to the floor. It was like the cops never gave the poor dude a break: every time he took a corner on two wheels there'd be more flashing lights in his rear view mirror. It was like the poor guy was cursed.

Whereas the rest of us would just pay the tab and cry into our Budweisers, though, this guy had a brilliant idea: if there was some way of making it hard for cops to write his details down, some of these tickets would get lost. But how on earth could somebody do that?

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you my New York Hero of 2011:

Put me down for I1lIl1I.

Random Thoughts

2011-12-22T18:17:00.008-05:00

Exercise makes you live longer. That's why every cat on earth is dead.

How come bed sheets stained with an outline are holy when it's Jesus and disgusting when it's me?

How can a woodpecker move its head back and forth really fast for hours on end? I don't know, but I'm a guy so I don't have to.

In Thailand, are typhoons just called phoons?

Note to self: "Sleigh bells ring/are you listening?" doesn't sound very festive when you scream the second line.

Give a man a fish and you'll feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and he'll need ugly clothes forever.

I'm constantly striving to be more positive. Instead of complaining that my boyfriend bought me a kitten for Christmas rather than the iPhone I wanted, I'm looking on the bright side. Nobody likes throwing an empty bag into a lake.

2011-12-16T12:51:00.022-05:00

If the above does not work for you, you do not have Flash. Click on the Pope and maybe something will happen.

2011-12-13T14:42:00.006-05:00

On Monday, a group of British feminists proudly led a so-called Muff March through the streets of London to protest the paucity of pubic hair on women in porn.

Declaring that porn's strict stance on hairless genitalia is an anti-feminist statement by a patriarchal society, the women chanted slogans like “There’s nothing finer than my vagina." Some wore large, bushy merkins celebrating pubic hair untouched by any blade.

Bystanders mostly seemed amused by the protesters. After about an hour, they wandered away, perhaps leaving some minds slightly open and the streets slightly cleaner where they walked.

2011-11-22T12:41:00.018-05:00

Woody Allen's Midnight in Paris is sufficiently bad that it zips past the word "crap" and goes straight to "steaming pile of shit." In its desire to succinctly describe the predominant problems facing the world today, it divides us into two distinct tribes: fabulously-wealthy conflicted artists, and even richer but un-fun Republicans.

Hmm. Which side should we choose?

Now, at this point I realized that everybody not wearing an ascot should probably run screaming for the OFF button, but I decided I'd keep an open mind. If I'd shut off every film when it started irritating me I wouldn't know who Al Pacino is.

As "Gil," Owen Wilson plays Woody Allen to the point of mimicry. Every time he gets near a bedroom you think he'll suddenly spout, "Is sex dirty? Only if you do it right!" Gil is a fantastically successful screenwriter who Hollywood just adores, but he longs to be a serious novelist. The problem is, he doesn't know if his book is any good. He says it's about something called a "nostalgia shop," which should send up red flags with viewers. I mean, if Allen doesn't know you find old crap in antique shops, maybe he should leave the astute depictions of contemporary life to, say, Paris Hilton.

Gil's fiancée Inez, played by some chick who's obviously learned acting from reruns of Three's Company, is a total caricature. She hates Paris in the rain, long walks on the beach, baskets full of puppies. You expect her to set a bum alight and then complain that she simply detests sitting in front of the fire. Naturally, she thinks Gil is crazy to consider cutting off the Hollywood gravy train.

Stop me if this rings a bell.

Now, I've got two problems with this setup. (1) Drama is supposed to have high stakes. If Gil fails as a serious writer, what's the result? He's doomed to living in a Malibu mansion with $20,000 ottomans and Fresh Direct delivering Moët every eighteen minutes? I couldn't give a fuck about a dude who slits his wrists with a Fabergé letter opener. And (2) there's nobody to identify with. We try to feel sorry for Gil, relentlessly criticized by the shallow Inez, but clearly he's an idiot or the words "HEY, DUDE, YOU KNOW YOU TWO AIN'T MARRIED!" would have, at some point, popped up in his wracked brain.

While Inez is shopping for puppy daggers, Gil takes a long walk. A vintage Rolls pulls up next to him, and the occupants -- all in tuxedos or flapper attire -- implore him to get in. He does. Next stop is a party where the hosts introduce themselves as F. SCOTT and ZELDA FITZGERALD.

GIL: You're . . . who? That's . . . crazy. Isn't this 2011 anymore? I swear, I'm going insane. I'M NUTS! WHAT'S FUCKING HAPPENING!!!

F. SCOTT: I say, I like this chap! What say we split this boring joint and go see JOSEPHINE BAKER?

ZELDA: Zounds!

They go to a nightclub where nobody notices Owen's suit, shoes, and shag haircut are from eighty years in the future.

F. SCOTT: Isn't JOSEPHINE BAKER an amazing talent? My friend ERNEST HEMINGWAY has a terrific crush on her. (PAUSE.) Oh look -- here he comes now!

GIL: WHAAA??? HEMINGWAY??? THIS IS PSYCHOTIC! THIS IS CRAZIER THAN ANYTHING I WROTE IN MY BOOK!!!

HEMINGWAY: You wrote a book? Gosh, old chap, I'd love to read it, because I've got so much spare time in between winning Nobel prizes and bullfighting. As you must know, though, we artists are incredibly passionate. If I don't like your book I'll push you in front of a speeding cab, and if I like it I'll stab you to death, then say I wrote the damn thing myself. (PAUSE.) Let's go see somebody who can judge your novel fairly: my friend GERTRUDE STEIN.

Naturally PICASSO is at Gertrude's place. In fact, I'm thinking everybody short of BODECIA THE WARRIOR QUEEN is going to turn up in her parlor. Visions of a gingham-aproned ALICE B. TOKLAS appear before me, though, doing bong hits with the Surfer From the Future, and something snapped.

Really, a movie where the central dilemma is making money vs. making art? I felt like Gil: Did I somehow travel back in time to 1962? Was a suspendered mime going to dance while hippies sang about freedom? Instead of being a egocentric moron welcomed into the Bloomsbury Group, though, I was being spoon-fed pretentious pabulum by a pandering Woody Allen.

Roughly half an hour in, I shut the thing off.

I tried. I really did. I would have kept watching if I'd thought there was hope for our side -- you know, poor people who hate overprivileged idiots who somehow think they have actual problems -- but the odds weren't good.

Because if any of those fabulous celebs had told Woody's stand-in to shut the fuck up and go away, why would he have made the film?

2011-11-18T18:46:00.002-05:00

I can't believe I watched another TV program where somebody broke into somebody else's email by guessing their password. Whenever I open an online account, they want a password with, like, five letters (two uppercase), three numbers, and six symbols. Good luck breaking into my email by guessing my password is H!%8_lQ+n.

2011-11-18T11:28:00.001-05:00

Dear All The Patriots Who Freaked Out When An Occupy Wall Street Protester Used An American Flag As A Blanket,

Wanted to make sure you saw All-American football player Beau Palin's sweaty dick rubbing against Old Glory. And you know what happens when he sits down, right?

Hope this helps,
RomanHans

2011-11-10T14:02:00.004-05:00

Last night thousands of Penn State students flooded into the streets and rioted to protest the firing of football coach Joe Saterno, breaking windows, tearing down light poles and overturning vehicles, unequivocally telling the world that their patriarchal leader is far more important than any molested children.

This morning the Pope was all, "Bless you, my sons!"

2011-11-08T15:48:00.002-05:00

Herman Cain is such an asshole. All he does these days is whine that he's the victim of a "high tech lynching." Call me crazy, but I'm not sure the words "high tech" and "lynching" really belong together, like "Nazis" and "spreadable cheese." Sure, the news that Cain sexually harassed just about everything with a vagina was disseminated via online news sites, bloggers, Facebook, etc., but it's pretty much a slap in the face to African Americans everywhere to link the word "lynching" with a nasty 140 characters on Twitter.

2011-10-26T11:13:00.002-04:00

From Steve Wright in the Afternoon on BBC Radio 2:

Wright: Johnny Weissmuller died on this day. Which jungle-swinging character clad only in a loin cloth did he play?

Contestant: Jesus.

2011-10-25T17:03:00.001-04:00

I have to do something. Every morning I wake up and it's like my eyebrows have grown just a little bit bigger, until they threaten to consume my face. It looks like two squirrels are scurrying across my forehead, and very soon there's just going be to one. Years ago, though, after an overzealous afternoon with a razor blade, I learned that shaping and tweezing your facial hair is like trying to remove your own gall bladder. This time around, I decide, I'll let a professional handle it.

I don't exactly keep up with the trends, but I know about threading. I've seen it on the news, where an Asian woman wielding something like dental floss wraps a coil around a stray hair and yanks it out, faster than the blink of an eye. While I run my daily errands I pass eight or nine threading salons, and I slow in front of every one. I feel my eyebrows swelling until I can barely keep my head up. I think, why don't I just go in and get it done?

You hear all these rumors about New York metrosexuals, but I'm the only guy in the salon I finally choose. There's so much estrogen in the building, in fact, I feel like I've accidentally stumbled into Pinkberry. Mercifully, the procedure is quick and painless. Five minutes and fifteen dollars later, the woman passes me a hand mirror. My eyebrows are far apart and half their original size. The delicate arch makes me look ever so slightly surprised.

I look at the woman. She looks at me. "Well, I think they look good," she says.

I race to the bathroom of a nearby Bed Bath & Beyond and survey the damage. They could definitely be worse. They're certainly not that 30s Jean Harlow brow, the thin Sharpie squiggle dancing below the hairline. They could almost pass for natural. Still, the arch is sharp enough to change my default expression. I'm no longer bored. I'm not exhausted. If I keep my face entirely still, I'm somewhere between inquisitive and questioning. Add in even the slightest additional surprise, though, and I look like a man fleeing Godzilla.

I run my remaining errands as I struggle to keeping my face utterly placid. Inquisitive eyebrows aren't such a horrible thing, I discover. They have the attitude that I don't, second-guessing every word I hear.

I stop at a fruit stand for a mango and some strawberries. "That'll be twelve dollars," the man says. I look at him. He looks at me. "Okay, okay," he snaps. "Maybe it's just ten."

I drop in Designer Shoe Warehouse to see what's new. There's a pair of Ecco shoes I almost like but they're clunky, and they only come in brown. "Those are sooo cool," a clerk says. "Those are sooo great!" I look at her. She looks at me. "If your girlfriend's named Rainbow and you wear fringed vests," she adds.

By the time I head home it's late, and the subway is deserted. Still, a middle-aged man sits down right next to me. His suit is cheap, his hair's thinning, his moustache nearly hides his mouth. "You should be a model," he says, just out of the blue. "I mean, you are absolutely gorgeous. You've got an amazing face, and it looks like you've got a really hot body. You could be, like, in one of those Calvin Klein ads, just wearing underwear. David Beckham's got nothing on you."

I look at him. He looks at me.

"Well, I wouldn't turn off the lights when I fucked you," he says, so imagine my surprise when he did.

Modern Romance

2011-10-24T15:42:00.003-04:00

I found you on Friendster
and asked you to be mine.
You wrote me on MySpace and said
"That would be just fine."

I sent you a fax in which
I asked if you'd be true.
You left a message on my pager:
"Beep beep means 'I love you.'"

2011-10-21T15:06:00.000-04:00

Just not a hell of a lot.

When Did "Pawn Stars" Jump the Shark?

2011-10-21T14:57:00.004-04:00

"Pawn Stars," a reality show on the History Channel, used to be one of our guilty pleasures. We'd watch it week after week, continually amazed at Rick's broad expanse of knowledge and the strange items people brought in.

And then one day, out of the blue, it hit us. We realized the show was a massive pile of manufactured crap, just a Great Gazoo away from being a cartoon for eight-year-olds. When, exactly, did this happen? Well, it could have been a number times.

The day Chumlee decided a Bob Dylan record would be worth more autographed, so he went outside and found Dylan.

When somebody brought in some ghost-hunting equipment, so the Pawn Stars decided to see if their 21-year-old building was haunted.

The day Chumlee "stupidly" bought a fake Gibson guitar that was barely more than a piece of wood and a string.

When Rick and his dad spent 55 minutes calling Chumlee an idiot and then said, "Sure, we'd love to try your homemade wine!"

When you realize the only person who'd call Corey "Big Hoss" is Corey.

The episode where somebody brings in some Native American beadwork to pawn, and during the appraisal the beads change color.

The day Rick bought a run-down Coke machine, and during restoration it switched models.

When somebody found out that a customer seeking to pawn a guitar worked at the same vintage guitar store as the expert brought in to appraise it.

When somebody who visited the store was asked if he wanted to be on the show, and when he said yes they gave him something to pawn and a story.

The day somebody decided three fat guys would be the perfect spokesmen for Subway.

The 400th time Rick declared that if something was authentic it'd be worth a fortune, then discovered it was authentic and offered $65 for it.

2011-10-20T15:18:00.011-04:00

Name one athlete you would hate to be stuck in a car with for all of eternity.

That flamboyant figure skater Johnny Weir. I don't think we'd have much to talk about. -- NASCAR driver Jimmie Johnson, in an interview in November's Maxim magazine

God, I totally agree. I mean, figure skating is such an effeminate profession. Puh-leeze. You skate around in little circles and occasionally crash. It's nothing like car racing, where you drive around in little circles and occasionally crash.

Car racing is a sport tailored for manly men, requiring a distinctly masculine set of skills. You've got to spin a little wheel, press a little pedal, and sit for long periods of time with no air conditioning. It takes absolutely nothing from the profession to note that other people put air in your tires and fill your gas tank. Heck, I'll bet even James Bond doesn't like the smell of gasoline getting in his clothes. Besides, drivers have to save their energy for repeatedly turning corners without any power steering.

And what a queen Johnny Weir is. Christ, if a race car driver acted like that he'd be run out of town.

I'll bet Johnny Weir doesn't even edge his stubble before he goes to work.

Maybe Jimmie has a giant gold belt, but he knows to cut back on the jewelry and earrings when he wears it.

Even if Jimmie has four really pretty vases, you don't see any flouncy flower arrangements in them.

Sure, Jimmie's mock turtleneck is totally covered in embroidery, but at least the colorful patches are for manly stuff, like those logos of car parts on his chest and that splash of Siemens on his arm.

The butch gray coat on Jimmie's signature bear more than counteracts his rainbow dickie.

His official screensaver conveys the awesome butchness of racing, with the powerful Ford leaving a cloud of burning rubber in its wake. It doesn't look anything like Bai Ling after she's put talcum powder on her ass.

As Jimmie's videogame says, he can ride "anything with an engine." That's a real man!

I'll bet he wouldn't hesitate for a minute before jumping on this fucking stool, and he'd probably burn out the motor before he stopped.

Sure, in 2006 he fell off the roof of a golf cart and broke his hand, but I'll bet even Chuck Norris runs into trouble when he pretends he's the Artichoke Queen in the Shriner's Parade.

Anyway, I think I've proved it by now. Jimmie Johnson is a butch, manly man, and whenever he wins a race, the whole world erupts in golden glitter as he hoists another giant silver vase toward the sky. Hooray for heterosexuality!

2011-10-19T13:24:00.005-04:00

A 19-fingered robot that can play piano faster than any human has been unveiled.

And he still can't bring women to orgasm.

Created in Italy for a cost of $5,000, Teotronico has 19 fingers because it is the ideal number for covering any melody or song.

Teotronico is said to be the only robot in the world capable of simultaneously singing and playing the piano while judging if an audience is impressed. As he plays, cameras in his eyes allow him to view an audience and interact with them, changing his choice of song if they don't look like they are enjoying themselves.

Unfortunately, he's oblivious to that "Christ, what the fuck is up with his eyebrows?" expression, and he can't fix the creepy smile that makes it look like he's also jerking off.

2011-10-17T14:56:00.010-04:00

I'm an anarchist with a conscience. I lob Molotov cocktails at our oppressors, then wring my hands for years afterward thinking maybe I should have just sent them an angry note.

I wrote down one particular worry and emailed it to Ariel Kaminer, the NY Times' "Ethicist":

The city I lived in held an essay contest in which entrants had to send in true stories about car-pooling. I took exception to this, because clearly it was going to be judged by subjective people giving away taxpayer dollars. I’m gay, and I know from experience that writing about how you met your boyfriend never wins. So I made up a heterosexual story, and I won a prize.

Justified? Obviously, the best course would have been to get them to cancel the contest, but this didn’t sound possible.

Thanks!

After the Ethicist told me she was going to answer my letter in the Times' magazine, I alerted her to a few concerns.

Of course, I think your answer will be that I shouldn't have entered with a fake story, but I can't accept this. Ignoring discrimination never did anything. Of course, profiting from it by lying wasn't exactly Rosa Parks either. I was just sick of the double standard that straight people are a privileged class and decided to even the playing field.

The next day I wrote again, going into further detail:

I worked in the defense industry for twenty years. I wouldn't have been hired if I admitted I was homosexual, so I didn't. I lied and said I was heterosexual. The conditions weren't fair, so I did what I had to do rather than blithely accept their bigotry.

I see this contest in the same light.

Yes, it would be great to change the system, but that's not realistic. Yes, lying is bad -- but institutionalized homophobia is worse. I'm sick of employment, housing, TV shows and essay contests that have the implicit message that homosexuals need not apply. (Though Extreme Makeover: Home Edition has aired some 200 episodes, they still haven't found a gay family that qualifies.) I firmly believe that anything homosexuals do to temporarily level the playing field, regardless of legality or ethics, is easily justified, and I hope in your reply you don't convey the idea that gay people should take the high road by shutting up and accepting
whatever slights society gives them.

The Ethicist never wrote back, fueling my worry that I wouldn't get a thoughtful reply. Four months later, then, when a note arrived from a Times employee asking me to "run through a few things," I was absolutely certain: I was going to be the butt of a joke. So, I didn't reply. I hoped that, unable to confirm a story, a newspaper couldn't print it.

Hah! I forgot this was The New York Times. Yesterday my story showed up in the magazine, and here, in total, is the Ethicist's reply.

This may be the most creative adaptation of the term “obviously” I’ve come across. And by the way, no, you were not justified.

You’re welcome!

I read this reply and shook my head, wondering what part of I hope in your reply you don't convey the idea that gay people should take the high road by shutting up and accepting whatever slights society gives them she'd missed. And, you know, I don't have a fancy magazine column, but I'd like to take the opportunity here to offer Ms. Kaminer a quick word.

Dear Ethicist:

According to the dictionary, an Ethicist is "a person who specializes in or writes on moral principles."

Don't you think maybe you should change your name?

I'd offer to help, but obviously somebody already took "Carrot Top."

Hope this helps,
RomanHans

2011-10-17T14:45:00.001-04:00

Comic Con was this weekend, which means the city was full of folks in costume. Exactly what they were portraying, though, was anybody's guess.

I'm pretty sure this guy is Wonder Woman. Admire the costume. Respect his courage. Whatever you do though, don't ask about his magic lasso.

This woman demonstrates a trend I saw in a lot of costumes: handicraft. Which, you know, should certainly be applauded for ingenuity, though execution can be questionable. Unless this creature is from a distant planet where you have to crochet your own head.

Though these aliens may face incredible star battles against distant galactical foes, they'll never want for oven mitts.

More handicraft here. Somewhere an Olive Garden is missing its breadsticks.

Guest of a Guest says this is Zangief from Street Fighter. I'm pretty sure it's just a dude showing off the only sash he'll ever own.

I'm totally at sea here. He's got Wolverine's claws, but he's singing. Got it! This is obviously Benverine.

2011-10-14T13:15:00.002-04:00

Some universal tales have variations shared worldwide. Stories carry lessons for young and old. Stories do not always represent reality so much as they teach lessons, values and morals. The following is a very old story told by Cherokee, Seneca, Hindu, and many other people all around the world.

The little boy was walking down a path and he came across a whore. The whore was very old, and very, very horny. She asked, "Please little boy, can you fuck me hard in a hot tub? I need one last one head-spinning bang before I die." The little boy answered, "No, Ms. Whore. If I fuck you, you'll call the Enquirer and it'll destroy my marriage." The whore said, "No, I promise. I won't call the Enquirer. Just please fuck me hard in a hot tub." The little boy thought about it and finally picked up that whore and fucked her hard in a hot tub.

Afterwards, the little boy and the whore climbed out of the hot tub. "Thank you," the whore said. "You are very kind." And just as the boy was about to say goodbye to the whore, she called the Enquirer. "Ms. Whore, why did you do that? Now it will surely destroy my marriage!" The whore looked up at him and grinned. "You knew what I was when you picked me up," she said.

2011-10-12T17:13:00.000-04:00

Where do the soups and salads come from, the bathroom?

2011-10-11T17:13:00.004-04:00

A pregnant suburban Chicago woman felt contractions a few minutes after finishing the Chicago Marathon and gave birth hours later to a baby daughter.

Amber Miller was nearly 39 weeks pregnant when she started the 26.2 mile race on Sunday morning. Her daughter June was born at 10:29 p.m. weighing 7 pounds, 13 ounces.

Sure, call it sweet. Call it adorable. But today June is shaking her rattle whether she wants to or not.

2011-10-11T17:05:00.010-04:00

Sure, politics is a bizarre process, but there's one thing about it that totally mystifies me. It seems like it's the only field where unsuccessful people don't try to imitate the successful folks.

Say you own a company that makes clothing. A rival company puts out a line of skinny jeans, and they immediately sell out. They're in all the magazines. You're a smart businessman, so what's your immediate thought?

(1) "Times have changed, and I need to change with the times."
(2) "Blast them! One day people will want bellbottoms again!"

Obama campaigned as a pro-gay, pro-choice, pro-environment candidate. He beat the guy who was not. Naturally this sent the Republican party into a tailspin. They had to retool! They hid away in their bunker for a few months, and when they emerged they were holding Rick Santorum.

Yeah, Rick Santorum. In a battle of wits, he'd lose to the counter guy at Taco Bell. His clothes are slightly cheaper than religious people who go door-to-door. But he's got the message! Let gay people marry, and pretty soon chickens will be raping elephants!

Oh. Okay.

It reminds me of Wal-Mart. They stand on the sidelines as the trends zip by. Women's underwear shrinks until it's the size of a Post-It and they're still standing there going, "But these granny panties will make you feel safe!"

Remember when the Strokes hit it big? Ten seconds later there were forty similar bands. We were spoiled for choice. We'd ask ourselves, "Do I want to listen to the Strokes copycat with the chick lead singer or the one whose songs are all in B-flat?"

In the political bizarro world, though, the Republican agenda is set in stone. Nobody changes their style. We shake our heads as they maintain that waltzes are coming back, but you gotta admit they get their money's worth with those accordions.

DJ Shadow on Burning Man

2011-10-11T12:52:00.002-04:00

Maybe “hate” is a little strong, because I’ve never actually been. What I mean to say is that I hate the 40-something investment bankers and efficiency experts I meet at social engagements who describe their Burning Man experiences as “transcendental,” and then when pressed for an example can only offer that an erection resulting from being jabbed in the stomach by a cattle prod is unlike any other.

2011-10-10T12:22:00.005-04:00

Sigh. Sometimes you see things that just make you rethink everything you've learned.

Once again, here comes footage from YouTube to remind us that the world is a mystifying place.

Is that incredible? A moob in half a slankie actually has a girlfriend who reads Bride.

2011-10-07T12:04:00.002-04:00

A "fart fetish group" wants to license the rights to Nancy Grace's on-air Dancing with the Stars fart. But what if it wasn't Nancy, but the host, or her partner, who farted? And now Nancy is stuck being the fart fetish pin-up girl for the rest of her life. Such are the bargains we make for fame.

Does anybody know any fart fetishists? I wonder if they're reluctant to pleasure themselves to the DWTS footage because they can't be sure it's Nancy farting, and masturbating to a dude's farts would be totally gay.

2011-10-06T16:33:00.004-04:00

Three days on a boat and they can't even get the Vivian Girls to plug in their instruments? What, will they be holding Mai Tais in both hands?

Edward Devereux Sheffe III Says Wall Street Protesters Are Hurting Ordinary Middle-Class People Just Like Him

2011-10-06T13:33:00.003-04:00

"You guys need to be in Greenwich, Connecticut where the rich people live," says the peeved millionaire whose classical music listening is presumably interrupted by chants. "The people you're disturbing are middle-class people just like you."

2011-10-06T11:25:00.003-04:00

In a new rap track, Nick Cannon says to his nemesis Charlamagne, "Man, you about as gay as dick pics."

Sigh. It really pisses me off when idiots use "gay" to mean "lame," but in this case maybe it's just envy. I mean, I'd absolutely love to Nick Cannon for a living.

How TV Shows Find Men Who Play Gay And Act Effeminate

2011-10-06T10:49:00.003-04:00

2011-10-05T09:20:00.002-04:00

Of all the things that could kill me, I never suspected melon balling.

2011-10-04T18:24:00.001-04:00

Store clerks love me. All of them, from the fresh-faced students at Cold Stone Creamery to the paper-hatted, gold-toothed folks at Taco Bell. They smile and wave at me as I walk through the door, knowing from our past exchanges that I'm a friendly customer. I'll ask how they're doing, or make small talk about the weather. I never fumble for exact change. And when I leave and they offer a hearty, "Hey, have a good day!", I always offer a cheery, "You too!"

Well, except for Armando, at Kang's Fruits and Vegetables. He's a total underhanded bastard, and the worst thing is, he's got everybody thinking he's totally nice. Oh, on the contrary. He's the worst rat bastard there is.

I didn't even realize it until I'd gone to Kang's a few times. On the surface he seemed perfectly pleasant, always saying stuff like, "Hi, how are you?" and "Hey, good to see you!" Stupid me: I thought he was being friendly, when in reality he was just biding time until I dropped my guard.

On my fourth visit he drew me into his insidious little game. See, I picked up some mint, some limes and a liter of club soda. I was going to make mojitos. I put everything on the counter, and he kept up a long line of chatter while he was ringing up my purchases. It was so innocuous and inane that it all but insisted I ignore it. "Mm, mint!" he declared. "Delicious. Man, that's fresh! And limes! How many have you got, four? Four for a dollar. Club soda! Do I see a pattern? Somebody's making mojitos tonight!"

He smiled at me, like he was being totally friendly, and like a sap I smiled back. "Love 'em," I said cluelessly. I pointed at my bare wrist. "Drinking time starts now!"

He chuckled and said, "That'll be four-fifty," and I handed him a five. He gave me a couple quarters change, and I grabbed my bag and started out. That's when the ominous tone should have sounded in my head.

He called, "Enjoy your mojitos!" I waved and said, "You too!"

I was about halfway home when it hit me. Wait, I thought. What just happened? He's not making mojitos. Did I just tell somebody who isn't making mojitos to enjoy their mojitos?

I fumed for the rest of the night, barely tasting my drinks. Was it possible? Was there a store clerk who didn't offer a standardized greeting to his customers? Isn't that against the rules?

See, when somebody in the service industry says goodbye to a customer, it has to be generic. It has to be universal, like "Have a great day!" or "Have a good one!" or "Enjoy the weather!" They talk to thousands of people a day, people they know nothing about, so they need a greeting that's good for everyone. But it has to be good for the customer too. It has to be something you don't really need to listen to. You can continue thinking about more important matters while the help chatters on, and when you leave you parrot that trusty old, "You too!"

Armando, the rat bastard, went totally off the script. If it was legal, it wasn't fair, because then we'd all be forced to listen to what these people were saying. And if it was a new trend, it definitely had to be nipped in the bud before all the other clerks went AWOL.

The incident may have ruined my evening, but the next time I went to Kang's it was a distant memory. Clearly Armando had forgotten about it too, greeting me like a long-lost pal. He punched in all my purchases, keeping up a long line of friendly banter. He was so friendly and chatty he caught me off guard. "Enjoy your food!" he said, with the wave of a friendly hand.

I grabbed my bags and smiled. "You too!" I blithely replied.

"You too." Goddamn that bastard, I thought, clutching my bags with white knuckles. "You too enjoy your food, even though you aren't buying any and I have absolutely no clue what it is you eat." I could have sworn I heard him chuckling as I headed for the exit, face burning red as my beets.

The next time I went to Kang's I was ready. I picked out a couple potatoes, then strolled up to the counter, eyeing him warily. He waved, all smiles. "Hi!" he said. "How are you today!"

I said "Fine, thanks!" though I meant, "I'm wise to you, buddy!"

"You're in a good mood today," he said.

I dissected the words and came up with a believable response. "I'm going on vacation," I lied. He said oh. He packed all my groceries into a bag and now it was time to say goodbye. I said, "Have a great day!" and he nodded, upset that I'd beaten him to the farewell-greeting punch. He did the little pistol thing to acknowledge that I'd gotten him, and I grabbed my bags in triumph and started off. Disconsolate with defeat he droned, "Well, enjoy your vacation," and bursting with triumph I said, "You too!"

That night I had a premonition. I realized I could never go back to Kang's. Clear as day I saw it: I buy some produce, he hands me my change, he says, "Thanks for coming in!" and I say, "You too."

Before I can stop myself, my hands are around his neck and there's curly endive all over the floor. I'm arrested, pronounced guilty, and thrown onto Death Row.

Finally the day comes. I'm strapped into the electric chair. "Have a nice life!" I say to my executioner. "You too!" he says without thinking, and then he giggles as he flips the switch.

2011-10-04T12:50:00.001-04:00

Last night I had sex with a blind man, and I tell you, we must have kept the neighbors up. All night long it was, "Marco?" "Polo!" "MARCO?" "POLO!"

2011-10-03T19:11:00.005-04:00

My nephew turned four the other day, so I bought him something called "Baby's First Computer." It had a little screen, and a bunch of knobs and buttons, and a little keyboard. It reminded me of the Playskool Busy Box I used to love, where you spin a wheel with a bright barber pole stripe, turn a crank, and slide a little plastic airplane up and down along a slot. I sure cried when somebody stole it from our house while I was at prom. I pictured little Ronald pounding on it with glee while Mommy and Daddy worked on their real computers. Heck, I thought, if he was anything like me, he would have been thrilled just to have the box!

At his birthday party at my sister's house, Ronald tore off the gift wrap and turned the toy over and over in his hands. "Let me guess," he said. "You didn't get this at the Apple Store?"

"It's from Amazon," I replied.

"Oh," he said brightly. "Okay. Because they did such a great job with the Kindle."

"Pull it out!" I urged. "Turn it on!"

He pried one end open and slid out the yellow plastic toy. "What operating system is it?"

"Well, this is an introductory computer. I'm not sure it has an operating system."

He rolled his eyes and sighed. "Christ. And I thought you couldn't do worse than Windows XT. Okay, I can probably hack it so it'll run Linux."

He pulled off the plastic wrapper and visibly flinched. "Ohmigod," he said under his breath, "LCD? What, wasn't woodburning available?"

"Look at how fun this is!" I said, grabbing a smaller plastic bag. "It's got a pretend mouse that's shaped just like a mouse!"

"Oh, my," he said, "that certainly is impressive. I've never seen a wireless laser mouse that squeaks when you click it." He speed-read the instruction sheet with a growing look of disgust. "Wait. No AirPort? No wi-fi?"

I wasn't exactly proficient at baby talk, so this went over my head. Instead of replying I grabbed the cord because I didn't want him to strangle himself. "You plug this into Mommy's telephone, and you can see pictures from the internet!"

From all the coughing and spluttering you'd think he was choking on corn. "One fuckin' cable to dialup? Christ, this shit's barely worth booting up."

I've never had any kids so I seriously do not speak babble. "Does baby wike his new toy?"

"Eh," he said. "You know what? I don't touch crap at McDonalds, and there I've only got a fifty-fifty chance of catching a bug." He exhaled hard. "Christ, I just did a speed test and this thing's not downloading 50K a second."

I blinked. "Is computer too swow for baby?"

"Yes," he replied. "When iddy biddy baby fine-a-wee get porn, big hand will be waaay past widdle hand."

He shook his head one final time before disconnecting the toy. "Oh, fuck it," he said. "Thanks but no thanks. Christ, the Flintstones would toss this fucker out the -- "

Almost before he got the words out of his mouth, my sister stomped in and walloped him in the head with an oven mitt. "I m-m-mean," he stuttered, "thank you Unca Roman. I wuv it!"

Sue grabbed the toy and thrust it at me. "It's too advanced for him," she said. "He's only four, and he isn't smart. Maybe in another year or six."

I nodded. Well, I tried. I thought at least the lights would entertain little Ronald, but when I tried it myself at home I had to admit she was right. I couldn't get a beep or a boop out of it, and couldn't even fit my head inside the box.

2011-09-30T13:00:00.013-04:00

Though Cyril had lived in America for over twenty years, he'd been born in London. Naturally I was mesmerized by his sexy accent, but quickly learned it came with a down side. Every time he spoke, he said something that made no sense. These odd mutterings were British colloquialisms, I guessed, though exactly how they could have gotten so entrenched in his vocabulary confounded me. I thought they were fun for our first few dates. They were colorful. But eventually I realized they were conversation killers, and, you know, sometimes there are conversations you want to see all the way through to the end.

One night we were discussing art with another couple. "I like Picasso and I like Manet," Cyril declared. "It's all swings and roundabouts."

He looked to everyone for agreement but instead all he got was "Whaaa?" And immediately the conversation swerved from art to "Gosh, aren't British people fascinating?"

I figured Cyril would eventually catch on, but he didn't. For two months I watched every conversation go up in flames. I began to read odd psychology into it. Were idioms just his way of saying, "I'm special!" rather than whatever he pretended to spout? I mean, I learned his Britishisms in about eight minutes, so he certainly should have gotten our language down. His feigned surprise at realizing nobody understood him was certainly wearing thin.

So, I became his translator. He did his little "I'm foreign!" thing, and I followed behind with a shovel, reassuring people that yes, there was a country in the world where what he said made sense. It wasn't fun. I think it was the tenth time I explained to someone that "spend a penny" meant "go to the bathroom" that I realized I wanted to fight back.

I decided to give Cyril a taste of his own medicine. I couldn't make out any kind of pattern to British idioms -- they seemed to be just a random melange of unrelated words -- so I made up American ones. Like him, I threw them liberally into everything I said.

"What do you want for dinner tonight?" Cyril asked.

"Oh, I don't care," I replied. "Really, it's the pig's moustache."

He glanced at me with furrowed brow. "The pig's moustache?" he asked. "Is that supposed to mean something?"

"It's colloquial, I guess," I said with a shrug. "Kind of like 'swings and roundabouts.'"

"Oh," he said. "Okay. You want to go to a restaurant?"

"Sure, that'd be fine," I replied. "That sounds like an ostrich tango."

I could almost see his eyes narrow. "How about the French place down the street?" he asked. "I hear it's the dog's breakfast, and cheap as chips to boot."

"Absolutely!" I replied. "But let's get a move on. I could eat the devil's dandruff."

From that point on, it was war. Nothing either of us said made any sense. For weeks we spouted absolute nonsense. We'd start a sentence, then finish it with whatever popped into our heads. We both agreed the latest Woody Allen film was the gypsy's jockstrap. Apple-picking in the Hudson valley sounded like an Amish volcano. When he ran into our neighbor at three a.m. she looked like an astronaut's handshake.

Miming words would have communicated more.

Finally, one day he'd had it. He didn't explode. In fact, I'm not real sure what he did, because as usual I understood about half of what he said.

"Roman," he said, "I love you. You're all fur coat and no knickers."

I smiled. I guessed I'd won, but wasn't positive. Instead I decided that change is seriously overrated. I didn't give a fuck what Cyril said, because in my book he was the cat's tattoo.

Asshole of the Day

2011-09-29T14:44:00.008-04:00

There's a special place in hell for those online companies where, when you create an online account, they sign you up for a whole bunch of email lists that have to be INDIVIDUALLY unsubscribed.

I'm talking about MTV, of course. Don't give them your email address unless you want updates about the Black Eyed Peas, Carson Daly, and Sponge Bob sixty times a day. You're unsubscribing to Nick Jr. emails? That's one down, eighty to go.

And I couldn't broach the subject without mentioning Facebook. Register once and now you've got pages of privacy checklists to ponder. Can we give your personal information to bowling alley owners in Chicago? No? How about single moms in Detroit?

But the real problem child today is Zagat. I don't know: maybe I entered a contest, maybe I commented on some page, maybe I typed in a restaurant recommendation. Shortly after I got a junk email from them, and when I hit the "unsubscribe" button I read this:

Yes. That's right. I was being unsubscribed from their "Welcome" emails. Isn't that thoughtful? Now that they know I'm not interested, they've got no more "Welcome" emails for me.

Needless to say, they've got other email lists that still include me. When I hit "unsubscribe" on another note I read this:

Sigh. Okay, Zagat, it's on. You keep emailing me, and I'll keep declaring you Asshole of the Day. Do I have to unsubscribe to "At The Table" and "On The Grill" and "Under The Apron" before they'll leave me alone? Stay tuned. I'm thinking it could be some time before I finally get to that "Tears Upon Parting" email list.

2011-09-29T14:20:00.004-04:00

Oh. Got it. Under the new business paradigm, Groupon will be valued higher than Connecticut by turning into an online Pic N' Save.

2011-09-28T13:43:00.005-04:00

Wow. I'm totally enamored of this new hot librarian calendar, "Men of the Stacks."

I bet Sol would be gentle with my Special Collection.

Something tells me Gabriel could show me some good Faulkner.

Looks like Zach has licked that Dewey -- oh, fuck it, just buy the calendar.

Hope This Helps

2011-09-28T13:29:00.001-04:00

Wow, that sounds interesting. Let's click through.

INTERVIEWER: What do you make of the rumors that Cary was gay?

DYAN CANNON: I just want to tell you that part of our life was very fulfilling, so I don’t know. In Hollywood they talk about everyone in some form or another. If that was the case, I never saw any indication of it.

Dear Fox News:

You have a small grammatical error in your headline. Where you write "DENIES GAY RUMORS" you mean "SAYS 'HEY, HE NEVER FUCKED ANY DUDES IN FRONT OF ME!'"

Hope this helps,
RomanHans

Feds Say Rape Requires Va-Jay-Jay

2011-09-28T12:58:00.003-04:00

The definition of rape used by the F.B.I. -- “the carnal knowledge of a female, forcibly and against her will” -- does not take into account sexual-assault cases that involve anal or oral penetration or penetration with an object, cases where the victims were drugged or under the influence of alcohol or cases with male victims. As a result, many sexual assaults are not counted as rapes in the yearly federal accounting.

In Chicago, the police department recorded close to 1,400 sexual assaults in 2010, according to the department’s Web site. But none of these appeared in the federal crime report because Chicago’s broader definition of rape is not accepted by the F.B.I.

Got that, chicks? So next time you want to make the federal statistics, convince the dude you give lousy blowjobs.

2011-09-28T12:41:00.004-04:00

Um, whaaa? Does she need somebody to help her douche?

2011-09-26T17:18:00.003-04:00

Dear Monopoly Player,

Thank you for buying the new Citibank edition of Hasbro's Monopoly. We know you'll enjoy the ease and convenience that come with electronic banking. At the beginning of each game, your Cash Card will be preloaded with $1,500 just for you. Buy properties and pay rent. Pass Go and collect $200. Instead of the hassle and bother of paper money, simply swipe your Cash Card and we'll do the math for you. What could be simpler than that?

Citibank

Dear Monopoly Player,

Enclosed is our new eighty-page privacy policy and user agreement. Please read it thoroughly and keep it in your files.

Citibank

Dear Monopoly Player,

Your balance dropped below the $2,000 minimum, so you've been charged a $80 maintenance fee, as per our latest privacy policy and user agreement.

Citibank

Dear Monopoly Player,

Congratulations on your recent purchase of Mediterranean Avenue. Since this is a property with a foreign name, you've been charged a foreign transaction fee of $104 plus 18% of the purchase price.

Citibank

Dear Monopoly Player,

We notice you bought Ventnor.

If you're in need of financial advice, please call our Customer Service department between the hours of 10 and 4 Monday-Friday CST.

Citibank

Dear Monopoly Player,

Our security software recently noticed that someone tried to purchase B&O Railroad with your Pre-Loaded Cash Card.

You already own Reading Railroad, so naturally this purchase was flagged as suspicious. As a security precaution, your card was deactivated and your account frozen.

If indeed you tried to purchase B&O Railroad, please call our Customer Service department between the hours of 10 and 4 Monday-Friday CST.

Citibank

Dear Monopoly Player,

Baltic? Really?

Citibank

Dear Monopoly Player,

According to our records, you haven't used your Pre-Loaded Cash Cards for eight minutes, so you've been assessed $204 in dormant account charges.

Citibank

Dear Monopoly Player,

We noticed that eight people landed on Ventnor, and you didn't charge any of them rent.

As you know, dude, we earn a small commission on all transactions processed on your Pre-Loaded Cash Card.

So, once more. Try it once more. And in the mean time, watch out for your little dog.

Citibank

When Not To Say "And/Or"

2011-09-23T20:05:00.002-04:00

2011-09-23T16:15:00.008-04:00

Looking for a good book about human/dolphin love? Well, consider your prayers answered. Wet Goddess is Malcolm Brenner's tale of his affair with an aquatic theme park dolphin. Thrill to how the tempestuous Ruby seduces the reluctant 20-year-old:

She began raking her teeth lightly against my arms and legs which was indescribably erotic.

Wow. I'm sucked in from the first page. That's one dude who wouldn't scream when I blew him. Naturally their relationship turns sexual, as frequently happens when one gets close to somebody who's already lubricated. Of course, it's not always fun and games, like when Brenner and Ruby are playing in the tank and she tries to put her snout through the wrong hoop. But it truly is a tale of interspecies love, as Brenner so succinctly says:

What is repulsive about a relationship where both partners feel and express love for each other? I know what I'm talking about here because after we made love, the dolphin put her snout on my shoulder, embraced me with her flippers and we stared into each others' eyes for about a minute.

Well, I'm convinced, even though this is pretty much what happened the last time I ordered fish in Chinatown.

Sadly, after nine months, the amusement park closed. Ruby was shipped off to another theme park. You can almost picture their parting scene at the airport: Ruby's eyes are welling up, and Brenner has krill on his pants. He heads to a nearby piano bar to drown his sorrows.

"Go ahead, Sam," he tells the piano player. "You played it for her; now play it for me."

The song? "Under the Sea."

Anyway, I just know you'll give the book five stars, like Amazon's average, though some reviewers don't seem entirely sincere in their critiques. (Really, Franklin, a flirty guinea pig?) And for all those readers who despair that they'll never find four hundred pounds of slick cartilage to love, be heartened by an odd little clue.

2011-09-23T14:06:00.004-04:00

Yes, there's absolutely zero attitude. Well, except for the "I'm a fifty-year-old man who enjoys serially fucking strangers" thing.

2011-09-22T16:59:00.004-04:00

Following a massive public protest, the Chinese government has banned a traditional carnival in which dogs are eaten after being chopped up alive in the street.

Goddammit. And I'd just come up with the most amazing scam. See, I walk up to a stranger and say, "I bet you $5 I can make your dog shake."

2011-09-22T13:17:00.003-04:00

When asked for comment, the baby reportedly said, "Yo yo yo, it's all good."

Scientists Decide Bisexual Animals Don't Have A Sexual Orientation

2011-09-21T15:15:00.007-04:00

A five-and-a-half-inch deep-sea squid that lives a solitary life up to half a mile down in the dark waters of the Pacific Ocean is the latest addition to the hundreds of species that are known to engage in same-sex sex.

[Dr. Hendrik J.T. Hoving, author of “A shot in the dark: same-sex sexual behavior in a deep-sea squid,"] was prepared for attention to the same-sex behavior and was ready for people to conflate squid and human behavior and announce the discovery of gay squid.

He fended off that notion, reiterating that the squid has no discernible sexual orientation, and that a tentacled invertebrate that shoots sperm into its mate’s flesh really has nothing to do with human behavior. -- from today's New York Times

Sigh. Plus ça change, blah blah. It's weird: Years ago, the entire scientific world announced that animals were straight. Every single one. Penguins mated for life. Geese actually bought each other engagement rings. On the odd occasion when a scientist would catch, say, a couple male dogs going at it, an explanation was immediately offered:

Those dogs are really confused.

I actually wrote to National Geographic when one of their articles declared that seahorses having homosexual sex were simply confused. "How did your esteemed scientists come to this conclusion?" I asked. "Did the seahorses back off when erections appeared, or did they go 'Oops!' afterward?"

Now creatures that fuck anything that moves aren't bisexual: they simply have no sexual orientation. This strikes me as petty. It's like if you show your Dooney & Burke clutch to a fashionista friend, and she says, "You know, if it isn't Louis Vuitton, it's not really a bag."

As we delve deeper into it, we realize these folks are being awfully petty. They raise all sorts of odd conditions to keep the squid from being homosexual. "The squid aren't actually fucking," they insinuate. "They're just shooting sperm onto each other." Oh. Okay. If that doesn't count as authentic sex, then I've been a virgin since January '02. "These aren't people we're talking about: they're tentacled invertebrates."

Dr. Hoving, meet Dr. E. C. Spada:

The Times is unattractively desperate.

[The male squid] pay no attention to the sex of other squid. Understandably so. They live alone in the dark, males and females are hard to tell apart, and only occasionally do squids pass in the night.

"We'd fuck a dude too if it was dark, and we were lonely," they're saying. I'm not sure how they can glom this generalization onto incommunicado invertebrates, though. Somehow they know that the squid aren't thinking, "Hey, here's a hot little dude!" but rather, "Well, at least I found something to fuck!"

In the end, we realize that nothing has changed. The scientists are nuts, the media is nuts. It's the same old story. Animals are hetero until we can't pretend they aren't, but that still doesn't mean they're gay.

They're simply nothing. Nothing at all.

Which doesn't exactly make progress towards gay equality, but I guess somebody's gotta be in the center of the Hollywood Squares.

2011-09-21T13:04:00.005-04:00

It's an hour of yelling, screaming, and tears. Haggard totally thought he could trade his wife for a dude.

2011-09-19T17:43:00.010-04:00

I'm not sure if you know this, but Bob Seger is an idiot. And you are too, if you hear the song Old Time Rock and Roll
and think anything other than, "Whoa, what a load of crap."

See, the musical statement that song makes isn't quite what you think. Bob Seger isn't standing up against bad music: he's standing on his porch, Hot Pocket stains on his ragged plaid shirt, shaking his fist at all those damned kids.

Old Time Rock and Roll was released in 1978, when there was a lot of terrific music coming out. You know who released records in 1978? The Clash, the Sex Pistols, the Jam, Isaac Hayes, Elvis Costello, Aretha Franklin, Black Sabbath, and Bruce Springsteen. But let's listen to the old man's whine:

Just take those old records off the shelf
I'll sit and listen to 'em by myself

This intro clues us in to the scene. An old man wants to play his records, but he can't reach them. "Please get them down," he's telling a relative or a home caregiver, "and then leave." You think about offering to make him a sandwich, but you're afraid it might start him ranting about the effects of lettuce on an antsy colon.

Today's music ain't got the same soul
I like that old time rock and roll

I totally agree. You know what 1978 song is like audio Wonder Bread to me? Shaft.

Don't try to take me to a disco

Yeah, dude, you figured us out. We were jealous of you and your four thousand Yardbirds albums. We only played Clash City Rockers full blast on our car stereos because we wanted to scare you into Oil Can Harry's, where a gay dude with his shirt open to the waist would force you to do the Running Man.

Won't go to hear them play a tango

A tango. You know, that's all that Black Sabbath ever recorded, at least until their accordion player died.

Bob, better sit down for a minute. See, nobody's recorded a tango since 1812. Your radio isn't made of Bakelite, by any chance? Somehow it's still picking up signals from World War I.

Anyway, your worries are unfounded. No one's going to make you listen to a tango. Similarly, you don't need to avoid "Never Mind the Bollocks, It's the Sex Pistols" because the quickstep makes your legs sore, and you don't have to burn your nephew's copy of "Darkness on the Edge of Town" because you just can't abide a waltz.

And to everybody who hears this song as a passionate defense of great music, it isn't. It's idiocy. It's your grandpa watching The Wire and saying that no TV villain will ever be as scary as Eddie Haskell. You know the truth, but you're not heartless. You smile. You help him get his records down. If he's hungry, you heat up a can of pork and beans.

But you're always, always ready to go running against the wind.

2011-09-19T16:20:00.003-04:00

I totally thought they were kidding when I heard there was a movie called I Don't Know How She Does It.

I mean, that's not a movie title. That's an expression of admiration. That's wishful thinking. That's what Gladys Kravitz screams on Bewitched.

I'm picturing Sarah Jessica Parker in the phone with her agent. "So," he says, "we got possible new projects for you. You interested in reading Fahrenheit 452?"

Sarah waits until the wrought-iron gates open and makes a left onto Beverly Drive. "That sounds like a total downer."

"Yeah, I gotcha. A Brief History of Time?"

Sarah slides up her sunglasses and glances at herself in the rear-view mirror. "I dunno. I mean, how important is my character if they're not even in the title?"

"Okay, maybe you'll like this one: I Don't Know How She Does It."

Sarah slams on the brakes, making the yellow Yugo behind her nearly swerve into a Bentley. "Get that messengered over to me now."

I've spent all morning on it, and I can't think of another opinion that also serves as a movie title. If You Put Catsup On Pastrami You're An Asshole turns up nothing on IMDB. There's no copyright on Dudes In Bow Ties Make Me Wet. No, this is a first: the most important thing to know about this movie is some anonymous person caught a glimpse of Sarah Jessica Parker and just had to express envy.

Yes, Sarah can do it all! She's that fabled woman who juggles a job, a family, and a beautiful home. And, for a short time, you can watch her! Pay thirteen dollars to admire somebody doing something you'll never achieve, before going home to your hovel and staring at the moldy pickles in the back of your fridge.

Sadly, I think this says a lot about chicks: like, they're masochistic. Dudes won't pay to watch somebody do something they'll never manage. There's not going to be a line for I Can't Believe His Fabulous Sex Techniques. No guy would go see He's Just 23, And Already A CEO. You know what movie would make less than Mars Needs Moms? I'm Just In Awe Of His Posture!

Still, it's grossing millions. The audience is totally there. I congratulate Ms. Parker on discovering a movie franchise that can follow her throughout life, and though I'll probably dodge She Actually Remembered Where She Put Her Car Keys, I wouldn't miss She Ran Two Blocks Without A Piddle.

2011-09-19T13:43:00.005-04:00

A hunter was mauled to death by a 400-pound grizzly during a hunting trek through the remote wilderness ofMontana.

Steve Stevenson, 39, died after he yelled out to distract the rampaging grizzly from attacking his hunting buddy, Ty Bell, 20, who had shot and wounded the animal.

Bell thought the animal was a black bear when he shot it, he told authorities. Grizzlies are a protected species in the U. S.

The bear had a similar explanation. "I thought they were trout," he said.

2011-09-19T13:23:00.003-04:00

Happy birthday to me.

2011-09-16T15:30:00.003-04:00

I never really cared about Oprah protégé Dr. Mehmet Oz before, but now I'm his biggest fan. He's the M. D. equivalent of Entertainment Tonight, except instead of saying who looked like a whore on the red carpet he's going to tell you what fruit juice could kill your kids. Hey, I have a hard time tuning out ET when they promise an upcoming Marg Helgenberger story, and I don't know who the fuck she is.

I don't know why doctors haven't thought of this before. If they can make a small fortune peddling health care one-on-one, can't they make a huge one by selling it to the masses? On Tuesday's TV commercials he could easily have come out and said, "Don't drink apple juice!", but he didn't. He said, "Something is very dangerous. Tune in to find out what!" Clearly Dr. Oz isn't sharing his vital health-care information unless you foot the bill. You've got to watch an hour of his TV show, including eighty-four commercials where an animated bear has toilet paper stuck to its ass.

If public health professionals can do it, I think everybody can. Imagine a judge refusing to render his decision until somebody buys $400 worth of World's Finest Chocolate bars. Congress can refuse to vote on something unless eight million people subscribe to Grit. Even priests can get in on the action. "Of course I'll give you communion," they'll say. "But first, who likes my little black dress?"

Anyway, I look forward to more of Dr. Oz in the future. In fact, I hope one day I can afford to be a patient of his, because that's got to be amazing.

DR. OZ: I'm very sorry to say this, but the tests have come back positive. There's something horribly wrong with you.

ME: No. NO! Dr. Oz, what is it?

DR. OZ: You've got . . . to wait 'til I get back from lunch!

2011-09-16T12:04:00.003-04:00

A wild foursome sparked the interest of an A-List crowd celebrating Nas’ birthday Wednesday night. Jay-Z, Carmelo and La La Anthony, Ne-Yo, Common, Andre Harrell and Mos Def marked the rapper’s 38th at new hot spot Catch in the Meatpacking District. “While everyone was celebrating, a foursome was going on at the Gansevoort Hotel across the street,” a witness told Page Six. “Everyone turned their attention to the lucky guy who left the shades to his hotel room open while he was all over three other girls.

Why is it always "Lucky guy!"? There were three chicks there, right? How come when you hear about these things nobody says "Lucky girl!" What, like the females didn't really want to have a four-way, but somebody told them if they went up to this hotel room they could make sandwiches?

HEALTH ALERT! HEALTH ALERT! RENOWNED DOCTOR FINDS POISON IN CHILDREN'S FOOD!!!

2011-09-15T17:52:00.003-04:00

Dr. Mehmet Oz has found unbelievable amounts of arsenic in children's food. Don't let your children eat this deadly dish! It poses an immediate health hazard! Really, I cannot understate how important this health alert is!

If you'd like to find out what children's food is EXTREMELY DANGEROUS, tune into the Dr. Oz show tomorrow at 10 on ABC -- 11 mountain time. Your children's life could hang in the balance. Okay, we'll give you a hint: it ain't bananas!

2011-09-15T17:46:00.000-04:00

I'm sure you've heard about the funding crisis facing America's postal service. Over the next month, Congress will be forced to make major decisions about the future of the postal service. Well, concerned citizens have banded together to fight back. Without our immediate help, our local post offices and their employees are in danger!

We all must do our part to ensure that the hardworking men and women of USPS are protected, and toward that end September 27 has been named "Save America's Postal Service" Day. All across the country, From 4 p.m. to 5:30 p.m., rallies will be held to send an unmistakable message to the nation and to Congress: an attack on the post office is an attack on us!

If you'd like to attend, find the right form and fill it out. It's in quadruplicate, and you have to use pen. No, I don't have a fuckin' pen, I'm a writer, not a stationary store. No, sweetheart, that's the wrong form. You can be smart and cute but not both at once, huh? And no, you can't just stand there and fill it out. You think I want to stare at your face all day? Go somewhere else. Go over there. What? No, don't come back over here: I'll be at lunch. No, don't go back to the end of the line. Just cut right back up front. Nobody will hit you. They're still sore from that fight yesterday.

Anyway, everybody please come to the rallies. Your help is desperately needed, or my name ain't Miss Simmons. Honey, I know my badge says EDNA but nowhere does it say you can call me that. Don't bring anything fragile, liquid, or perishable. Bottled water? Are you fuckin' listening to me? Oh, fuck it -- you all stay fuckin' home.

2011-09-14T10:55:00.006-04:00

I almost don't mind that Nickelodeon is spamming me, as long as they're telling American parents to get their kids off the couch and get some exercise instead of just sitting around all day. Kids today are such crap-eating couch potatoes I'm surprised any of their bodily functions still work.

Oh. Never mind. Hey, kids, who wants more fries?

2011-09-13T15:49:00.003-04:00

"This is what is so sad about Grindr.... This is what makes Grindr and the people who rely on it so depressingly mundane. Knowing who in your immediate proximity is similar to you or who is 'hot' isn’t exciting; it’s boring. Because if you need a phone to tell you what you need to know about someone as opposed to having the actual person who is 50 feet away tell you themselves using verbal communication (German or otherwise), you’re a pussy. A lazy pussy. And to those who tout the convenience and technological wonder of apps like Grindr and how it is 'the way things are' now, I would simply say that there is much more wonder ... in actually physically approaching someone who you think looks interesting and saying 'hello' without knowing a single thing about them beforehand." -- Zachary Sire at The Sword

I totally agree with Mr. Sire here. Log off Grindr! Dump Blendr! Delete your membership at DaddyHunt! Knowing something in advance about somebody is boring. You see in that guy's profile he's got a degree in math and loves animals? Bleahh. Think of the sparks that'll fly when you talk to a stranger and discover he's on a meth binge and thinks you're a raccoon.

Because it's all about wonder, you know. "Wonder" is what we need.

Me, I love approaching people with that sense of "wonder." I wonder if he's yet another dude with a foot fetish. I wonder if saying one word to him will be all the encouragement he needs to stalk me for the next forty years. I wonder if, after I mention going back to my place, I'll discover he isn't gay. And nine times out of ten, after I've proven to Mr. Sire that I'm not boring, I'll wonder how the fuck I'm going to get away.

2011-09-13T13:16:00.001-04:00

A little-person porn star who hit the big time as a Gordon Ramsay lookalike has been found dead in a badger's den.

Percy Foster, 35 -- the spitting image of the foul-mouthed TV chef -- had the world at his feet and producers beating a path to his door. When Ministry of Agriculture experts were investigating badger habitats in Wales yesterday, however, they found Percy's body six feet underground.

Sigh; this is so sad. On the plus side, they can never take away our memories of him getting a blowjob while screaming, "Oh, for fuck's sake!"

2011-09-13T13:05:00.002-04:00

To promote NBC's new retro Playboy Club, Playboy Magazine's October issue will be a special 1960s issue with a cover price of just sixty cents.

The centerfold? Shelley Winters.

2011-09-12T20:25:00.004-04:00

Olympic rowing twins Cameron and Tyler Winklevoss, who sued Facebook founder Mark Zuckerberg for allegedly stealing their idea for the social networking site, are following the footsteps of Rod Blagojevich, Snooki, and Jackass' Wee Man by appearing in a TV commercial for nuts.

Shortly after the spot was filmed, though, the Winklevosses filed a lawsuit seeking writing credit along with written acknowledgement that they created pistachios.

2011-09-12T20:04:00.004-04:00

Bush was so nervous, in fact, that the CIA considered just shooting the catcher and then telling everybody he was armed.

2011-09-12T19:12:00.003-04:00

"Contagion" infected enough moviegoers to catch the top spot at the box office. [The film] made fans cough up $23.1 million in its first weekend, according to studio estimates yesterday.

Look for the film to continue at this blistering rate to bleeding soar until Thanksgiving. Seats are going quick: don't get there late, or you may have to yank out a spotty green stool.

2011-09-12T16:46:00.001-04:00

A recent study by the Memorial University of Newfoundland shows that fatherhood significantly decreases testosterone in human males. This drop may be an evolutionary response that redirects the male from further interest in mating toward caregiving of resulting offspring.

The headline was not Science Explains Jon Gosselin.

2011-09-09T17:47:00.000-04:00

Jeez Louise, it seems like everybody's screaming over this ridiculous little Toddlers & Tiaras fiasco. Well, I've heard enough. It's time to put in my two cents.

Wendy Dickey, a pageant mom, entered her three-year-old daughter Paisley in a kiddie beauty pageant. The pageant, naturally, included a costume competition, and the theme was Celebrity Wear. The kids had to dress like celebrities.

Ms. Dickey thought long and hard about this, and finally decided Paisley would dress like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.

After the episode aired, the doo-doo hit the fan. How dare a child dress like a hooker! everyone screamed. What kind of lesson is this for a kid?

Well, I've stayed silent too long. It's time somebody defended Ms. Dickey. I see absolutely no problem with what she did, and that's not just because she too names her children after fabric.

First, maybe Julia Roberts started out as a whore, but she ended up married to a gorgeous billionaire. I'd have no problem with little Houndstooth stalking the streets if I knew she was gonna be banged by Richard Gere. And second, I hear Ms. Dickey wanted to dress Paisley like Gandhi but white makes her look washed out.

In a stroke of brilliance, though, Ms. Dickey has found a way to stem the controversy: she's going to sell the costume and donate the proceeds to charity.

Her charity choice? Georgia Right to Life, an anti-abortion organization whose mission is "Protecting innocent life from fertilization until natural death."

I'm not real sure about this part, because do we really need to protect innocent life from fertilization? Honestly, how much harm can a sperm do to --

Oh. I get it now.

Anyway, that's just my opinion, but I hope you agree. And if you see the outfit on eBay, please bid on it. You'd help preserve the sanctity of human life, and get that extra little bonus of being able to dress your daughter like a whore.

Highlight from the L. A. Times Review of "Bucky Larson: Born to Be a Star"

2011-09-09T16:18:00.002-04:00

This is ribbing for no one's pleasure.

2011-09-09T12:15:00.005-04:00

Girlfriend, I am totally with you. The loss of life! The property damage! And that's assuming Chaz is going to wear pants!

I also can't wait for Jesus to return. All his followers are going to come from far and wide to meet him, and he's going to look at them, shrug his shoulders, and say, "What, just idiots?"

2011-09-09T12:05:00.000-04:00

Great. Now who's going to clean that up?

Breaking News From the Los Angeles Times

2011-09-08T17:58:00.000-04:00

Los Angeles authorities have arrested three men who allegedly stole a car featured on the reality TV show
Bait Car.

Really? Wow. That's incredible.

Keep an eye out for tomorrow's lead, "Fat guy eats muffin on Biggest Loser."

Motion Picture Academy Tries to be Diverse by Hiring a Guy Who Knows Black People

2011-09-08T17:41:00.006-04:00

The Los Angeles Times knows why the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences hired Brent Ratner to produce next year's Academy Awards:

This past season, there were no Oscar nominations for any minorities in the major acting, writing or directing categories — a point of embarrassment for the academy. Ratner is white but has a track record of giving great parts to black actors like Chris Tucker and Don Cheadle, and has a kinship with African Americans in his personal life as well, where his gal pals have included Naomi Campbell and Serena Williams. So his selection might be seen as a shrewd way to make the show (if not the actual nominations) more multicultural.

Really? Black people are supposed to be happy because the Academy hired a guy who knows some black people? That's offensive, and it's discriminatory. I mean, like they'd ever make overtures to the gay community by selecting an Oscar host who knows lots of transsex--

Never mind.

2011-09-08T15:11:00.004-04:00

At the Reggae Rhythm and Blues Festival in Queens, New York, Democratic U.S. Representative Yvette Clarke introduced reggae artist Beenie Man to the stage with the words, “We welcome you back to the United States of America. We honor you. You have been an outstanding performer and you have made all Jamaicans proud.”

Songs in Beenie Man's repertoire advocate hanging lesbians, slitting gay men’s throats, and shooting them in the head. His song "Damn" contains the line, “I’m dreaming of a new Jamaica, come to execute all the gays."

You know times are tough when you have to demand that your representatives, in the interest of equal time, welcome folks to America who want to kill heteros.

Dear Republicans

2011-09-08T15:08:00.001-04:00

Really, gut the EPA? If the only jobs you know how to create involve carrying buckets of chemicals out to the river, people should stay unemployed, thanks.

Why "Childrens Hospital" Star Rob Corddry Loves Porn Star Joanna Angel

2011-09-08T13:14:00.003-04:00

FLESHBOT: So how was the experience of working with [Joanna Angel]? Was it everything you'd hoped?

ROB CORDDRY: Yeah, she completely meets every expectation. She's super cool, easy to talk to, looks at you in your eyes when she talks to you, and you can tell like she's got a real passion for getting fucked a lot of different ways in front of a camera.

2011-09-07T12:33:00.006-04:00

Love the Smashing Pumpkins but also love a good deal? That's why KGB Deals is here! Like Groupon, KGB Deals offers you fabulous discounts on the products and services you want. But better get in quick -- time is limited, and these deals frequently sell out!

Today we've got tickets for the incredible Smashing Pumpkins show at Terminal 5 in New York City.

Tickets were $55, but for a short time only we're offering them for only $99.50 each!

Oh, wait. What?

Oh. Well, it seems the show sold out, despite the fact everybody realized Billy Corgan is an asshole back in 1972, and some of these new "band members" have spent about as much time playing Smashing Pumpkins music as your Uncle Sid. So this is a real good deal, because scalpers are asking $249 for a pair of tickets. Yes, that seems like an odd price, but scalpers have a horrible fear of rounding up. As we said, we here at KGB Deals have connections to, uh, people who just happened to have access to massive quantities of tickets to, uh, a show that was obviously going to sell out. And who wins? YOU! You don't have to pay their extortionate 226% markup. Thanks to KGB Deals, it's only 181%!

Aside from that, you know, there's no extra fees!

Anyway, better jump, because this might be your last chance to see the Pumpkins. Billy's been arguing with the "bass player" and your Uncle Sid won't answer the phone.

News Flash!

2011-09-06T16:07:00.002-04:00

Don't buy over-the-counter drugs at the Dollar Store.

Really! I know, I couldn't believe it either. Wow -- next they're going to say I shouldn't have picked up that Chinese toothpaste.

Why Gay Men Are Arrested For Public Lewdness When Straight Policemen Aren't

2011-09-06T12:03:00.016-04:00

I was having a perfectly lovely Labor Day when a bitter little missive from some cynical gay activist totally ruined my mood.

"Dear Roman," it read. "I always suspected that gay men were unfairly targeted for arrest, but a recent incident just takes the cake. Some police officer, while he was on duty, fucked a woman on the hood of her car. Surveillance video filmed it, and now it's all over the internet. Still, the dude wasn't arrested. What the fuck is up with that? Roman, how come gay men are thrown in jail for looking at each other cross-eyed while a straight guy with a badge, carrying a loaded gun, can fuck a woman outdoors in broad daylight and get away scot-free?"

I put down my hot dog but I couldn't lower my pique quite as easily. What an angry man! I thought. I mean, did he honestly think America would allow that kind of double standard? Did he totally miss the logical explanation?

Armed with just a little knowledge of the law, we can see that our system of justice works perfectly.

The letter writer is, of course, alluding to New Mexico police officer Bert Lopez. He was driving around in his patrol car, I guess, when he saw some woman make a traffic infraction. He was all, like, "Can you pull out your driver's license for me?" and she was probably like, "Only if you pull out something for me!" Next thing you know she's getting fucked and pistol-whipped at the same time. Officer Lopez's penis is out and the unnamed woman's pants are around her ankles, but New Mexico State Police spokesman Sgt. Tim Johnson says the situation is "embarrassing" but not illegal.

"Whaaa?" scream some of you cynical types. "Why isn't it illegal? Is it because he's wearing a uniform, or because he's got a dog to keep watch?"

Neither, of course. There's a perfectly logical explanation.

Gay men are generally arrested for public lewdness, which requires two conditions. First, you have to be lewd, and second, you have to be in public. Somebody has to witness your lewdness, and be offended too.

"Well, then," you chirp, "how can men be arrested for public lewdness in dirty bookstores? Nobody's going to be offended there."

Au contraire! Say the police are passing a dirty bookstore, and they decide to drop in and say hi. If they see penises, they could easily get offended and arrest everybody inside.

When Officer Lopez fucked that woman, though, it's possible nobody was around to be offended. See, he told this woman to follow him to a secluded park. Once there, maybe he saw some gay men with their penises out. He and the woman would naturally have been horrified, so he'd arrest them and send them off to jail.

And now that there was nobody around to be offended, Officer Lopez knew he could fuck the woman in broad daylight and everybody would live happily ever after.

And that's why gay men are arrested for public lewdness and straight policemen aren't.

2011-09-05T17:41:00.002-04:00

Dear Younger Generation:

I'm sorry us old folks didn't invent computers or cellphones or plasma TVs, but we were too busy writing songs like this. We hope you understand.

With lots of hugs and cheek squeezes,
Old People

Running On Grass, Sarah Palin Ignores Half-Marathon's "Gotcha!" Rules

2011-09-05T13:54:00.006-04:00

Christ, it's like everything in Sarah Palin's life is an allegory. Here she breaks all kinds of rules to pass the pack and still doesn't win.