The owners of the Field of Dreams film location in central Iowa have put the site up for sale.

Don and Becky Lansing built the baseball diamond in the middle of their cornfield for the movie, and maintained it ever since. For sale is the baseball diamond, a two bedroom house, six outbuildings and 193 acres of land. The asking price is $5.4 million, according to ABC News.

Like Kevin Costner said, if you build it, you can charge whatever the fuck you want.

Animals express emotion the same way people do, says Jeffrey Mogil, a psychologist and neuroscientist at McGill University in Montreal.

Mogil confirmed in experiments that mice make pretty much the same facial expressions as people.

Charles Darwin, in fact, thought animals were better at showing emotion than humans. "But man himself cannot express love and humility by external signs so plainly as does a dog, when with drooping ears, hanging lips, flexuous body, and wagging tail, he meets his beloved master," said Darwin.

I think scientists make up crap just to see how gullible people are. I mean, c'mon: you think if you stick a rat on a roller coaster, it'll scream and toss its little paws in the air? Nope, regardless what you do to them, they're pretty much stuck with that "What the fuck is this?" expression.

As for Darwin, well, methinks he's fantasizing. If drooping ears and hanging lips are signs of love, I'm three seconds away from being Mrs. Andy Rooney.

Scientists at the University of Cambridge have discovered a chemical coating that stops bugs from crawling up walls.

Insects cling to smooth surfaces because the pads on their feet secrete a special emulsion -- a mix of oil and water that acts like glue. Insectislide is a special chemical polymer that absorbs the water, leaving just the slick oil on their feet. "They start slipping on their own foot sweat," said one scientist.

So instead of seeing a cockroach climb up your wall, you'll have a thousand of them on the floor going, "Holy shit, that is sooo fucking cool!"

Subway has sent cease and desist letters to mom & pop sandwich shops around the nation demanding that they stop using the word "footlong" to describe any lengthy food.

"I [got a letter] and I said, 'You gotta be kidding me,'" said Blair Hensley, 31, the owner of the Coney Island Drive Inn in Brooksville, FL. He said his shop has been advertising footlong hot dogs since 1960, years before the first Subway was built.

Coincidentally, their spokesman Jared has trademarked the phrase, "Six inches long and spicy."

I don't recommend sleeping with someone Finnish. Two days later I woke up with a start.

Repeat Thursday: Go With the Flow

Last week I went to a cocktail party that positively sparkled with witty repartee and fascinating conversation. Too bad all I wanted was to get laid. I made my excuses, hightailed it to the Eagle, and the first reasonably attractive guy I saw I tailed home. We stripped off our clothes and he leaned in close, grinning like a 12-year-old about to swap his sister's Hershey bar with Ex-Lax.

"You know what would be really cool?" he said, eyes twinkling. "You could tie me to the bed and force me to suck your feet!"

Now, this bothered me in a couple different ways. First, I wasn't falling for his alleged spontaneity. It reminded me of those hetero guys who find themselves on dates with hot, tipsy chicks: "I heard about these things called 'body shots,' " they say, feigning innocence. "You wanna give it a try?" And second, I was supposed to force him to do me? I'm attractive; he should be happy I'm naked and there. I made my excuses and scurried off, adding entry No. 472 to my "Why I Shouldn't Sleep With Strangers" list.

A few days later, though, it happened again. Another guy with a weird request, and another naked scene. "You know what would be great?" this one said like a kid at Christmas. "My neighbor's a submissive pig into hypnotism and electricity. How about we see if he's busy?"

I put my finger to my chin, pretending to think, but mostly I tried to remember where my pants were. I made some vague excuse -- when you flee a pervert's apartment you don't quibble about the details -- and went out and found a replacement. My heart leapt up to my throat when we got naked and he too started to speak: "There's something I've always wanted to try," he said. "How do you feel about Nixon masks and cheese?"

"OK," I thought. "I give up. Everybody's doing that midlife-crisis thing. But can't you all just buy Porsches?"

Now, I've got nothing against crazy stuff: I mean, some people think what I do in bed is crazy, and that's before they hear about the chickens. It's the surprise part I don't like. You wouldn't ask people over for dinner and then surprise them with horse testicles in cat pee, and you shouldn't surprise sex partners with frilly pink corsets or Ovaltine enemas.

For the third time in a row, I put my clothes back on and made my excuses, but halfway down the hall I noticed my wallet was gone. It falls out of my pants a lot so it didn't particularly surprise me -- I just didn't like having to re-greet somebody whose apartment I'd just fled. I walked back to his door and heard him talking on the phone.

"He looked really hot," he was saying. "Nice face, stylish clothes. But then he takes his clothes off, and oh my God! He's so pink and furry I'm afraid the cat's going to run after him. He's got a roll of flab six inches wide around his waist, and it looks like he hasn't been to the gym since gravity was invented. I was like, 'Skipper, better put your shirt back on or Little Buddy's going to be sick!'" I poked my head in and he pasted on the smile I use when opening presents from Grandma. "I'll call you right back," he interjected. "Something's come up."

He hung up and I edged my way in. "I guess you were talking about somebody else," I said, trailed by an awkward chuckle.

"Oh, no," he said, with an insouciant air. "We were talking about you."

"So that stuff about the Nixon mask and the cheese -- that was just to get rid of me?"

He nodded. "It seemed easiest. You weren't quite what I expected."

I sighed. "Well, I'm not a model or a professional bodybuilder. But I work out three times a week, and I've never gotten any complaints."

"Oh, puh-leeze!" he cried like Joan Rivers spotting Cher. "Aside from your massive pinkness there's a zit on your shoulder the size of Vesuvius, and if you stood with your feet together I could still toss a ham between your legs."

I stared at him in disbelief, too stunned to argue. "I forgot my wallet," I said frostily, and I pushed past him to the bedroom where it was lying on the floor. Maybe he'd stripped me of my dignity, I thought, but I'd still have a Discover card with nearly $80 available. With my head held high, I strolled back outside, where the freezing air and his insults hit me like a smack in the face.

The sun was setting as I slowly trudged home and the city darkened around me. Although I hate Los Angeles, I found myself missing it: I mean, having sex there was mindless fun, while here it was like entering a dog show. You take your clothes off and they're inspecting every muscle, every hair, asking you to trot around the bed. "That right delt is slightly saggy," they say, looking up from their clipboard, "and there's a slight curvature to the spine. The chest hair is off-center, and the ears are out of proportion. I'm afraid you'll have to go." But I guess I should have expected it. New Yorkers are cutthroat about everything -- business, sports, even food. Why did I think sex would be different? For the first time in my life I had to confront one of life's biggest questions: Would I ever have sex in this town again?

I got my answer soon enough. On the subway home, a nice-looking guy struck up a conversation with me, then asked me to his place "for coffee," and I went. I stripped naked, he leered at me lustfully, and everything was cool. Then he took off his clothes, and damn. Freak-show time. From chest hair shaped like a bagel to thighs as flat and gray as Flipper to skinny ankles where the hair had been worn away by tight socks.

This would not do.

You know what I'd really like to try?" I said, feigning excitement. "I'd love for you to piss on me while singing 'Send in the Clowns.' "

When he led me into the bathroom and began humming the intro, I nearly freaked. If I'd still been wearing either pants or shoes, in fact, I'd be in Cincinnati right now. But then I thought, Heck, I'm not getting any younger, and to tell you the truth, I'm not in the best shape in the world. How often do opportunities like this come up?

I learned my lesson. By the time he finished, let me tell you, there wasn't a dry eye in the house.

Laura Bush has never had a firm grasp on reality.  Maybe this was a prerequisite to marrying a guy like George.  The latest People magazine has her defending his record with the words, "No one, including the president, always makes the right decisions."

You feel like gently taking her hand and saying, "Now, Laura, nobody used the word 'always.'  We're saying it would have been nice if George had been right more often than a OUIJA BOARD."

On Monday, though, Laura soared totally unmoored from earth when she told Jay Leno about a certain little incident in her past.

LAURA:  I was in a car accident when I was a senior in high school and one of my best friends was killed in the car accident. . . .

Now, anybody hearing this might think, oh, poor girl. Isn't that awful? However, if she'd phrased it slightly differently, some of that sympathy might dissipate.

LAURA:  I caused a car accident when I was a senior in high school and I killed one of my best friends.

Got that? It's just a slight semantic difference, but it totally changes the impact. Like if the cops accuse you of indecent exposure, instead of saying, "Okay, I was horny, and I whipped it out," you say, "Well, it's possible penises were shown."

Jay says he first learned about the accident from her new book, but oddly doesn't require more details. Instead he wants to say how strong she must be to deal with the pain of killing somebody.

JAY:  Right, because I know you talk about it in the book, about just dealing with it, and I think it's helpful to other people who have been in similar situations.  I mean, you talk to --  You know, it was a different time, and I remember being a kid, and nowadays they have psychologists at school, and people that help kids overcome these kind of things, but there wasn't that then.  I know --

On TV these words go by very quickly, but when you take the time to read them the idiocy sinks in. "Overcome these kind of things"? Does he really mean murder? His first thought when he hears she killed somebody is, "Oh, I do hope the poor dear wasn't too scarred by the trauma"?

Laura buys right into Jay's train of thought.

LAURA:  No, and no one ever suggested that, you know, I talk to anyone or get any sort of help.  Later, when George was president, I got a lot of letters from, you know, parents or aunts and uncles or teachers of young people who'd been in an accident, and they asked me to write some words of encouragement to the young person, and usually I would write and say for them to talk to a counselor or a pastor or someone for some sort of encouragement, but I didn't do that.  And it just was never really suggested in 1963 in West Texas; people didn't -- really what you did was you just swallowed your troubles and didn't talk about it.

Laura uses the word "encouragement" twice here, which confuses me. It makes me wonder exactly what was in those letters:

Dear Ms. Bush:

My granddaughter Tiffany was texting while she was driving, and she ran a stop sign and flattened a Mexican family.  I know you did something like that.  Is there something you could say to encourage her?

Love ya lots,
Cecelia Hogsworth

Am I right?  Victims of accidents wouldn't write to her: it wouldn't make sense. You wouldn't stand at the bedside of an accident victim and tell them, "Hey, maybe you should write to Laura Bush, because she T-boned somebody once." It'd be like telling someone whose boyfriend was oddly controlling to get in touch with Charles Manson.

By the interview's end, we're feeling as ditzy as Laura. These must have been awfully trying times she and Jay lived in. I mean, just picture it. You crashed a car, or burned down a building, or killed somebody, and people just pretended it didn't happen! Thank God we've got support services these days, so while you're trying to forget all about that annoying little foible, there's trained personnel who will find you a hot towel, or cocoa, or a masseuse.

I realize nobody has questioned Michael Lohan's ethics in years. It'd be like asking Howie Mandel what's up with the fist bumps, or complaining that a Brontosaurus stole your cheeseburger. Still, there seem to be a couple dots that nobody's connected, and they've made me curious.

Today Mr. Lohan announced that he has a great rehab plan for ending his daughter Lindsay's substance abuse problems: he'd lock her in a castle in Long Island.

Now, I have to say, Oheka Castle is one fine castle. I stayed there a few years ago, and then a Jonas got married there. There's suits of armor and gardens and turrets. Still, the suggestion raises one tiny red flag:

OHEKA CASTLE IS A LOVELY PLACE FOR A WEDDING, NOT TO WRESTLE AN ANGRY SNOW MONKEY OFF YOUR BACK.

Lohan means well, you say. He's confused. The thing is, you probably forget this bit: Mr. Lohan has a past with Oheka Castle. Not a "I stayed there a few nights and really loved it" kind of past, but a "I skipped out on my bill there and got THROWN IN JAIL" kind of past.

So, color me suspicious. Does Mr. Lohan really think the posh hotel that tossed him in the slammer would be the perfect site to detox? Or, perhaps, is he still paying off that debt?

Hell, forget I mentioned it. Who am I to throw stones? One youthful indiscretion and I'm still not allowed near Chuck Norris when I'm wearing shorts.

Like I've always said, anybody who's friends with Anarchist Queer From Syria is a friend of mine. Unfortunately, even with the help of Google Translation, I have absolutely no idea what Kenan Phoenix is saying, but those pictures sure look familiar.

I went one of them to one of the gardens of New York and found a campaign to remove the forests of men and to reforest land and the destinations co-sponsors to sponsor this event on the way pastoral modern where the definition to my good friend Carmen Electra requested by volunteers, males of most gave birth to New York "Mcharin" to fly them felt their body, half of them the top, of course, does not know if she ever seen Carmen otherwise, but I am sure Bcarmen confidence almost complete. Ascended to the stage several volunteers were Hlaguethm later on.

Are these Mcharin? Where was I? Aaah, you're right in bed If only if I was to fly there, including me and Carmen said "Halqtheloa Carmen" and a million times better than "Halcoloa . . . "

I know that many people would protest and will confirm that they have felt more than New Yorkers, we are the children of the Mediterranean coast known ingested heartening that looks as if someone Ismayora down.

True I forgot to say that the hobby Carmen during leisure time is to settle vest dress a hobby are not beneficial and equal to smoking in public places, and therefore you have become I am also a smoker for the first time in my life and delay the relatively because of the late application of the law of prevention of the word that adore it contains two characters (m , n) the name of the friend that Kar was calling me now to apologize for not a news event, so excuse me I will answer of course, after taking into account the punctuation point.

Anybody got an idea of what he's saying? Sure, some of it sounds like gibberish, but some sounds distinctly Arabic. You show them flesh and they talk about smoking: that was my first fourteen dates with Farhad.

On Monday night's dinner menu at the Union Rescue Mission: tacos made from elk, deer, sheep, wild pig, black bear and antelope.

About 250 pounds of fresh game meat was donated for the feast, sponsored by the Sportsman Channel as a part of its national "Hunt. Fish. Feed." initiative.

Most diners were unfazed by the rustic fare. Many skid row residents who eat at shelters are used to diets that vary depending on what has been donated that week -- from day-old doughnuts to Dodger dogs.

"All right, give me some of the wild stuff," Tommy Harris said when he learned his ground-meat taco was partly made of bear. "I want to go to the wild side."

Harris was sitting with some friends in the noisy cafeteria at the Union Rescue Mission, where he lives and works. Volunteers plopped plates of food in front of them, and the men closed their eyes to pray.

Ralph Johnson, 48, picked up a dripping taco and took a bite.

"It tastes just like tacos," he said.

"SEE?" said Taco Bell's vice president to the chairman of the board.

I totally agree with Ramin Setoodeh in the latest Newsweek: out gay actors should never, ever play straight. See, when a straight actor plays a gay character, everybody thinks, "Wow, he really likes chicks, so that is one fine performance." But if a gay actor plays straight, we all know he's faking it. Even serious scenes become funny, because we're all thinking, "Hey, he's pretending he likes chicks, but really he does dudes! This is some crazy shit!" Which, you know, can really make the fourth wall disappear when you're watching, say, Death of a Salesman.

Take, for example, Ian McKellan as Gandalf in Lord of the Rings. I'm sure you'll agree with me when I say the first time this character hit the screen I thought he'd start calling everybody "girlfriend." I couldn't concentrate on the movie, because his sexual orientation was so obvious.

When he tried to conjure up spells, it looked more like he was trying to remember his recipe for pumpkin-cranberry muffins. Every time Elijah Wood showed up I thought Gandalf was going to ask him if he liked gladiator movies. I kept wondering if he was going to whip out his "magic wand."

Even during the most serious moments, when the entire galaxy was threatened by an all-consuming evil, I thought Gandalf was suddenly going to start dancing gaily around while asking, "How'd ya like my new frock?"

So, in the end, I agree with Mr. Setoodeh's conclusion: "Doesn't it mean something that no openly gay [leading man] exists?"

Absolutely! It means they're just not up to the task. You know, it's the exact same reason there's never been an Armenian Pope.

Queen Latifah Goes Back In

She's often reluctant to discuss the topic in the media, but last year, she addressed rumors that she's a lesbian. "They want to make up stories and make me gay all the time and it's like, "Keep running with it,'" she told Essence magazine. "I've definitely been annoyed by it, but I learned a long time ago that it was pointless to say anything."

World's Worst Pickup Line

I have a very low flow, so I'll never leave the toilet seat up.

On this day in 1968, Clarence Carter's "Back Door Santa" hit number one on the soul charts.

Sadly, he didn't even break into the top ten with his followup single, "Glory Hole Leprechaun."

[Arizona] resisted adopting Martin Luther King's birthday as a holiday years after most other states embraced it. The sheriff in its largest county forces inmates to wear pink underwear, apparently to assault their masculinity.

Yeah, like the guy who picks out what convicts wear is the butchest dude in town.

"There's this luminousness to Julia [Roberts]," [said Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray, Love]. "It's almost as if she was always lit from behind. If she wasn't a movie star, the only other job she could have would be professional fairy."

Street light. You're welcome.

Biologists have compared the genomes of present-day humans with Neanderthals, the stocky hunters that dominated Europe until 30,000 years ago. They discovered that between one and four percent of the human genome comes directly from Neanderthals, leading them to conclude that a few Neanderthals actually had sex with humans.

Sheesh, the condescension. Like just because they're primitive they can't have sports cars or money.

Overheard

GUY: Are your legs swollen?

GIRL (BLUSHING): What, because I've been running through your dreams all night?

GUY: No.

Stepping in after a series of budget cuts, volunteers prepare to fertilize Kew Gardens.

Indiana Jones and the Phosphorescent Tapestry of Phlegm

Sometimes, the jobs [at Disneyland] require ingenuity, even for some of the more distasteful chores. For example, the Indiana Jones Adventure ride relies on nearly 1,000 black lights that shine on painted mesh screens to create floating ghost images.

But the effect is marred when guests sometimes spit at the ghosts, and the saliva ends up on the screens where it glows under black lights. Because typical cleaning products bleach the screens, David Graefen, the ride's service manager, said his crew created a special saliva-cleaning solution.

A Canton, Ohio man pled guilty to tattooing a 1-year-old baby girl and was sentenced to three-years in prison for his crime.

Lee Deitrick, 20, of Louisville, pled guilty to a felony child endangering charge on Wednesday. He allegedly used a home-made tattoo gun to tattoo the child's backside while she was visiting his house with a female relative.

In his defense, he says after a couple shots of Jäger the baby was begging for it.

Here's a smart rule of thumb when shopping for groceries these days: look for signs that say "Locally grown" and then buy something else.

It's not hard to see that "Locally grown" is discriminatory. It's the grocery equivalent of saying, "Them other green peppers ain't like us," or "Them cucumbers next door don't speak English at home."

Frankly, I prefer imported fruit. It makes me feel special. It's like your Aunt Hildie from Wichita dropping by to see you, versus Cousin Arnold who lives three miles away. With Cousin Arnold you're barely getting off the couch, but with Hildie you break out the Pepperidge Farm. It's more special because she made an effort. I appreciate knowing that food racked up frequent flyer miles to get to me.

In addition, I like knowing my food was picked by exotic peoples. It's like a postcard from a foreign world. Maybe a basket of strawberries makes you think of whipped cream and shortcake, but to me it's a Mexican's way of saying, "Hey, look what I did today!"

Last, if Dr. Martin Luther King were alive today, I know what he'd say: "I look to a day when fruit will be judged not by the color of its skin but by sheer funky juiciness." Ignore all those signs and be fair to all produce, regardless of color, national heritage, or sexual orientation. None of this matters, whether you're looking for a boyfriend or a tomato. All that matters is that he's attractive and cheap.

The tool for sex, [the primatologist William C. McGrew] explained, is a leaf. Ideally a dead leaf, because that makes the most noise when the chimp clips it with his hand or his mouth.

"Males basically have to attract and maintain the attention of females," Dr. McGrew said. "One way to do this is leaf clipping. It makes a rasping sound. Imagine tearing a piece of paper that's brittle or dry. The sound is nothing spectacular, but it's distinctive."

O.K., a distinctive sound. Where does the sex come in?

"The male will pluck a leaf, or a set of leaves, and sit so the female can see him. He spreads his legs so the female sees the erection, and he tears the leaf bit by bit down the midvein of the leaf, dropping the pieces as he detaches them. Sometimes he'll do half a dozen leaves until she notices."

And then?

"Presumably she sees the erection and puts two and two together, and if she's interested, she'll typically approach and present her back side, and then they'll mate."

See, this is why I'm not a primatologist, aside from the fact I'm allergic to chalk. "Puts two and two together"? What are we adding up here? What does "a monkey with an erection" plus "tearing a leaf" equal? Is destruction of tree parts the monkey equivalent of saying, "My wife is out of town"?

No, from the way I read it, Dr. McGrew has used the wrong words. The leaf bit is like a dude with his dick out yelling "Hey, look!" at a passing female. There's no mental addition going on in her head, and if she has any sense at all she'll wait until bananas are offered.

I just got a copy of the Congressional record this morning, and I have to say Senator Carl Levin really raked Goldman Sachs over the coals. The man really has a way with words. In fact, it’s almost like it could be a song.

Oh you shitty shitty bankers,
Shitty shitty bankers, we hate you.
And the shitty shitty banking,
Shitty shitty banking that you do.

Lose, Win, Got your fingers in
Make a wad from our defeat.
Bank bank shitty shitty bankers
Now grandma’s on the street.
Bank bank shitty shitty bankers
Now grandma’s on the street.

She refinanced her estate
You bumped up the interest rate
The cops had to drag her away.
You lied right to her face
Then foreclosed on the place.
Her home is now your bidet.

Oh you shitty shitty bankers,
Shitty shitty bankers, we hate you.
And the shitty shitty banking,
Shitty shitty banking that you do.

Lose, Win, Got your fingers in
Not all thieves are armed with guns.
Bank bank shitty shitty bankers
Make lawyers look like nuns.
Bank bank shitty shitty bankers
Make lawyers look like nuns.

Two Degrees of Larry King

So, Larry King's wife files for divorce. "He committed the most grievous sin a husband can commit," she sobbed. "He shamefully, licentiously coveted my sister."

While everyone in the universe sits there in stone-faced silence, another voice pops up out of nowhere. "Hey, folks! My name's Hector. I'm a fun-loving Scorpio who spends most of his time hanging around parks helping children play ball games. I totally tapped that ass!"

That voice was loud and proud and now just won't go away. Hector Penate is on Entertainment Tonight every night, and recently took a lie detector test to prove he did something that's illegal in 42 states. Now he's asked Playgirl what they'll pay him for full-frontal shots.


Hector is as unburdened by guilt as he is by clothes. "Larry was out of town and I showed up at the kids' game . . . and then she got a little flirtatious with me, like I could feel her coming on to me," he says. "I'm a man and I felt I had to do something."

Sigh. I've got to admire the guy. Here's my mental list of things I have to do:

• Toss out my expired prescriptions, unless they're opiates.
  
• Update my profile at SquareDancingSingles.com.
  
• Blow on my air fern, just in case.
  
• Ask my doctor about Seasonale.
  

Not on the list? "Fuck something that fucked Larry King."

I can't beat them, so I'm trying hard to join them. I'm trying to change with the times. Used to be I wouldn't want my kids around a strange, half-naked single guy. Now I say he's totally cool as long as his low-slung pants only expose parts he's shaved.

Anyway, congrats, Hector Penate. You have officially been awarded a two in the "Six Degrees of Fucking Larry King" game. Do what you will with the knowledge. Me, my score is probably in the low twenties, and I'm still headed for the shower as we speak.

Am I missing something?

Times Square is the crossroad of the world. Virtually every major financial firm is located there. Every communications company is there. Once a year, on New Year's Eve, over a billion people tune in to see what's happening there. Times Square is home to a police station, an army recruiting station, and literally thousands of closed-circuit cameras.

It puzzles me, then, that on Saturday somebody tries to bomb the place, and the only camera that captures the action is the one they use to keep people from skipping out on their checks at Applebee's.

Here's the official, police-released photo of the suspect in the attempted Times Square bombing.


Got that? It's a balding guy with luggage, in jeans and white tennis shoes. Police are currently rounding up EVERY MALE TOURIST IN THE CITY. Where are the details? They won't need a sketch artist to draw a picture of this dude: they can do it in Lego.

For years the city has been bragging about how constant surveillance via closed-circuit camera ensures our safety, and liberals have been screaming that it's an invasion of privacy. Now we discover they're like Russia during the Cold War. They were always saying stuff like, "Hey, we got bombs! We got millions of bombs we're going to shoot at you, and they're chemical and biological and nuclear!" And later we find out it's a total lie, and their "bombs" are really Thermos' full of old cabbage attached to giant rubber bands.

So, once again we ask: can we believe anything government says? Didn't they just announce they were making cameras that could see through our clothes? Maybe, just maybe, before they do that, they should buy cameras whose resolution is better than a Bingo board, that don't prompt cops to send out APBs for blurry hunchbacks who are possibly tap-dancing. My Hello Kitty camera takes better pictures than this, and it uses dried pink squid instead of film.

It was a beautiful Arbor Day, so I decided to head to the park. Coincidentally, it was the very same park where Carmen Electra was shaving five of New York's hairiest men. Luckily I brought my camera so I can share it with you.

Here Carmen is being introduced. She's adjusting her top. Next to looking confused, it's her favorite way to pass the time.


Carmen calls for volunteers, and there isn't exactly a mad dash to the stage. Finally five guys get up and take off their shirts.

Here's your first clue something is seriously wrong. Of all the men below, which one has just been shaved?


Yes, the one on the right.

It's a bit awkward, because Carmen tries to shave these guys without touching them. She swipes the razor over them once or twice and then pronounces them done. She's willing to do arms, but no backs and definitely nothing below the waist. The guy next to me yells, "I'VE GOT MORE HAIR ON MY ASS!" I'll confirm that on Saturday night.

The show ends literally three minutes later, and Carmen adjusts one final time.


Here's a video that nobody really needs to watch.



The event was a joint promotion between some Arbor Day foundation and Philips Norelco body groomers. Actually, it was a great learning experience, because I had no idea how badly our New York men have been deforested. There in the park, I might have shed a little tear, but it's still not enough to make me recycle.

They're still debating in England. I don't know who any of these people are, though I'm guessing one of them made that brown gaffe. It definitely looks more exciting than American debates. Here they were asked to imagine that George Clooney was kissing them really hard.

If you're in New York today, head to Madison Square Park at noon for a Philips Norelco "deforestation" promotion. They're inviting New York City’s hairiest men to “leaf” nothing to the imagination for a chance to have their chests “deforested” by Carmen Electra in front of a crowd of onlookers in tree-lined Madison Square Park.

I totally do not get the online part of this promotion called "What kind of tree are you?" It starts with double entendres about pruning your hedges to make your trunk look big, and ends with you naked in a hotel room while a gorilla tickles your bits with a branch.


Which, you know, isn't going to make me buy anything, though it's pretty much the way I met Raoul.

You have to be 21 or over to get in, but you can show them any old birth certificate.

Police have announced that despite earlier reports, Grindr was NOT the social network 19 year-old Tommy Reed and 54 year-old Mark Woodland used to hook up, culminating in the latter's murder Sunday.

From the Phoenix Police Dept Press Office:

I would ask that, as you continue to report this grizzly crime to your viewers readers and listeners, you use "unknown social network" in regards to how the victim and suspect were connected.

Thanks as always,

Detective James R Holmes
Phoenix Police Department
Media Relations Unit

Hmm: "grizzly." Was it BearHunt.com?

A two-year-old British boy had his cheese sandwich confiscated by a nursery because it broke their healthy eating rules.

Jack Ormisher burst into tears when the staff took it away because it didn't contain lettuce or tomato.

"It's absolutely pathetic," says his mother, Dorothy Gallear.

Maybe it isn't the healthiest food in the world, she admitted, but she hasn't had to change a diaper yet.

To hell with Arizona iced tea! I'm still pissed about the Bush/Gore election, so I'm not buying Flo Rida CDs.

Sounds like somebody could use a little cheese.

Speaking at a forum Monday in Toledo, 3rd District Republican candidate Pat Bertroche said police should catch illegal immigrants and document their whereabouts. The Cedar Rapids Gazette reported that he added, "I can microchip my dog so I can find it. Why can't I microchip an illegal?"

There's a few reasons:

1. You don't own illegal immigrants.
2. They're people, not dogs.
3. Just judging from the picture, dude, they're not going to lick your genitals no matter how much peanut butter you smear on.

Disney has added a male fairy to its popular online world of Pixie Hollow.

It was a pleasant surprise this week when Pixie Hollow publicist Sweet Pea announced to the community that it was welcoming a new member. His name is Slate -- and he's the joint's first guy. Like Peter Pan's famous blond friend, Slate has talent for tinkering. And if you must know, he's not a fairy; he's a "sparrow man." Whatever you say, Slate. Nice wings, by the way. Slate's also quite the metrosexual – he thinks that "Coal's Clothiers has got some great Sparrow Man threads -- and my good buddy, Gavin, up in Evergreen Overlook has some amazing hats and accessories for Sparrow Men as well."

I have several hundred questions about this, but here's the first: Why does Slate sound like he's on the three a.m. shift at QVC?

As is common with a lot of these characters, they give you tools so you can customize him. You can change his wings, change his face, change his hairstyle, and make him grow in length from 4 1/2" to a whopping 5 1/2" inches long.

And that, kids, is why fairies never ever settle down.

Changing "Gay" to "Black"

What struck me about this Archie announcement is that it seems we're about to lose yet another safe haven for kid's entertainment. Introducing a black character may be "realistic" but does Archie have to be realistic? Kid's entertainment doesn't have to "reflect the current world of Teens." It doesn't have to present harsh realities or controversy. It can just be about fun or fantasy and it doesn't have to delve into every aspect of life whether it be provocative, even deviate. Will the Archies have a skinhead character? Will they have a Holocaust denier character?

-- Warner Todd Huston, Chicago columnist

Right-Wing Newspaper Can't Tell Obama From Malcolm X

Assholes. Look! Here's George Bush in a dress.

I don't know why we're wasting our money investigating Goldman Sachs. Absolutely nothing will happen to any of them. If it's a crime to sell junk that nobody in their right mind should buy, the staff of Pier 1 would be in Rikers right now.

Janna Bullock emigrated from Russia to become a nanny in New York. She met Aleksei Kuznetsov, a Moscow bank executive, while he was visiting, and they married. Next thing you know her husband is Moscow's finance director and she's "acquiring vast tracts of land around Moscow" until her empire is worth $2 billion dollars. Which, naturally, transformed the nanny into a New York socialite and plopped her on the board of the Guggenheim Foundation.

Sadly, all good things must come to an end. "We didn't get into any of the gossip or the allegations," said the president of the Guggenheim. "We have no idea what's true or false." The New York Times, though, goes far enough out on the limb to say that in July of 2008 Mr. Kuznetsov was "pressured" to resign. Then he "went on vacation," and while he was gone, an ally was shot in an apparent contract murder. He "decided not to return to Russia."

Dear New York Times,

How wealthy does a man have to be so you won't say he was "forced" to resign, then "fled the country," narrowly dodging hitmen, and is now "laying low" in an undisclosed location behind a phalanx of armed bodyguards?

Sincerely,
RomanHans

An Obituary

Elizabeth L. Post, who succeeded her grandmother-in-law, Emily Post, as the doyenne of etiquette in repeated editions of Emily's celebrated advice book, died Saturday in Naples, Fla.

If you must know, Mrs. Post was 89.

Two of the most-buzzed-about parts of Laura Bush's new memoir Spoken From The Heart have to do with her speaking about the 1963 car crash where she killed a classmate (something she's never opened up about publicly before) and a decently startling revelation that during a trip to Germany, when she and President GWB fell ill, they believed they might have been poisoned.

Dear, it's called "German food."

Well, we did it again. Somebody died on a New York sidewalk as we all just casually walked by and pretended like nothing was happening.

Folks, we really need to do something about this. These stories make their way around the world, and as a result everybody thinks New Yorkers are heartless.

Here are some signs to watch out for so you‘ll know when to intervene.

If I see somebody sprawled out across the sidewalk, the first thing I ask myself is, Are their eyes open? Are they overweight, and does their velour track suit say JUICY COUTURE on the ass? If so, then they’re tourists who got so excited about being in the Big Apple they actually tried to walk a whole city block by themselves. Push them downwind of the M&Ms store and eventually they’ll come to.

Another question to ask is, Are they smoking? Do they have yappy little dogs, and tattoos? If so, then they’re probably students who are begging for spare change. You do not need to call an ambulance for them, as this would just prompt them to call you lame, or write a really sarcastic tweet about you. Instead, just give them your change. Cigarettes and tattoos don’t grow on trees, you know.

If it was easy to tell when somebody was completely smashed, Ben Roethlisberger wouldn’t be serving three to five. First, I scour the area for clues. Are they surrounded by tiny cocktail umbrellas? Do you see champagne corks, or wedges of lime? Is any of their clothing emblazoned with the words “Kiss Me, I’m Irish”? If so, take a swig of whatever they’re drinking as a finder’s fee and leave them where they are.

Next, see if there is a diary somewhere near the body. If there is, don’t waste time searching their pockets for a tiny tin key. Just break the lock. Trust me: those wussies ain’t made by Schlage. Concentrate on the fact that you could be saving a life, and don’t even think that you may encounter some dozing homeless man’s fantasy drawings of Justin Bieber.

Once the diary is open, flip to the last page. Does it read something like, “Diary, the weather is great today. Right now I’m going to help an old lady fend off a dude with a knife and then I’ll be back with an update”? Or is the entry more along the lines of “ILL ADDMIT IT I LIKEZ MEE SUM ALKOHOLLLLLLL”?

When in doubt, gently roll the body over with your foot and double-check what kind of stain they leave on the sidewalk. Remember this handy motto: If it’s yellow, let them mellow. If it’s red, ohmigod I just kicked over a dead guy.

Of course, all this thoughtfulness is going to add to your travel time. With bodies sprawled out at roughly arm’s length across every New York sidewalk, you’re going to move slower than gay rights. Make sure you write in your own diary whenever you try to save one of these dudes. And just as a kindness to other Good Samaritans, keep your Justin Bieber sketches confined to another page.

Two stories with foreign accents today. First, the guy who did the voice of the Geico gecko has been fired.

Gecko voice actor D. C. Douglas has been fired by Geico after leaving a nasty phone message for a Tea Party group. The group posted the message online, telling their members to call Geico and complain. The following day, Mr. Douglas was fired.

They said to him, "Dude, this is a prestigious, quality company you're working for. You aren't the Aflac duck."

That must have been weird. The Geico gecko calling, all rude and abusive, even before the dude filed a claim.

Still, it seems like Geico opened a big can of worms. It's barely eleven in the morning and already I've gotten four phone calls saying, "Hello! I'm the Geico gecko. Your mother sucks cocks in hell!"

Next, here's a news item that confirms my suspicion that even native Australians can't understand their crazy accent.

An Australian restaurant that refused to admit a blind man because a waiter thought his seeing-eye dog was gay has been ordered to apologize and pay compensation.

A misunderstanding arose when a waiter thought Ian Jolly said he was bringing a gay dog, rather than a guide dog, into the restaurant. The waiter subsequently refused to admit the pair.

"The staff genuinely believed that Nudge was an ordinary pet dog which had been desexed to become a gay dog," the owners said in a statement. They were ordered to pay Jolly $1,400 and apologize.

If we reenact the scene with an Australian accent it almost, kind of makes sense.

WAITER: G'day, mate! That's a fine looking dingo you got there. What kind of pup is that?

BLIND MAN: Nudge? He's my guide dog. I couldn't do anything without him.

WAITER: He's a gay dog?

BLIND MAN: Yes, a guide dog.

WAITER: A gay dog.

BLIND MAN: A guide dog.

WAITER: If I'm not poking too much in your outback, how do you know he's a gay dog?

BLIND MAN: I trained him specially.

And Now, A Word From Our Sponsor

Keep an eye out for these books on aging by syndicated columnist Shirley W. Mitchell.


And coming this fall, ask your bookseller for Snapping Bones and Leaving the Stove On After 70.

Or imagine staying home.

The adult children of artist Frank Frazetta have resolved an ugly dispute over control of their father's body of work.

The family feud boiled over in December when Frank Frazetta Jr., was caught using a backhoe to break into the artist's museum. Police say he tried to remove 90 paintings insured for $20 million. Frazetta Jr. insisted he was attempting to safeguard the art from his scheming siblings.

Frazetta, 82, is renowned for his sci-fi and fantasy art, creating covers and illustrations for more than 150 books and comic books as well as album covers, movie posters and original paintings.


Dirk and Hilda Frazetta, with their lawyer.

Senior staffers at the Securities and Exchange Commission spent hours surfing pornographic websites on government-issued computers while they were being paid to police the financial system, an agency watchdog says.

The SEC's inspector general conducted 33 probes of employees looking at explicit images in the past five years, according to a memo obtained by The Associated Press.

The memo says 31 of those probes occurred in the 2 1/2 years since the financial system teetered and nearly crashed.

Their bosses said, "See if you can find any bankers screwing the public," but all they found were plumbers and pizza delivery guys.

Boobquake Day

An Indiana college student has attracted 30,000 supporters for a Facebook campaign urging women to show as much cleavage as possible to prove that breasts do not cause earthquakes.

Jen McCreight has named Monday, April 26 National Boobquake Day as a protest against an Iranian cleric who claimed that women who do not cover up were to blame for predictions that Tehran would be hit by a quake.

"On Monday, April 26, I will wear the most cleavage-showing shirt I own," McCreight said. "I encourage other female skeptics to join me and embrace the supposed supernatural power of their breasts.

"With the power of our scandalous bodies combined, we should surely produce an earthquake."

So if you see a scantily-clad woman standing in a doorway on Monday, she absolutely, positively isn't a whore.