How TV Shows Find Men Who Play Gay And Act Effeminate

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

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.

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!"

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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.

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

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"

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.

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

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."

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

Happy birthday to me.

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!

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!!!

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!

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.

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?

"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.

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!"

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.

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.

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

"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.

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.

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"

This is ribbing for no one's pleasure.

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?"

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

Breaking News From the Los Angeles Times

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

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.

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

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

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.

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!

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

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.

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

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.

If butterflies didn't exist, bad musicals would have to create them.

Eugene O'Neill describing the trees in Desire Under the Elms:

"They are like exhausted women resting their sagging breasts and hands and hair on its roof, and when it rains their tears trickle down monotonously and rot on the shingles."

Uh, okay, dude. Now explain the squirrels.

See, this is why I don't like symbolism: most comparisons just don't make sense. Do kites get caught up in the limbs of old ladies? Do trees scream at you in Italian when you forget to pull your zipper up?

That little passage makes Mr. O'Neill sound misogynistic as well. I mean, you know you're a wreck when you have to prop up your tits. And I thought the chicks on Millionaire Matchmaker were disgusting. They're golddiggers with fake boobs and no brains, sure, but your shingles are probably safe.

You'd never catch O'Neill comparing trees to dudes.

"They are like exhausted men resting their sagging penises on a coffee table, too thin and white to even be mistaken for Virginia Slims."

Still, it's this "desire" thing that totally loses me. It reminds me of Tennessee Williams' work: arguing and fucking, arguing and fucking. If depression and anger were even remotely erotic, I'd take my dates to Ikea. I'm picturing O'Neill's play going something like this:

INTENSE MAN: "Do you hear that? The incessant drip of rain, like the tears of your mama. And look! Those branches look like wrinkled, sagging boobs. Come slide over next to me, under the blotchy nipple."

INTENSE WOMAN: "I thought you'd never ask. Watching those shingles rot has awakened something deep inside me. (PAUSE) Sweetie, why are you holding the popcorn over your groin?"

Word the New York Daily News Probably Shouldn't Have Used in Their Review of "A Good Old Fashioned Orgy"

lickety-split

A British man has had a huge "Where's Waldo?" illustration tattooed on his back.

It took tattooist Rytch Soddy an entire day to ink the scene on 22-year-old John Mosley. Mixed in with Waldo are 150 tiny figures, including Darth Vader, a horse riding in a chariot pulled by two Romans, and a man carrying a sabertooth tiger.

This is ridiculous. Obviously if you're going to get a tattoo of preschool literature, you should get "Pat the Bunny" in your pants.

Sure, some folks are skeptical, but I am totally loving televangelist and prophetess Juanita Bynum's typing in tongues on her Facebook page. I'm with ya, sister! God is great! God is good! God is thoughtful, too -- only sending divine messages you can type with two fingers on each hand.