Maya Angelou Seeks the Existential Reassurance of "Home." The London NYC Hotel Offers to Help, With Rooms Starting at $298 a Night.

Yes, when Maya Angelou was talking about being at home wherever she was, she wasn't talking about feeling comfortable in the world, or within her own skin. Surely she was thinking of a luxury cosmopolitan hotel that offers a personal suite experience to their international celebrity guests. "I know why the caged bird sings," Maya wrote, and we do too. It loved the sophisticated ease and cosmopolitan vibe of The London NYC!

One glance at our ultramodern lobby and you'll know that Maya's march for freedom would end in one of our overstuffed chairs. All God's Children Need Traveling Shoes, and what better place to find them than this hotspot of pulsing urban energy mere steps from Christian Louboutin on Fifth Avenue.

And who needs A Song Flung Up to Heaven when The London NYC's intuitive yet discreet service knows what Maya wants even before she does? Forget freeing Nelson Mandela -- she'll get free wi-fi, even in our split-level health spa. After dark, the author of Just Give Me a Cool Drink of Water 'fore I Diiie would swoon over the London Bar's Diablo Gordon Ramsay. Unlike the tempestuous chef, she wouldn't call it "fucking awful."

So next time you're in town, don't miss The London NYC. We'll even give you our special discounted Martin Luther King Jr. rate if you tell the reservation clerk, "Brother, I have a dream of unparalleled luxury!" America's greatest poet famously said, "While one may encounter many defeats, one must not be defeated," and we wholeheartedly agree.

Just call the concierge.

Ordinarily I don't like artsy hipster crap but when it involves reuniting a moose with his family count me in.

Synopsis, Including Ending, of a Crap Movie: "Margin Call"

An investment banking and securities firm packages trillions of dollars worth of securities that, due to the financial downturn, become worthless. While most of the firm's Ferrari-driving, multi-millionaire employees express dismay as the securities are dumped onto an unsuspecting market, potentially throwing the world economy into chaos, one is concerned and apologetic.

"Goddammit!" barks Manhattan Messenger publisher Charles Magruder. "You headline a Frankie Valle interview 'Wop Like A Man' and all of a sudden everybody in the world is mad at you."

"One needs to be particularly sensitive in this era of social media," declares Irene Martin, his PR consultant. "But don't you worry: I'll write up an apology."

"No need," replies Mr. Magruder. "I found the apology Tracy Morgan gave after he said he wanted to stab gay kids. I'll just replace 'Italian' for 'gay.'"

"What?" snaps Ms. Martin. "Are you fuckin' goofy? Apologies for being anti-gay are nothing like real apologies. You'll get your ass handed to you on a platter."

Ms. Martin is right. Can you tell which of the quotes below come from public apologies for anti-gay comments, and which apologize for offending important minority groups?

1. "I'm truly sorry."

2. "I can certainly understand how someone could come to a different conclusion than the one I meant."

3. "Earlier today ... I made an offensive comment.... It was regrettable and I should not have said it."

4. "I am aware that some people have said they were offended...."

5. "I humbly apologize and ask for your forgiveness of my unwise behavior."

6. "All a very big misunderstanding!"

7. "We are truly sorry...."

8. "I didn’t mean it that way...."

9. "There's no defense for the indefensible. All we can offer are our apologies, sincere though incalculably inadequate."



ANSWERS:
1, 3, 5, 7 and 9 are apologies for racism. 2, 4, 6 and 8 are apologies for homophobia.

1. Fox Sports columnist Jason Whitlock apologizing for his tweet that, due to Jeremy Lin's enthusiasm, "Some lucky lady in NYC is gonna feel a couple inches of pain tonight."

2. Roland Martin of CNN apologizing for telling fans to "smack the ish" out of gays.

3. Bob Griese after saying a Colombian NASCAR driver fell behind because he was "out having a taco."

4. Houston politician Manuel Rodriguez apologizing for a flyer in which he lists reasons not to vote for his opponent that include "advocating for gay rights" and living "54 years with no children."

5. California politician Marilyn Davenport's apology for labeling a photo of apes the "Obama family photo."

6. Cee Lo Green apologizing for assuming a critic was gay and therefore offended by masculinity.

7. Papa Johns apologizing for a receipt describing a customer as "lady chinky eyes."

8. Kobe Bryant apologizing for calling a referee "faggot."

9. ESPN apologizing for a Jeremy Lin "chink in the armor" headline.

Good friends are all alike; every miserable friend is miserable in its own way.

They borrow your car. They screw your boyfriends. They're convinced you won't miss all that E.

My miserable friend Gary had no boundaries. "I really, really like John," I tell Gary the last time we go barhopping. "He could be the one, so I want to take it slow. I want to take the time to develop a relationship."

Gary nods frantically in agreement. Half an hour later he's still nodding, but this time he's in his car and John's dick is in his mouth.

My miserable friend Honey wants to do me. Which, you know, is kind of understandable. I summarize all the relevant facts: she's supposedly a lesbian, I could not be more gay. When we go barhopping and I meet a man, I don't want her standing there with her fingers crossed saying, "Don't work out. Don't work out. Please God don't let it work out!" Still, I'm patient. "I'm not interested," I repeat. "There's no way."

"That's fine," she says. "I can handle it." And the next time we go out she "accidentally" leaves a razor blade in my car.

Me, I'm a miserable friend because I'm logical. I don't console. I don't comfort. When I hear about problems, I offer logic. I offer cold, hard answers.

See, there's far too many people dealing in fantasy, and I'm firmly rooted in the real world. If my friends build a castle in the air and then complain about the plumbing, I'm not going to play along. I'm not going to suggest using the powder room on an upper floor.

My friend Michael likes hot young Hispanics. Which, you know, isn't a problem if you're George Clooney, but Michael is fifty and poor. He watches Teen Mom to see what nice apartments look like. "What can I do to catch a hot Latin stud?" he asks me.

A good friend will say, "Just be yourself!" A good friend will say, "Don't look for him and he'll come to you!" Maybe that'll segue into thoughts about volunteer work, or exercise, or tips on how to dress well. Me, I'm not mincing words. I say, "Can you get a rope and chloroform?"

Luckily, being a good friend is no longer a good thing, at least in my neighborhood. "You're such a good friend!" always has undertones of, "I can't believe you actually picked up my dry cleaning!" and "Can you take my dog for a walk before you head home?" Everyone really wishes they could be a good friend, but they're making money and getting laid.

Still, I'm nostalgic. I've seen the ideal, and I'm aiming for it. I'm compromising. Now I meet misery with a few minutes of comfort -- but if the person keeps complaining, I'll swing straight back to the advice.

"I'm going to die single, aren't I?" says Maryanne.

"No!" I comfort. "Never." Pause. "You own a dog, right?"

Dude Who Sings "Your Teeth Are Breaking Loose/Crushed And Splintering Into Your Mouth/Like Broken Glass" Endorses Rick Santorum For President

Dave Mustaine, lead singer of heavy metal band Megadeth, has endorsed Rick Santorum for president.

The man who wrote the lyrics "Prince of darkness, your satanic highness/Prince of darkness, the most beautiful angel" said he was impressed by the former Pennsylvania senator's decision to cancel campaign events and visit his sick 3-year-old daughter in the hospital.

"I think Santorum has some presidential qualities," said the writer of "As the demons take their fill/An orgy's taking place/Human blood will spill." "And I'm hoping that if it does come down to it, we'll see a Republican in the White House . . . and that it's Rick Santorum."

Santorum is rather controversial in some circles, due to his suggestion that homosexuals should be regulated like child molesters, that legalizing gay marriage would pave the way for people to marry home appliances, and that children would be better off having jailed parents than gay ones.

Still, that doesn't bother Dave Mustaine. Taxes and regulations regarding "what you can say and what you can't say" have stifled creativity, and only Rick Santorum can help, declares the writer of Headcrusher, which goes "Death from Head crusher! Head crusher! Death from Head crusher! Wow!"

Meanwhile, entire world is disgusted by what recently happened at Shoegasm.

Overheard

"It's a scam. Happy Overpriced Restaurant Day!" -- some dude I'd never go out with

Let's Just Make This Perfectly Clear.

So it's perfectly okay to publish photos of any body part as long as it's shaved? Well, then, I can't wait for next year's Sports Illustrated: Roman's Balls edition.

A Summary Of Nancy Grace's Thoughts On The Whitney Houston Case

If we can brang criminal charges against the people who furnished drugs to Whitney, then we should brung them. They should definitely be broughten.

Quick Thoughts About the Grammys

I loved loved loved last night's Grammy Awards. Never before has the vast constellation of American musical stars sparkled quite as much, from the Giants' Mario Manningham and Victor Cruz to Neil Patrick Harris and Jack Black. Ordinarily I don't like Mr. Black, but at least he didn't make us pray.

Not that I'm against an event's emcee leading the audience in some random activity: I'd just like it to be the Hokey-Pokey for a change.

I know I took notes when the star of Kung Fu Panda, Year One and iCarly gave a Master Class on the difficulties of retaining one's indie cred. The Foo Fighters obviously listened, abandoning their repertoire to play a grunge remake of Ca Plan Pour Moi all three times they came up to bat.

Naturally I was brought to tears by the many tributes. The Band Perry saluted Glen Campbell by singing Gentle On My Mind, a tune written by John Hartford. Which is a little like paying tribute to Ashton Kutcher by reading old scripts from Two and a Half Men, but whatever.


Though the telecast seemed to proceed without incident, Lady Gaga watched from behind a police barricade.

I hope I don't sound "hipper than thou," but I live in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, which is where all the hot new music comes from. Naturally I was thrilled when Best New Artist went to Bonnie Bear.

Another highlight, of course, was Adele. What a gem! And I say this as someone who still thinks "Rolling in the Deep" is about mudwrestling. It seems like just weeks ago the music industry's modus operandi was notorious: rich white men would take some skinny chick and manufacture a singer out of her. No, judging by the the sea of white male faces behind Adele, now they're doing it with fat chicks too.


It's like she's speaking for an entire generation when she sings, "You had my heart inside your hand, and you played it to the beat."

Still, one dark blotch marked otherwise pristine proceedings. Outside the Staples Center, Hispanic musicians protested the elimination of an award for Latin jazz. "The Grammy Awards are not what it used to be," said Bobby Sanabria, a Latin percussionist. "It used to be about excellence in music."

Bravo to Mr. Sanabria! I totally agree. Now let's give 1978's Best New Artist the last word.

If there's an audio player here, you can listen to me reading "Surprise."

I remember the first time I used Mitchum deodorant. It was incredible. I think I was more impressed than when I first heard about landing on the moon, or heart transplants. I mean, Buzz Aldrin never helped me with underarm wetness.

Mitchum didn't exactly work for days at a time, like the ads said, but it worked pretty damn well. Gone were the yellow pit stains. I didn't smell like I collected bottles for a living. It was a miracle!

After a week or so, though, the bubble deflated slightly. In the shower I discovered that I'd created a layer of the stuff in my armpit, and it just did not wash off.

It kind of freaked me out. I'd never had anything on my body that it wasn't possible to remove. I thought switching to Mitchum was a spontaneous, easily reversible thing. I didn't realize it was a commitment, like getting a tattoo.

I scrubbed. I went from Dial to Comet. I used washclothes. I scrubbed myself raw, but it still didn't come off. It felt slick, unlike skin, and it had hermetically sealed my armpits shut.

Can they do that? I wondered. Sell deodorant that you can't remove with lighter fluid?

I put up with it for, oh, maybe twenty years. Got used to it. I didn't sweat, didn't smell. So what if a significant part of my body didn't feel like skin, and repelled soap and water? But eventually my conscience got to me. Aluminum has been known to cause Alzheimer's, and Mitchum has so much aluminum in it I was slowly turning into a cookie sheet.

I went to the drugstore and bought lemongrass-scented deodorant by Tom's of Maine.

I noticed an immediate difference as I applied the soapy substance to my pits: Tom's didn't go on dry. In fact, as I sat there fanning my pits thirty minutes later, it appeared to be immune to that technological breakthrough known as EVAPORATION. Their deodorant wasn't some bizarre, unnameable substance that spread like a liquid but coated like a metal: no, it appeared to be part of the Rice Pudding family. In fact, I thought, they should sell their hydration secrets to Little Debbie, because whatever they put in that deodorant kept my pits moist for weeks. Every time I lifted my arms it sounded like somebody was yanking Rosie O'Donnell out of quicksand.

Rather than hermetically sealing my armpits, they covered the B. O. with the scent of lemongrass. Which, you know, makes sense, because when I play basketball I want everybody to stop and say, "Hey, you smell Pad Thai?"

After a week of having a Saigon rice paddy in each armpit, I switched back. And, though I recycle and reuse and watch what I eat, I realized something:

I like my superchemicals. I don't particularly care if manufacturers dump petrochemicals in major rivers in Mongolia, and I don't particularly care what they do to me. I like the way two weeks after I've brushed with Crest Butt-Crammed With Scope Effluvia somebody asks if I just ate a mint. I like having shields in my armpits that rival the ones surrounding the Starship Enterprise.

So, I'm back. My Mitchum is back; my pit shields are back. I forget that I have little muffin pans coursing through my bloodstream. I know petrochemicals aren't for everybody, but they're just right for me.

If you want deodorant that's safe to eat, get Tom's.

Me, I generally have something in the fridge.

Fill In The Blank

According to a spokesman for the U.S. Department of Agriculture, which supplies food to the public school system, all food served must be "_____________ regarded as safe."

1. occasionally
2. periodically
3. intermittently
4. generally
5. sporadically
6. usually
7. frequently


ANSWER:
Give yourself one point if you said 4. generally. Give yourself a bonus point, though, if you didn't write in "invariably," "typically," or "consistently."

"Ms. Borden, bring me that list of locations where cinematic serial killers have struck," barks Harlan Wilkes, imperious CEO of Screwdriver Films.

The prim Miss Borden shoots Mr. Wilkes a curious look. "Why, sir, it's right there on your desk."

"What?" asks Mr. Wilkes. "I looked and looked, and -- no. I thought that was a list of placid locations of bottling plants." Mr. Wilkes goes white as a sheet. "Ohmigod! I just booked our family vacation!"

Could you make a similar mistake? Can you tell which of the following are the sites of crazed celluloid killings, and which are the brand names of bottled water?

1. Clover Valley
2. Eden Lake
3. Harrogate Spa
4. Archer Farms
5. Camp Arawak
6. Wolf Creek
7. Deer Park
8. Placid Pines
9. Pocono Springs
10. Crystal Lake



ANSWERS:
1. Dollar General's brand of bottled water
2. Site of 2004 British slasher film Eden Lake
3. British brand of bottled water
4. Target's brand of bottled water
5. Site of 1983 film Sleepaway Camp
6. Site of 2005 film Wolf Creek
7. Bottled water
8. Site of 2000 film Bloody Murder
9. Bottled water
10. Camp in the Friday the 13th movies, also Rite Aid's brand of bottled water

I am totally on her side. Oranges don't just sell themselves.

I ordinarily don't like food shaped like buildings, but the men's room was utterly delicious. It's just too bad they had to tear down a fudge orphanage to build it.

Screw you, haters. Next you'll be slamming on my "Leaning Tower of Penis."

Policeman Arrests Policeman Arresting Ipad Stealer for Stealing Stolen Ipads

link

Well, sweetie, I guess it's a nice Valentine's Day present, if you seriously couldn't find a plastic bag that'd fit over your head.

State Senator Confuses Lie Made By Idiot With Laboratory Study Sponsored By The Center For Disease Control

Tennessee state Rep. Stacey Campfield was thrown out of a restaurant yesterday. Martha Boggs, owner of Bistro at the Bijou, recognized the homophobic Mr. Campfield and said she wouldn't serve him because of his repeated lies about gays, including the "fact" that they live, on average, 42 years.

Despite getting the bum rush, Mr. Campfield was the picture of tolerance. "I said in as calm a way as I could that I don't hate gays and the things I have said were backed up by the CDC," he says on his blog. "I offered to send her the links."

Helpfully, Mr. Campfield has posted these links. The gay lifespan "fact" is here:

http://theroadtoemmaus.org/RdLb/22SxSo/PnSx/HSx/hosx_lifspn.htm

Now, perhaps Mr. Campfield should have realized this isn't an official Center for Disease Control website, because the URL would have included stuff like "cdc" and "us" and "gov." Clearly he should have noticed that on this website the letters "CDC" appear less often than "sodomy" or "MTV." Instead, we're just given one curious line:

In 1994, an obituary study revealed that the median age of death for homosexual males was 42 and for lesbians was 49.

You know, just from quickly scanning this, one realizes that it's slightly less believable than a hunchback saying they've bedded Scarlet Johannson. Because we all know how obituaries disclose the sexual orientation of the deceased. I still remember the headline for the New York Times obit of Alan Ginsburg: "ANOTHER GAY ONE, DEAD!!!"

Those still on the fence can easily discover that Paul Cameron, the author of this questionable study, was thrown out of the American Psychiatric Institute. In his defense, Mr. Cameron claims he said, "No, I quit!" several seconds beforehand.

So, is Mr. Campfield a liar or just profoundly stupid? I'm thinking it's the former, but hoping for the latter. It would brighten my life immeasurably knowing one day soon he'll mistake his hat for a waffle iron.

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

COP: We gonna find any drugs in your car?

DISHEVELED GUY: How good you gonna look?

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

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

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

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

Oops.

I slipped.

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

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

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

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

Three years later.

Hi. This is Paula Deen for Herpeez.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What I Was Thinking

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MR. CARSTAIRS: Drat!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(1)

(2)

(3)

(4)

(5)

(6)

(7)

(8)


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because toilet paper doesn't have a pointy end.

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

(To the tune of Bette Davis Eyes.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How to Act Like a New Yorker

When someone says: Happy new year!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hey, it worked for me.

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

Doing the Gas-Soaked Rag

(Jauntily, to any kind of tune)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Coincidentally, that's what in the cupcakes too.

Today they're all OMFG.

Inspirational Stories

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

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

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

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


Put me down for I1lIl1I.

Random Thoughts

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

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

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

In Thailand, are typhoons just called phoons?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hmm. Which side should we choose?

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

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

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

Stop me if this rings a bell.

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

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

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

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

ZELDA: Zounds!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hope this helps,
RomanHans

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

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

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