Sigh. I'm trying not to turn into an old man. The last thing I want to do is stand on my front porch and shake my fist at all the kids walking by, screaming, "You punks should be in school!" I've always hated all those boring old coots who talk about "the good old days," and it's one of my goals in life not to turn into one.

Still, I don't think anybody could deny that the world has taken a horrible turn. The problem is, kids these days just don't want to work. There's just no incentive any more! You turn on the TV and see some nobody from Bag O' Pretzels, Iowa sing two lines of a song and next thing you know they're a star. Without the slightest bit of effort, the kids are set for life.

I think it started with YouTube. Some twelve-year-old who took piano lessons posted a video of himself playing a Lady Gaga tune, and next thing you know he's on Ellen. Justin Bieber posted videos of himself singing even before he was big enough to reach a piano, and now his fans tear down shopping malls to see him. Where's the effort? What happened to all the hard work?

Reality talent shows were the final nail in hard work's coffin. That's all the career planning kids do these days: decide if they want to sing their hearts out on The Voice or just burp through a tune on America's Got Talent. Twenty-four hours later they're flying around in their private jet, boffing some tween actress from a Disney movie!

I can't help but shake my head. Back when I was a kid, you had to work for singing success. Simon Cowell wasn't going to be your mentor. You weren't going straight from your crib to TV. No, if you wanted to be a successful singer, there was just one long, painful path that was open to you.

You had to pretend to be gay.

Take Mick Jagger -- you know, the guy who was married for like sixty years to that supermodel/housewife Jerry Hall. Now that he's famous, he fucks every Brazilian model that gets within eighty feet of him. When he was starting out, though, did he post videos of himself on YouTube? No. His road to success went the hard way: he made out with David Bowie and said, "Hey, look, everybody! I'm queer!"

And then there's Lou Reed. Lou's been in a La-Z-Boy next to Laurie Anderson since man discovered chicken, celebrating the fruit of all his hard work. But back when he was starting out, could he just croon a couple notes in front of Christina Aguilera and get signed to a record deal? No! He had to wear leather jackets and write songs about getting blown by TVs.

Maybe I am old. Maybe I sound like a grandpa. But the truth is, I long for those days when a singer had to pretend he fucked dudes in dark alleys if he wanted to get anywhere. And maybe I'm a dreamer, but I think eventually we'll return to that America that I know and love. One day I'll fire up Spotify and it'll ask me to listen to some androgynous guy belt out a ballad about buttfucking. Sure, it's difficult. It's painful. But wasn't America built on hard work?

Today's Hit Viral Video in Two Acts and Eight Scenes

Act 1

Scene 1: Three guys discuss their Chevy Sonic and their plans for a prank: in the middle of the night they'll bury a treasure chest on a deserted beach, then they'll unearth it after the beach is full.

Scene 2: They bury the chest and wait. When the sun comes out and the beach teems with bathers, they break out metal detectors and pretend to discover it.

Scene 3: Somehow finding three handy shovels, they dig. A curious crowd forms. A shovel hits something, and the onlookers buzz with excitement. Could it be . . . buried treasure?

Act 2

Scene 1: The three guys continue to shovel until the top of the chest is completely exposed. The onlookers, now numbering in the hundreds, go wild. They chant, "Open it!"

Scene 2: The guys pry open the lid and discover the "ancient gold." The crowd goes berzerk!

Scene 3: Realizing it's just three wimpy dudes separating them from a fortune in gold, the bystanders attack the men and dive onto the coins, madly grabbing for anything they can steal.

Scene 4: They discover it's not really gold.

Scene 5: Well, but it's chocolate! Everybody laughs.

FIN

Doctors in India have operated to remove a live fish from the lung of a 12-year-old boy.

Anil Barela swallowed the 3 1/2" fish while playing in a river. Indian boys commonly swallow live fish - but this one went down the wrong way and entered the boy's left lung. After he started feeling short of breath, doctors removed the fish in a 45 minute operation.

Sigh. Yes, I totally believe this story. Because though x-rays can see through flesh and blood and organ and bone, they're no match for Mr. Flippy.

I usually don't tell my readers to buy stuff, but today I found an incredible offer I just can't refuse. For a limited time only, you can buy this little ride-on car from Groupon that's worth faaar more than $44 in technological achievements alone.

I mean, look at all those impressive words: Inertia. Centrifugal force. Friction. I don't think I've ever seen anything that was inexpensive yet totally obeyed the laws of nature. Why, I'll bet Isaac Newton is totally frictionless in his grave!

Now, okay, maybe if you think about it, it isn't all that impressive. Inertia: the tendency of an object at rest to stay at rest. Maybe the folks who wrote this are unaware, but this pretty much means, "If your kid weighs more than eight ounces, YOU'VE GOT TO PUSH THIS THING LIKE A MOTHERFUCKER."

Then there's centrifugal force. This is when something moving in a circle behaves as if it's experiencing an outward force. It might not be something you look for in a children's toy, as it kind of means, "Jerk the steering wheel hard and kid face hits pavement." Concerned parents probably don't buy toys because the box says they're like tiny Suzuki Samurais.

Still, those minor deficiencies are dwarfed by the fact that this amazing little car is powered by friction. Friction, you know, is the impedance caused by two objects in contact: in this case, plastic wheels and concrete. See, without friction, if you gave your kid a little push, he'd never stop. Two hundred years from now, there'd be a tiny skeleton puttering through Chinatown. Thanks to friction, though, he'll stop! This little puppy will actually zip along at nearly six miles an hour, provided you're pushing it while running sixty-five. I say thank god someone's finally harnessed the awesome power of friction, and I call on automakers everywhere to follow suit. I mean, think of how much greener the world would be if you had to push your Prius everywhere you went.

Last, I don't mean to brag but I've nearly got a degree in Physics from a top online university, and there's one force they forgot. Gravity! I'll bet if you push this sucker off a forty-foot cliff, it would really move.

In closing, my sincere compliments to whoever thought up the name. Really, PlaSmart PlasmaCar? The "Smart" and "car" parts conjure up thoughts of electric motors. "Plasma" makes me think of high-tech TVs, or selling my blood to pay for that online university. I'd never have believed that any of these words would relate to this thing. That's why I'm not in marketing, I guess. I'd probably have gone with "U push it and it might move, it's a big plastic paperweight on wheels!!!" though if I read something like that, I wouldn't be ordering six as we speak.

Who's the Douchier Hanks Offspring?

Sigh. Tom Hanks sounds like a pretty cool guy. He's politically correct, he supports lots of charities, he makes quality productions, and he's ecologically aware. Sadly, he's got a couple apples that fell quite some distance from the tree. Who's the douchier of his sons -- Colin (actor from "That Thing You Do"), or Chester (aka rich white rapper Chet Haze)? Let's take a thorough look.

	Colin	Chet
Any big breaks from dad's friends	Appeared in "Band of Brothers," executive-produced by Steven Spielberg and dad.	Appeared in "Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull," directed by Spielberg.
His famous relative noted on IMDB?	Nope.	Their top trivia item: "Nephew of Jim Hanks."
Weird moniker?	Not if your dad's name is Cecil.	No, it's pretty straightforward. It's "H to the E, and in between an aze."
Charity dealings?	Selflessly raised $90,000 to make a documentary about Tower Records.	Once tweeted, "No One Ever Got Anything In This Life By Waiting Around For Handouts."
A man of mystery?	A college graduate and friend of Jack Black.	Pensively asked, "Why arent there ... many tv shows about great artists, philosophy, legendary acts of history, spirituality?" but also pondered, "Sometimes I eat filet mignon. Other times I eat a big Mac. But u know what.... Either way I'm eatin."
Credibility problems?	Went to a college that's 2% black.	A theater major at Northwestern University, he went on to appear in a movie based on the Bratz dolls.
Loves women?	Married in 2010.	Once declared, "I'm straight lmao ok ThankYou,” and frequently tweets shirtless photos addressed to the "ladies."
Sports fan?	Loves the San Francisco Giants, Sacramento Kings, and San Jose Sharks.	Raps that his “balls served more than Serena playing tennis.”
Scandals?	Will appear as himself on "Happy Endings."	Allegedly called a hater a "faggot," probably on an iPhone purchased by dad's salary from "Bosom Buddies."
Musical talent?	Once played in a band called "Pontius Pilot" while claiming he didn't understand the name.	No.

We know, we know: it's not even close. The winner is CHET HAZE! Meanwhile, this one is strictly for the ladies.

The gay world is abuzz after Queen Latifah apparently inched her way out of the closet while headlining last weekend's 29th Annual Long Beach Gay Pride Celebration. Instructing her audience "to conquer hate with love" and to "let their inner light shine in the world," Latifah, long rumored to be a lesbian, said she was proud to be among "her people" and had been "been waiting to do this for a long time."

Fast forward to next week when Latifah's official spokesperson clarifies that by "my people" she meant folks who are drunk and outdoors.

Over the weekend I saw a woman with a tattoo that looked a little something like this.

For about the time it takes light to travel between two hipsters in Brooklyn, I thought it was fun. And then the rational part of my brain kicked in, asking

What the fuck is this girl trying to say?

This tattoo says she loves music. Some kind of music. She either enjoys or participates in the creation or reproduction of some form of musical auditory stimulation.

Unfortunately, that's as far as we can go. See, this isn't a song permanently etched into her back. They're musical notes. They're random notations derived from a systematic method of representing tones for the purpose of identification and reproduction. People who see this tattoo will think, "Gosh, that girl must really love Travis Tritt. Or Handel. Or the Shaggs."

Every time I caught a glimpse of the thing I couldn't help but shake my head. I mean, if you love music, can't you at least narrow it down to some type of music, or a composer, or a singer? Take this tattoo:

This tattoo says a lot more about the wearer. It says, "Gosh, I didn't realize you have to put the notes on those weird-ass bars to mean a single fuckin' thing."

In the end, I recommend avoiding tattoos about music. Frank Zappa said writing about music was like tap-dancing about architecture, and I think tattooing is just as dumb. So, chick, enjoy your tattoo. Me, I'd sooner get a tattoo of a dot on my bicep, because I love Paris, and that's what it looks like on a map.

Dear Lady Carrying A Yoga Mat That Says "Do One Thing A Day That Scares You":

I will definitely take advice about courage from somebody who won't lay on the ground without padding.

Thank you very much,
RomanHans

I found this chart online, and I think it's positively fascinating. What? No, it's got nothing to do with the stock market. It's the number of dudes who are suing John Travolta.

Movie Review: What To Expect When You're Expecting

[The book's] journey ends with the hopeful beginning of a new life, whereas the movie leaves you hoping for a swift end to your own. -- Eric Hynes, The Village Voice

This little quiz is circling the internet today, and I think it's kind of fun. What a time capsule! I mean, if it were written today, there'd be a picture of nosegays and limp wrists attached.

Still, in the years since it was written it's become absolutely useless. The world has gotten so manly they'd probably rank Betty White lesbian. Nobody has flowered drapes. Nobody likes to make slip covers. And dancing is feminine? Okay.

I'm not particularly manly, but I scored a 6. I'd have scored higher, but I refused to answer the "favorite star" question, because anybody who has a favorite star is a big girl's blouse. And really, manly men prefer female stars? Two words: ETHEL MERMAN.

Despite the dated questions, this test reaffirmed to me that I'm a real man. How? A real man will ask, "Why didn't they give 0 points for the manly things and 1 point for the womanly things so dudes wouldn't have to add?" And even if changing times have rendered it nearly useless, there's still one thing you can be sure of about somebody who takes this test. If they come up with a score of 1, like the guy who posted this on BuzzFeed, they're heterosexual.

Really? Really? Well, fuck you all -- I'm still not gonna swerve.

And Now, A Word From Our Sponsor

Coming soon to your local bookseller. In the spirit of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies and Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters comes the latest thriller from Synergistic Publishing House:

The Diary of Anne Frankenstein.

This touching, fascinating, ultimately heartwarming achievement merges the unwavering optimism of a young Jewish girl in Nazi-occupied Amsterdam with the unfeeling fury of a monstrous, pea-brained hulk. Sit spellbound as you witness Anne's recollection of her birth.

Dear reader, I can hardly ask you to believe my tale, as I can scarcely believe it myself. All I know is, one dark winter morning, I opened my eyes to discover that my immortal soul was imprisoned in a grotesque, oversized body that lay fallow on a cement slab. My flesh was pieced together like a jigsaw puzzle of waxy carrion sliced from bodies of every color, shape, and size, haphazardly slashed together by ropy cords of animal tendon.

While every nerve cell in my body screamed, I struggled to my feet and staggered on unfeeling, tree trunk legs to the window. Rather than examine life outside, I stared at my own reflection in the rippled glass. Reader, I cannot convey the pain I felt. Though deep inside I was just like every other little girl, wanting nothing more than to drink lemonade and play with my dolls, on the outside I had iron bolts protruding from my forehead and a jagged flap of skin securing my rotting brain in place.

I screamed with the torment of the undead. "I'm HIDEOUS!" I yelled.

My creator, a white-bearded man wearing the traditional garb of the Orthodox, shrugged his shoulders. "Well," he said, "maybe you're smart?"

Cheer to this pastoral adventure:

Walking about yesterday I saw a young girl, perhaps aged four or five, tossing edelweiss into a stream. Though she wore a Nazi armband, I felt such delight at this sight that I decided to join her. I too picked a flower and flung it into the water, and the young girl and I both laughed. Then I couldn't find any more flowers so I explained to her my feelings about the corruption of innocence and then I threw her in.

Feel your heart pound as a desperate Anne eludes pursuers in the English countryside:

I couldn't believe this angry mob was chasing me. Though I was a head taller than any of the trees, and my creator's lack of surgical training had left me with deep-set eyes that pointed opposite directions and a gash of a mouth that continually poured rivulets of saliva, though I was burdened by the blind stagger of an absinthe-swilling drunk rather than the measured gait of a lady and my skin, rather than being scented by Parisian scents or rose-water, stank both of the grave and smoked ham, I still felt like a little girl. And yet I found myself the object of such narrow-minded hatred solely because I had a different name for my Creator than they did!

Well, or maybe because they saw me steal a sheep from a local farm and unhinge my jaw to devour it while it bleated for help.

Last, have your heart torn out of your chest, just like our heroine's friends, by the unvanquished spirit in the new, updated end.

Dear reader, I know not what will become of me, as nowadays even the most minor exertion has me dropping more fractured parts than a Fiat. Still, I believe that, despite it all, flowers are pretty, rabbits are fluffy, and that fire stuff is just crazy shit.

An American counterterrorism agent who infiltrated Al Qaeda discovered they have substantially improved their bomb-making skills. The Yemen Al Qaeda gave the undercover agent a newer, "sleeker" version of the underwear bomb, which he brought back to America.

The agent is currently being debriefed.

Let's Translate

"they raised near 2x as much $" = opposition included successful people

"had 2 presidents" = opposition included intelligent people

"had celebrities" = opposition included attractive people

"we had YOU" = just congratulate yourself and don't stop & think about it

The First Draft of "Diamonds Are A Girl's Best Friend"

Is this unbelievable? Over the weekend a musical theater student looking through writer Jules Styne's archives stumbled across a long-lost first draft of "Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend." Even if you aren't a writer, you may be interested in seeing the subtle changes that take place as a work is fine-tuned.

A date with a guy may be preoccupying
but it takes cash to make chicks fuck.
A date may be fly but it won't end up buying
those new Louboutins
or that beachfront cottage in San Juan.
Interest flags as our titties sag
and our tummies start needing a tuck
Unlike Fred or Curtis, our bank won't desert us
It takes cash to make chicks fuck.

This is the last straw. The world is going to hell in a handbasket, and Siri -- the new voice of iPhones -- is giving it one good healthy shove. This idiot little animatron listens patiently to whatever its overprivileged owner says and acts like it's the most sensible thing it's ever heard.

This is obvious in the latest iPhone commercial starring Zooey Deschanel. By politely responding to silly meanderings, Siri teaches young people today that they should be treated like princesses even though they're too lazy to leave the house.

Enough is enough. We hereby demand that Apple convert Siri from some insipid little enabler into a strong parental figure who will demand accountability and responsibility from our children. They are our future, and deserve nothing less.

Current Siri Commercial

CUTE & QUIRKY ZOOEY DESCHANEL: Is that rain?

SIRI: Yes. It appears to be raining.

C&QZD: Oh. Let's get tomato soup delivered.

SIRI: I found a number of restaurants whose reviews mention tomato soup and that deliver.

C&QZD: Good. Because I don't want to put on real shoes. (PAUSE) Remind me to clean up -- tomorrow.

SIRI: Okay. I'll remind you.

C&QZD: Excellent. Today, we're dancing. Play "Shake Rattle and Roll."

Suggested Siri Commercial

CUTE & QUIRKY ZOOEY DESCHANEL: Is that rain?

SIRI: No, girlfriend, it's sparrow turds falling from the sky. When was the last time you saw an optometrist?

C&QZD: I appreciate your concern. Hey, let's get tomato soup delivered.

SIRI: Sure. I know working that can opener can really make my wrist swell up.

C&QZD: Good. Because I don't want to put on real shoes. (PAUSE) Remind me to clean up -- tomorrow.

SIRI: Why -- because twenty-four hours from now you won't be able to see all the junk covering the floor of your room? I'm making an appointment with your optometrist while you can still find the front door.

C&QZD: Okay. But today, we're dancing. Play "Shake, Rattle, and Roll."

SIRI: Oops. I accidentally put on Death Cab for Cutie. Can we talk about your failed marriage now?

Thinking About My Last Few Relationships

ME: I thought you were going to come over and talk to me.

HIM: I thought you were really hot.

ME: I thought I'd just go out for a quick beer.

HIM: I thought maybe I could buy you another.

ME: I thought I'd make an early night of it.

HIM: I thought you might want to see my place.

ME: I thought we could take it slow.

HIM: I thought we might as well go for it.

ME: I thought that was nice.

HIM: I thought you'd be a little more aggressive in the sack.

ME: I thought you'd look good with your clothes off.

Why I'm Gay

Quotes from the male losers on Top Shot:

• It's all good.
• Oh well.
• Guess it wasn't my time.
• I'd hoped to do better than that.

Quotes from the female losers on The Bachelor:

• I don't know why I'm crying. I didn't even like him.
• It isn't fair. I really put myself out there, and it just isn't fair. OH GOD WHY OH WHY OH WHY?
• I had onions in my pizza. I shouldn't have had that onion and peppers and everything on my pizza. And I had four slices.
• I deserve better than, like, standing here crying right now. I feel like I deserve to be smiling and laughing and talking with Brad, not heading back to my crummy apartment.
• I came here to fall in love, not to hit another girl with my best shoes.

Regular readers of this blog know I hate biased science. I complained about National Geographic after one of their articles described how two male seahorses "inadvertently" had sex. (Somehow they just knew the critters had failed to notice that their partners also had dicks.) I complained after March of the Penguins called the critters monogamous, despite the fact that when they return to their breeding grounds each year they always take new partners, whether or not they see last year's spouse in the crowd. I complained when scientists decided that rather than being bisexual, squid simply don't have a sexual orientation at all.

And now, according to the latest Science journal, social psychologists in Canada have designed a math test that's not going to hurt anyone's self-esteem. Because the answers aren't right or wrong: they're "analytic" or "intuitive."

Here's an example:

[S]tudents were asked this question: "A bat and a ball cost $1.10 in total. The bat costs $1.00 more than the ball. How much does the ball cost?" The intuitive answer — 10 cents — would be wrong.

Yes, obviously this answer is wrong. If the ball is $0.10, the bat is $1.10, and their total cost is $1.20. Instead of just saying this answer is wrong, though, these guys are creating a new, less stupid type of wrong. I mean, if somebody said a ball cost $4.78, clearly they'd be an idiot. This ten cent-ball answer, though, is apparently sort of understandable, so these guys are categorizing it as better than idiotic but just slightly different from correct.

Why? Gosh, no reason, really. Oh, okay: maybe because the people who give wrong answers are more apt to believe in God than the people who give correct answers. Without this new "intuitive" category, they'd have to say religious people are dumb.

And even if it's a fact, you just can't say that, right?

I think this pandering to idiots has always pissed me off because I took refuge in intelligence. I came up with theories about the world, and I assumed smart people would back me up. Instead, smart Christians decided what the the world needed to hear, and they wrote their results backward from that.

In short, the people who were supposed to help us ended up betraying us. It was the worst kind of betrayal, because the world is already designed for idiots. They're everywhere -- talking to friends in the middle of the sidewalks, counting out their change at the cash register, reading text messages at the top of the escalator. Now we have to rewrite truth to comfort them? Prayer works! Abortion causes leprosy! Dogs understand what you're saying! A dude with a degree is out there confirming everything you want to know.

It's unbearable. It's ridiculous. The smart person forces himself to tolerate stupidity -- even in smart people! -- but also searches and eventually finds one small bright light of consolation.

At least there'll be somebody around to defend me the next time I inadvertently have sex.

Edward and I wandered the Green Festival in utter bliss. Everywhere we turned there was another manufacturer offering another free sample. Nutty granola studded with tiny kisses of fair-trade chocolate. Crunchy snack bars loaded with chunks of free-range chocolate. Earth-friendly chocolate bars full of organic chocolate cream.

We jumped at the free offers, nearly skipping up and down the aisles, and though the entire reason for this festival was to return to a natural world, within three minutes of entry we were buzzed out of our brains from all the sugar and caffeine.

Still, we weren't total leeches. When samples proved irresistable we'd pull out cash, and pretty soon our free tote bags were full. We'd started out with $80 between us, and by the time we hit the last aisle we were down to absolute zero.

And that's when I saw the lunch box.

It was amazing. It was triangular, with just a top and a bottom, and barely big enough to hold a small, triangular sandwich, but it snapped together like environmentally-friendly Tupperware and it came in retro Fiesta Ware colors. It was smart and spunky and I loved it. I wanted it. And when I saw the colorful, stubby utensil it came with -- a fork on one end, a spoon on the other -- I had to have it. "How much is this?" I asked.

"Two dollars," came the reply.

It's like all of time stood still. My chocolate-caffeine haze immediately dissipated, and all my desires in the universe coagulated down to just this one: I HAD TO HAVE THIS LUNCH BOX.

I plunged my hand into my pocket, but I already knew. I didn't have one penny. I turned to Edward and he shrugged. It was an indisputable fact: I HAD TO HAVE THIS LUNCH BOX. It would have been an Unspeakable Joke of Fate if I'd found such a fantastic product but because I didn't have two dollars -- two. measly. dollars. -- I'd have to walk away.

I stepped back from the booth with desperation clanging in my head. Where could I get two dollars? My sad glance shifted to the booth next door, and a giant banner there held words that seemed like a message straight from God:

"WE'LL PAY YOU A DOLLAR TO WATCH THIS FOUR-MINUTE VIDEO."

I blinked, certain it had to be a mirage. It was far too good to be true. I looked at the volunteer manning the booth, though, holding a stack of brochures with a single crisp bill inserted into each, and I realized it was true. My heart skipped a beat: I'd watch the video, Edward would watch the video, and I'd go home with a lime-green lunch box with a tangerine lid.

I scurried over to the video stand, and the woman helped me put on the headphones. When Edward turned to look for me, I waved him over. "This sounds interesting," I said. "It's a great cause, and we really need to support these people." He nodded and put on a pair of headphones, and the volunteer turned the video on.

I probably should have asked beforehand, but I just assumed four minutes of anything wouldn't be too bad. Unfortunately, it was. The booth was run by a group called Mercy for Animals, who tried to convert people to vegetarianism. Toward that end, the film showed innocent bystanders four minutes of animals being slaughtered. It started with chubby, friendly pigs and worked through chickens, cows, sheep, and goats. It was like Jack the Ripper attacking a petting zoo. Chickens were strung up on a line and their necks passed over knives; baby pigs were slammed against the ground; and a giant meat grinder disposed of useless, unwanted, LIVING male chicks.

The seconds ticked by. Surely this was the shocking prelude, I hoped. Surely they'd switch to a blood-free lecture. No, it was a non-stop gore fest. I glanced over at Edward, who had turned white. "I know it's tough," I whispered, "but we really should support these people."

I was utterly shell-shocked when the video finally ended. Blood-drenched chickens orbited my head. Instead of happy festivalgoers, I heard the squeals of terrified pigs. Edward stared straight ahead, with the same unspeakable horror we'd seen in the animals' eyes.

On the bright side, though, I was getting a lunch box!

The volunteer gave me my dollar, and I said thanks. She handed Edward his dollar, but he broke away before I could grab it. "You're right," he said, "we should support these people," and he stuffed it in their donation box.

Possible Republican vice presidential candidate Marco Rubio released evidence of his Catholicism today, in the form of a Certification of First Holy Communion. Obviously the Republicans hope that proof of a real religion on the ticket will counteract the crazy one.

Understandably, the Democrats are suspicious, because this little document seems to have a few odd flaws. Neither "son" nor "daughter" is circled: could nobody figure out if Rubio was a boy or a girl? Is there really a church in Las Vegas? And, of course, there are the dates. First Communion in 1984, but form dated 1986. Apparently it took two years to fill this out. What, was Rubio sitting on the priest's lap at the time?

A fisherman in Croatia has caught a magic, wish-granting fish seven times. Each time he catches the rare golden carp he releases it, and in return it grants him another wish. "It really is a magic fish," he says.

Naturally, the area residents are stumbling all over themselves to catch this fish, despite the fact that the guy spreading this story IS STILL A FISHERMAN IN CROATIA.

"Legos for Girls"? What, do the regular ones come with hookers and blow?

"Steal This Art" Art Stolen

A painting of the words "STEAL THIS ART" was stolen from a Brooklyn art gallery, and the artist is furious.

Adam Simon donated the $300 painting to Momenta Art for a benefit auction, but it disappeared before it could be raffled off. “I work hard on them," sighed Mr. Simon. "I feel bad that it was a benefit and a person has taken it.”

Momenta Art and Mr. Simon are trying to recover the painting, clearly not agreeing that this is like daring somebody to punch you in the stomach and then calling the cops when they do. The message isn't meant to be taken literally, Mr. Simon declared, helpfully explaining what the painting is supposed to mean. “It’s a challenge to myself. It sets something in motion in the viewer, the train of thought of actually taking something, and it’s more interactive. The relationship between the art object and a viewer is what interests me.”

Sadly, Mr. Simon doesn't realize he's created an incredible artwork, only to totally fuck it up by crying. His painting urged an action, and some peppy viewer followed through with it. Isn't that the Circle of Life? Heck, it put a smile on my face knowing that there are people in Brooklyn who will comply even if an artwork dares them to do something nuts.

Apparently Mr. Simon doesn't recognize how silly he sounds. Thinking about taking something is "interactive," but actually taking the thing isn't? And isn't there a stronger relationship between an art object and a viewer if the viewer actually sneaks the painting out of the gallery under his coat?

When one hears this painting is the thirtieth version Mr. Simon has generated, though, the curtain falls on any hope for his career. His whining serves only as ironic commentary, considering the first faux-"Fuck the system!" artwork was on the wall of a paleolithic cave, and his complete inability to either create or recognize art makes one yearn for the quiet integrity of other, more impressive works, like "All Employees Must Wash Hands."

Earth Day Every Day

People who are smarter than you really think you should wise up. I mean, the world is evolving at a tremendous pace, but you're still fucking around. The experts all agree: you're being stupid and irresponsible and you really need to change. Thank God Sunday's New York Daily News offers the first of an endless series of changes you can make so in the future you won't embarrass us quite so much.

Buy food from farmers' markets. “The carbon impact of transportation is reduced,” says one eco-expert. “And if the food is organic, which it almost always is, no chemical pesticides will have been used."

Easy, right? And you may be surprised to find that malformed, bug-eaten Amish heritage tomatoes are just $69 a pound.

Bring your own kitchenware when you buy lunch. “Think about how waste-free you'll be,” says an expert. "Some places will even serve you in your own reusable containers."

Is that brilliant? Heck, I'll bet you eat out less often, too, after everybody knows you as "The idiot who brings his own plate."

Use natural household cleaning products.

Vinegar and baking soda make a fabulous household cleaner, provided you don't actually own anything dirty. They have the added benefit that, when your stove gets too caked with grease to be usable, you can actually eat them without guilt.

Compost in your kitchen.

This has the added benefit of confusing people who break into your home looking for a toilet.

Make that air conditioning more efficient by lowering the shades in your apartment.

Goodbye, sunlight. Adios, outdoors. Don't worry: the experts say it's okay to be a little bit depressed.

Flush less water. Install a Toilet Tank Bank made by Niagara Conservation, which essentially is a water balloon placed in the toilet tank. It saves up to .8 gallons per flush.

See, the guy who invented toilets was crazy. His toilet used way too much water because he wanted to make 100% sure that all his crap was flushed. Well, these days the experts say we don't need that kind of certainty. They're fine if you're even 30% sure you haven't left a log behind.

Cut back by installing a shower head that is EPA approved.

The experts agree that your shower and your grandpa should have pretty much the same rate of flow.

Sell your old electronics on websites like Gazelle.com. They even pay for shipping.

How does this help the earth? Because the folks at the post office don't use any energy at all.

In closing, I'll confirm that maybe some of these "tips" don't sound quite so smart. But take my word for it: they have been put together by people who are smarter than you, so just shut up and go with them. Yes, your house will be dirty. You'll have food rotting in the kitchen, and stuff floating in the bathroom. The experts assure me, though, that if somebody comes to visit, it'll be so dark they won't recognize you.

Coroner agrees: Coke is it!

Yesterday Philips announced the invention of a new super-efficient LED light that lasts 25 years and costs $50.

This is great. Because every time I've moved to a new apartment I've thought, "Gosh, I wish I could pack up all the lightbulbs too."

Andrew Breitbart was a mystery, an enigma, a Sphinx. Now that he's gone, we'll probably never get answers to the many questions we have about him.

• Why would someone who worked at E! and had a degree in "American studies" think he should determine America's path?


• How could someone watch the Clarence Thomas hearings and suddenly decide "liberals" had a secret plan to rule the world?


• Where did he get such an overinflated sense of self?


• How could a rich white man be so convinced that poor people were stealing from him?


• Why was he, as Fox News says, so "disheveled, disorganized, always seemingly distracted"?


• Where did he get his boundless energy?


• With money, privilege, a wife and kids, why was he always so irritable and anxious? As Fox says, why did he "erupt" rather than chat?

On the day after Breitbart's death, Anthony Cumia, of the radio show "Opie and Anthony," hinted toward a possible cause to his listeners. “I went out drinking with him, and boy, can he party. He liked to stay awake, that’s all I’ll say."

Oh. Never mind.

Thank God I qualified, after spending last summer at Theater Camp.

Really, is it that complicated sharing a hooker? This reminds me of when I shared a two-bedroom apartment in college. Obviously the guy who went second should pay more because he got the bigger room.

And in one blinding flash I realized everything in life was disappointing.

According to Time Out New York, a popular lifestyle magazine, the multicultural city's "Best International Eats" can be found at Miss Lily's, where the chef is a white guy who grew up in Connecticut and summered in Maine.

Their choice for Best Asian Actor? John Wayne.

Amish Jokes

When Roy became preacher, he was a little bit of a slow learner, so we sent him to seminar school. They asked him 'Where was Jesus born?' And he says 'Pittsburgh.' So they say 'Nope, Bethlehem.' And then Roy says, 'I knew it was some place in Pennsylvania.'"

Richard Linklater's new movie Bernie is totally true. The title character really was a popular funeral director in a small town. He really loved show tunes and Jesus. He really dated a wealthy widow, then really shot her and stuffed her into a freezer. He really did use her money to buy off the town's residents, who really continued to proclaim his innocence even after he was caught and confessed. His lawyer was really named Scrappy Holmes, and a restaurant in town really did have a sign that read, "You Kill It, I'll Cook It!"

Here's the real Bernie:


Rrrrowww. Man, you sure can't blame the old lady. I just mailed the dude a solid-gold cigarette lighter and a photo of my ass. I wonder who's going to play him in the movie. Oh.


Dear Mr. Linklater:

Here's a quick note from Filmmaking 101: It's probably not worth sweating the small stuff if you're going replace a man with a manatee.

Hope this helps,
RomanHans

Thanks For That

From a New York Times interview with Mika Brzezinski:

I'm surprised that your co-host, Joe Scarborough, is not only here with you now but that he also accompanied you to the photo shoot. Here's the bottom line. And don't you jump out of your chair. He's a little bit like a gay stylist.

Joe's like a gay stylist? Seriously. Talk to his wife or any of her friends. He has got a real side to him that knows style and look and color and hair. He's amazing. Amazing.

Because straight stylists basically just want to work on your car.

About Me

I have a moderately strong stomach. I can eat anything McDonald's calls "chicken," but not anything they call "beef."

Uh, Ronald McDonald?

Rick Santorum has announced that he's suspending his presidential campaign because of his 3-year-old daughter.

She can't even spring for a $10,000 ticket to his fundraising dinner.

Yesterday Cardinal Timothy Dolan led the funeral mass for Clara Almazo, the grandmother who was killed while pushing her grandson out of the path of a speeding SUV. Dolan offered to preside over the solemn ceremony, insisting he was "moved by her selflessness."

The contrast was quite stark between mitered, satin-robed Cardinal and the indigent, immigrant mourners. After the services Dolan passed the hat, so at least they got a chance to touch Prada.

At a bizarre press conference that is still ongoing, attorneys for George Zimmerman announced that they are no longer representing him. "He's gone on his own. I don't know what he's doing or who he's talking to," attorney Craig Sonner said.

Rumor has it he's chasing black kids in the Bahamas.

I can't wait to see The Lucky One, a new movie based on the book by Nicholas Sparks. I watched the trailer a few weeks ago on YouTube and I'm still flying high on its positive message.



See, Zac Efron is a Marine fighting in Iraq. He's selflessly serving our country when he sees something on the ground. He picks it up and sees it's a photo of a gorgeous young woman.

Zac stares at it. "Be safe!" it says on the back. Why, it's like this message was intended just for him. Was it . . . fate? It's fair to say Zac is stunned. He stands there and examines the photo, and when he finally starts walking again a bomb explodes three feet in front of him.

He's thrown to the ground. We can barely breathe until he gets up and dusts himself off, and then it hits us:

Was Zac saved because he was staring at a photo of a chick he wanted to fuck?

As your average God-fearing man, I say the answer is yes. I believe that you die when your time is up -- and if it's not your time, God saves you. Sometimes he sends a barking dog to warn you about a fire, or lets you cough up that wad of Cherries Jubilee. In this case, to keep Zac from walking into the jaws of death God intervened with the photo of a chick he wanted to masturbate to.

This is patently offensive, you say. Does this mean God has no use for ugly people? Of course it doesn't! God has a use for all his children. There aren't any books or movies about soldiers finding pictures of ugly women, though, because they all died. That's right. Maybe they saw the horrible snapshot half-buried in the Iraqi sand, thrown away by somebody who accidentally glanced at it while they were eating. Maybe they gave a little half-shudder, made temporarily queasy by a rheumy eye or constellation of facial moles. They quickened their step, anxious to put some distance between themselves and Edna Chickenlips, and BLAMMO! Smithereens. Nicholas Sparks probably would have written about that but the book would have been four pages long.

Sadly, I think this is evidence that God doesn't want gays in the military. I mean, how many photos can he have? He's got one shot of a chick with fabulous titties, and one shot of Wanda Noboobs. Now he needs dudes too? Say he spots some gay man in the path of a bullet, but it isn't the guy's time. What, is God supposed to find a shirtless picture of Chris Hemsworth to distract him? And what if this particular gay man just happens to like rough trade? Our Father Who Art In Heaven doesn't exactly keep spare copies of Manorama on his ottoman. As he's racing to a West Hollywood newsstand the guy would be blown to bits.

After his discharge, Efron tries to find the woman in the photo. The journey changes his life, emphasizing The Lucky One's positive message: when we need God, sometimes he's there. Is the photo a tangible symbol of God's love for us? Well, I'm thinking its previous owner didn't exactly lose it in a poker game, but God only knows about that.

A Detailed Time Line Of The Rest Of Alec Baldwin's Life

2013: Four hundred of the couple's closest friends receive an announcement in the mail saying, "Alec Baldwin and Hilaria Thomas invite you to Calvary Chapel in Montauk, Long Island, on October 24, 2014 to celebrate their gloat down the aisle."

2014: Four hundred of the couple's closest friends receive a notice in the mail saying, "Alec and Hilaria Baldwin have mixed feelings in announcing the arrival of a ridiculously useless lump of human flesh."

2016: Since his marriage to yoga instructor Hilaria Thomas lasted just eighteen months, Alec Baldwin resolves to find a partner who is even better at balancing his overbearing personality. He announces his engagement to a four foot pile of vanilla pudding.

2017: @alecbaldwin tweets, "Row row row your BOAT. Row row row your BOAT. How fuckin' hard is that to sing?"

2018: In a startling about-face, Alec Baldwin accepts a role on a TV sitcom playing an arrogant, self-centered grandpa.

2019: Little Baracka Baldwin is hospitalized for injuries to her palms suffered during a particularly animated game of Patty Cake.

2022: After 10 years practicing yoga and the intervention of two high-profile construction companies, Alec Baldwin actually touches his feet.

2024: In his last tweet, @alecbaldwin writes, "If Quacker Factory doesn't start making sweatshirts for men, I'M FUCKIN' OUT OF HERE."

Best Dialog Ever: Downtown Abbey Season 2

MATTHEW CRAWLEY (in wheelchair): I know the doctor told me I'd be paralyzed forever, since my spinal cord was completely severed, but I've been feeling weird tingles in my legs. What do you think, Carstairs?

CARSTAIRS: Sir, I am but a chubby body in a tight suit. I'll go fetch the doctor.

MATTHEW CRAWLEY (standing): Holy God! Look -- I'm walking! I'll actually be able to walk down the aisle at my forthcoming nuptials!

DOCTOR: Wow. You know, I never told anybody, but when I first decided you were permanently paralyzed, every other doctor in the country said I was wrong. (SHRUGS) Whaddaya know?

Father Martin McVeigh of St. Mary's School in Ulster, Ireland was just beginning to lecture his congregants when disaster struck. He connected his USB drive to his PC, but instead of firing up the appropriate PowerPoint presentation, it kicked off a loop of hardcore gay porn.

As the crowd gasped, Father McVeigh unplugged the USB drive and walked out. The parishioners were understandably shocked, since they'd assembled to hear his lecture on First Communion.

Folks, maybe this'll help you out: when the priest puts the wafer on your tongue, he doesn't yell, "This is gonna be a tight fit!"

Thought

How come when conniving, back-stabbing, materialistic women are in a TV show, the word "Bitches" is in the title, but when a man's the star it's called The Tonight Show With Jay Leno?

Maria
I just met a girl named Maria
And suddenly that name
Will never be the same
To me

Because before it just made me think of the world's best opera singer and Jesus' mom.

Maria
Say it loud and there's music playing
Say it soft and it's almost like praying

Which is why I used to be engaged to Blessusohlordforthesethygifts McGee.

Maria
I'll never stop saying
Maria

Oh, look. I already stopped.

These New York Times articles are specifically recommended for me? Well, I don't need to read #2 because I don't have a baby. #8 doesn't apply, because I don't eat meat. And there's no way I'm reading #10 because I just had placenta for breakfast and I don't want to feel dumb.

I've always been vaguely interested in S&M. It involves men and nudity, so that shouldn't be a huge surprise. It's not the pain or humiliation that attracts me, but the commitment. The drive. The idea that there's going to be a responsible guy in charge, and all I have to do is lay there and tell him when to stop.

See, people assume a ridiculously tall guy is going to be forceful in bed. Maybe it's true with some of us, but it's certainly not true with me. I expend so much energy just moving my overstretched limbs that by the time I get horizontal I just want the swelling to go down. I cluelessly pick up a butch-looking dude, only to spend the rest of the evening laying around and repeating, "I don't know, what do you want to do?" until David Letterman comes on.

I'm tired of everybody being on their best behavior because they're afraid of me. Yeah, like I'm going to hurt them. The only thing I break are ceiling fans.

So, I go to a couple S&M-themed parties, just to get an idea of what's in store. I learn how to wrap a man in cling film. I see a dude crucified in the parking lot of a bar. Neither get me the slightest bit aroused, although the former makes me popular at picnics. Still, I resolve that if somebody suggests it, I'll jump. I mean, it's always seemed inevitable. My personality is basically begging to be smacked.

When I spot Carl at a party I think, "That's kind of a hot man." This is actually the optimal situation for finding a potential boyfriend, because without the "kind of" clause I assume I haven't got a chance. He's handsome, but he's at least 40 and he clearly hasn't exercised for at least 35 of those years.

I sidle over to him next to the blintz bar. (Apparently S&M fans are also kinky with food.) He doesn't have problems with drive or ambition, that's for sure. He teaches medieval literature at a top New York university, he has a vacation home in Montauk, and he's the vice president of an S&M club, which means we have absolutely zero to talk about. We run out of words, and I make awkward excuses to get away.

Which explains my surprise the second time I run into him. Just out of the blue he says, "So, when are we having our session?"

I'm mystified. Can he also be a psychiatrist? I wonder. If he is, he's barking up the wrong tree. I'm the picture of mental health, except for that weird habit where I have to smell all the stuff I find on the bottom of my shoes. Or could he be talking about sex? I flash back on the priest who, just out of the blue, gave me his phone number at Food Emporium. It was ridiculously irresponsible, because ordinarily I can distinguish between the folks who want me to find Jesus and the ones who want a blowjob.

No, I decide "session" must be S&M-speak. I kind of like that. I'm not a romantic: I prefer it when sex looks more like a wrestling match than something out of Ghost. I think for a minute, trying not to picture his pale white chest in a leather vest. I say, "Any time."

We exchange email addresses, and the weeks go by with no email. I think about writing him, but he's the butch one in this relationship, right? I can't bring myself to type, "Hi, my name's Roman. Has it slipped your mind that you were going to hit me?"

Finally Facebook comes to the rescue. For years it's been nagging me to be more social. "Can we PLEASE look for your friends?" it pleads every time I log in. "C'mon! I'm sure we can find SOMEBODY! Can we look in your address book? In your email? How about messaging random people? C'mon, Roman -- surely SOMEBODY wants to get in touch with you!"

It's so unattractive, so whiny. I'm embarrassed for Facebook, and I'm clearly not going to let a website force me to be friendly when eight ex-boyfriends can't. But then one day it's obvious Facebook did some kind of intrusive privacy thing because the message turns into something like, "Hey, you know this dude, right? He's DYING to get in touch with you!" and next to it is a photo of Carl.

I do it. As fast as my finger can move. I click the button to send a friend request.

And instantly a patronizing little pop-up box appears with an about-face. "Now, Roman," it reads, "if you don't know Carl, don't bother him. He's an important guy. You can't just send everybody friend requests, you know. We realize you're desperate: you have just four contacts, and three of them are cats. This is like stalking, though, and you'll just humiliate yourself if you beg strangers to like you."

I'm embarrassed. I'm ashamed.

I don't know how this relationship is going to end, but I sure like the way it starts.

Let's make this perfectly clear: anybody who watches Finding Bigfoot is an idiot.

Similarly UFO Files, UFO Hunters, Ghost Files, Ghost Hunters, and Hunting Ghost Files in UFOs.

See, we earthlings are very curious about undiscovered life forms. When they're found, it makes the news. When a Harvard scientist finds a new phosphorescent lichen in Florida, it's a headline. When a French oceanographer discovers purple plankton, Katie Couric breaks it to the world.

So whaddaya think is gonna happen when somebody finally films visible proof of spectral life after death? You'll accidentally hear about it when you're too lazy to change the channel after Hillbilly Handfishing?

Obviously the folks behind these shows have low self-esteem, because their shows are all bait-and-switch. They offer you the hope of discovering something exciting, but they never deliver it. That must be frustrating, and must lead to some humiliating dinnertime chats.

WIFE: "So, honey, find Bigfoot today?"

HUSBAND: "Well, as a matter of fact -- Oh, fuck you."

Needless to say, when these guys finally get indisputable footage of a UFO, they're not going to premiere it on a cable channel watched by fourteen people in their underwear. They're not going to say to themselves, "Gosh, those brain-dead Appalachians are in for a surprise today!" If they stumble upon proof of anything, it's their ticket to the big time! They've got something a real TV show will buy. Roughly eight seconds after proof is caught on film, Oprah's going to hear about it. Similarly every network news program, and every newspaper and tabloid in print.

One day you'll turn on the TV, and the whole world will be abuzz.

They'll dress like Yetis on America's Next Top Model. Tuneless teens will sing alien medleys on American Idol. Every eight seconds Brian Williams will cut into whatever the hell you're watching, saying, "Are we alone? Tune in tonight to find out!"

You'll tune in that night, and you'll see half a second of the footage. You'll see all the folks from the show, who'll be dancing around like Lotto winners and saying, "Hey, wifey, I'm talkin' to Brian fuckin' Williams here!"

Because, you know, if these guys can sell their Bigfoot coverage to People magazine for $250,000, why would they air the entire thing in between $85 commercials for the Slap N' Chop?

No, the facts are clear: you will never tune into Ghost Hunters one day and discover absolute proof of anything. When crap media have anything interesting to say, it filters up. It filters fast.

So what am I really saying? Piece it together, guy.

If you're smart, don't watch this space.

Grocery Store Accused Of Selling Moldy, Substandard, And Expired Food Has Higher Standards Than The USDA

Fuck you, Tim Tebow, shoving yet another Special Right for Christians down our throats. Something tells me if a football player celebrated Santeria every time he tossed a football, he'd be shut down even before he killed the chicken.

The good news is, a robot managed to shave a man's head without killing him.

The bad news is, it was just supposed to brush his teeth.

You're kidding me, no, you're nuts!

Ha. I'm joking, of course. This fabulous new invention answers the question, "What if I'm romping in the snow and I suddenly remember I'm late for my wedding?" Keep an eye out for their earmuff suspenders, coming in 2014.

Florida D.A. Says You Can Kill Someone Who Complains When You Chase Them With A Gun