And Now A Word From Our Sponsor

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ZERO CONTACT. Due to unprecedented customer demand we've recently introduced a new Spotify membership option more commonly called FOR THE LOVE OF GOD STOP HARASSING ME! For just $79.99 a month, we won't email me. At all!

As you may know, Spotify has massive technological power that allows us to do thousands of calculations every millisecond you're listening. Cued up a song with the word "drink" in it? We can find forty thousand similar tracks, from Blake Shelton's "Drink On It" to Blake Shelton's "I Drink" to Blake Shelton's "The More I Drink," and we can send you emails telling you about every one. We're pretty sure nobody solely bases their listening on the inclusion of the word "drink" in the lyrics, but with our computational power we don't have to take that chance.

For just $79.99 a month, though, we'll stop firing up the CPU every time you listen to a song. When you listen to James Blake, Elijah Blake or Norman Blake, we will no longer text you that we've got a whole bunch of Blake Shelton too.

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Additionally, you'll be freed from the eternal torment of unsubscribing. Yes, we know you unsubscribed from our notifications. We just added a new email category called "announcements," though, and we signed everybody up for it, just in case. If you think this is an annoying one-shot event, in the coming weeks we'll be adding new categories for customer communications including dispatches, advisories, revelations, missives, epistles and communiques.

Sure, we've had a few licensing problems. Like, we've only got one Pink Floyd record, and it's live. We don't have anything by Isaac Hayes that's more than ten minutes long, which means everything by Isaac Hayes. Since we heard some of you like a band called Led Zeppelin, though, we recently added an audio track where people talk about them. Regardless, we've got millions and millions of songs so there's always something to listen to, whether it's live tracks that sound like they were recorded in a field by a guy near the taco truck, or your favorite country hits.

Look on the bright side. If anybody can stop a dude from being gay, it's Dr. Phil.

Sigh. Everybody at Jezebel is freaking out today about "slut shaming," where women are criticized for being sexual in a way that gets men high-fived. Today they're totally up in arms about a photo that clearly shows how societal constraints manifest themselves in women's skirts:

Look! That's what your skirt length says about you. According to our prudish, patriarchal society, there are maybe two acceptable lengths for skirts and everything else marks you as either a dowdy spinster or a whore.

Naturally, everyone is outraged. "This crap has got to stop!" Jezebel fumes. It doesn't dampen the outrage when someone points out that this photo is a political artwork created by a feminist artist rather than an actual fashion dictate from some backwoods Dear Abby. It's just so true! Isn't it awful? Oh, poor women!!! I don't think there's anybody sadder.

Oh, except for dudes.

Me, I don't give a crap. Count me in with the short-short fans! I don't think Harvey Levin's ever looked so good.

I don't think I've ever seen anything like this. Okay, State Farm, I'll totally ignore all the horrible things that everybody's posting about you on the internet. I didn't even realize your reputation was that bad! If it's that important to you, I'll pretend that everybody criticizing you online is a liar, and I'll pretend that you've made the requisite technological leaps to nearly catch up to the 21st Century. Mission accomplished!

Approach The Bench

THE FIRST CASE: Junior Seau was an NFL football player with a multi-million-dollar contract. Then he retired, and then he killed himself. His family is suing the NFL because they say it was the brain injuries he suffered playing football that made him retire and kill himself. They claim the NFL hid the dangers, so they're responsible.

THE DECISION: I sympathize with the Seau family, but here's the catch. They're saying he should never have played football. And now they apparently want the money he would have made if he hadn't stopped.

The family has to take a stand one way or the other. They can't make up middle-ground like, "Well, we wanted him to play safe football." There is a safe version of football: it's called "freeze tag." If they wanted Seau to play professional football, they have to accept the dangers. If they didn't want him to play professional football, and they can prove his death was a direct result of the NFL's negligence, then they should get the money he would have made as an uneducated, non-athletic Samoan man.

THE VERDICT: Judgment for the plaintiff for $42.

THE SECOND CASE: Lori Stodghill was seven months pregnant with twins when she went to Colorado's St. Thomas More hospital. She died during delivery, and her husband is suing for negligence. The Catholic hospital is fighting back by saying that fetuses aren't people, so they aren't covered by the state's Wrongful Death Act.

THE DECISION: This case differs from the previous one because the Catholic Church isn't the plaintiff, so they don't need to specify whether fetuses are people or not. They don't even need to be consistent: they can say that some are and some aren't, which is pretty much my experience in Brooklyn. In fact, the hospital could spin a wheel at the admissions desk and decide whether expectant mothers have a fetus, an amorphous blob, or a duck-billed platypus inside them, and base their policies on that.

THE VERDICT: I spun my wheel and came up platypus. The hospital has violated the endangered species laws. Judgment for the plaintiff for $1.4 million.

THE THIRD CASE: Manti Te'o is a Mormon and a professional football player whose long-time girlfriend, it was discovered, doesn't exist. When Katie Couric asked him if he's gay, he said he's "faaar from it."

THE DECISION: I like to believe people, but this looks suspicious. I know that after a few years heterosexual men generally want to have sex with their long-time girlfriends, particularly if they only work three months a year and have thirty million dollars for plane fare. Plus, it's odd that with his "faaar" comment he's making up this vast distance between himself and something that doesn't have degrees. You either are or you aren't gay. I'm not the converse of Jewish. I'm not the flip-side of a computer programmer. I'm not the antithesis of a raccoon.

THE VERDICT: Shakespeare said "The girl doth protest too much," though probably not to Te'o's face. Court's adjourned!

Back when I lived in L. A. I used to get these trashy contest postcards in the mail. "CONGRATULATIONS!" they'd blare. "YOU'RE A GRAND PRIZE WINNER! You've definitely won one of the following prizes:

• A Mercedes Benz S-class
• $40,000
• 4 days and 3 nights at a Florida motel for just $99"

It didn't take Einstein to get wise to the concept: you had to call a 900 number to find out which prize you won, and everybody got the third, useless prize. Evidently it fooled some people, though. It's the same stupidity we see on reality shows and sporting events: some people assume that if there are several choices, they must have equal odds.

Jeff Probst espouses this constantly on Survivor. If there are two contestants left, he'll say their odds of winning are fifty-fifty.

Um, news flash. If an amputee nun faced Ryan Lochte in a swimming pool, nobody would say it's a tossup.

Anyway, somebody's taken that model and actually fashioned it into a TV show. Baggage is a dating program hosted by Jerry Springer where a contestant gets to select from three potential dates, each of whom has three pieces of luggage with a secret hidden inside. The potential dates reveal their secrets, and the contestant picks the one that scares him the least. He then reveals his secret, leaving the person he's chosen the final decision about whether or not they'll go out.

Of course, you'll immediately notice the fatal flaw of this program, which it shares with the unwatchable Howie Mandel dating show Take Me Out: Contestants are actually given a choice whether to accept a night on the town with a perfect stranger or just go home by themselves.

I don't know about you, but there's no chance I'm humiliating myself on national TV just to go home to microwave popcorn and a stack of shirtless Lee Majors photos. I'm going on this date, and I don't care if that means I'm spending the evening with a self-flagellating Satanist or a step-dancing Etsy salesman. I don't care if I'll be spending four hours yelling, "SHUT UP, ASSHOLE!" while jamming caviar in my mouth with both hands. I'm. Going. Out.

From the opening of the show, though, deceit is dangled in front of us. Did the contestant:

• pose as a cable repairman so he could steal underwear from someone's clothesline?
• Rub peanut butter all over his body and then break into a petting zoo?

or did he

• call Argo "vastly overrated" on Facebook?

I watch the show from the edge of the couch, and actually get aroused by the possibilities. These disclosures aren't "baggage," I think: they're . . . hot.

I've always loved perverts, mostly because I admire their determination. You know a man who has a flamingo and a bullwhip in his bedroom isn't going to quibble about turning off the lights. You won't spend the first eighty minutes of your encounter repeating, "Okay, so what do you want to do?" Currently I'm crushing on that Monsignor Meth guy, who wore women's lingerie and had sex in the rectory. Call me crazy, but there's nothing hotter than a man who gives up his right to heaven just to see you in a crinoline smock.

As each piece of luggage opens, though, reality sets in. It's nothing like you imagined. All that potential, and instead you have a guy who's never tasted a turnip going out with a chick who's never changed the batteries in her smoke alarm.

Still, the show turns out to be educational. This isn't about brains: it's about hope. I don't get irrational over a Mercedes, or $40,000. My heart doesn't overrule my head when it comes to amputee nuns. But if that postcard had gotten me a shot at a guy who cut a gloryhole in a doghouse, I'd be calling that phone number as we speak.

Cottage Available in Brooklyn -- $3250/Month

The cottage has been completely gutted and rebuilt with all green materials - recycled jeans insulation, bamboo floors, and high efficiency appliances. The kitchen features a hidden Miele Dishwasher, Bertalozzi Oven, Viking Microwave, and Electrolux fridge.

Tell you what: if we pull out some of that "recycled jeans insulation," can you figure out a way to open the closet doors?

Rick Harrison, star of the History Channel's hit reality show Pawn Stars, will wed his fiancee Deanna Burditt on July 21 in Laguna Beach.

The most special part? The ring bearer will be Chumlee, Harrison's ne'er-do-well employee who frequently upstages everyone else on "Pawn Stars."

According to someone who's seen the script, after the priest asks, "Do you take this woman to be your lawfully-wedded wife for as long as you both shall live?" Rick replies, "I'll give you two years, and I'm probably going to regret it."

A Brooklyn gay man has accused the NYPD of shouting anti-gay epithets while beating him during an arrest following their attempt to shut down an allegedly loud party at his home.

The man, Jabbar Campbell, 32, held a news conference on Thursday at which he showed videotaped images captured by security cameras that he had installed inside his apartment and in front of his building as a deterrent to thieves. The videos did not show any beating. But one camera, aimed at the building’s front stoop, showed a police sergeant reaching up and turning it around, toward a wall.

Charges of police brutality are down 23% so far this year, perhaps due to changes in NYPD policy. Now they beat up the cameraman first.

Don't tell me, let me guess. He lives in a pink taco under the sea?

Really, is this the world has come to these days, begging somebody online to sleep with you?

Sigh. Call me old-fashioned, but I remember when you had to beg them in person.

An editorial by Fox News today speculates that Manti Te'o suffers from something they call "The Delusion Disease."

They say we're suffering from an "erosion of reality," with "false people and false stories" spreading around the entire world in mere seconds. Social media, reality TV and technology, they claim, have "infected and intoxicated" Americans to the extent that we no longer understand actual facts.

It sounds kind of sad to me, but the editorial just ends with the word, "YES!"

A couple weeks ago I went to visit my nephew in upstate New York. He's a fun hetero who's as carefree and aimless as the rest of his generation. Between current pop culture and the avoidance of work we have a lot in common.

He's bored and thinking of getting a companion. "If you could have anything at all for a pet," he asks me, "what would you get?"

I don't even have to think. "A duck," I say. I've wanted a duck forever.

He laughs, and he definitely veers from "laughing with me" territory to "laughing at me." "A duck?" he repeats. "Why the hell would you want a duck?"

His scorn runs like water off my back. I don't care: I'm totally secure in my duck-wanting orientation. "Are you kidding?" I ask. "They're adorable. They waddle. They quack. You don't have to walk them: you can just toss them in the bathtub and they'll exercise themselves." He's speechless. "Oh, and they can walk, swim, and fly. Toss a dog in the air and see how far it gets."

He shakes his head. "That's ridiculous," he says.

For the rest of the visit I feel blanketed with humiliation, and then a week later I see a photo on his Facebook wall.

My mouth drops open and my heart stops as I read his post. He just "decided" to get a duck, he says. Just on a whim he went to a nearby farm, bought a fertilized duck egg, and HATCHED IT HIMSELF, he says. And now he's in love. He can't believe he ever lived without a duck.

I literally can't believe my eyes. That's my duck, I think. MY DUCK. In a fiery fit of anger I dash off a furious email where I tell him exactly what I think. I call him every name in the book, for laughing at my idea and then stealing it, and for knowing how much I'm dying for a duck and then rubbing his new pet in my face.

His reply is just a photograph. Though I admire his skill with a crochet needle, I'm pretty sure we'll never speak again.

I'm wandering the East Village with nothing to do so I stop by the bar owned by Anderson Cooper's boyfriend. My mind isn't even on meeting hunky dudes, since I've given them up for the new year. I just want stupid, noisy fun. The music is good, the gin is cold, and they're playing videos geared to nonexistent attention spans.

I'm not halfway through my first cocktail when a guy pulls up next to me and introduces himself as Van. He's a cute, thin hipster with tousled brown hair. "You know what I'm in the mood for?" he says, just out of the blue. "One of those fried Mexican dough things that's covered in powdered sugar. I forget what they're called."

"Those are pretty good, aren't they?" I reply. "It's on the tip of my tongue. I'll have it in a minute."

"Crispitos," he says. "Crunchitas. No, I've got it: Chancres."

He smiles proudly and I offer a fake one in return. Those few, idiotic words have totally wiped my memory clean. It's like I'm a human Etch-a-Sketch, and he's just turned me over and shaken me.

"'Chancres,'" I repeat. "You know, I'm pretty sure even Taco Bell wouldn't put powdered sugar on an open sore."

I try to forget the word I can't remember and eventually our conversation gets back on track. We really do have a lot in common, I discover, as we find a shared interest in the Flintstones. We ponder the wisdom of having a brontosaurus wash one's silverware before we get to the inevitable jump-the-shark talk. I'm thinking it was when Fred hit the top of the music charts, but Van disagrees.

"It was definitely when that alien showed up," he says. "The one with the stupid name."

"That's easy," I say, and I stop to concentrate. "It's like a sneeze. Wait, it's coming to me."

Before I can answer, he throws out his guesses. "Fatso. Carmine. No, I've got it: Mr. Greenblatt!"

I smile while shaking my head. "No," I say, "it isn't." I add another frustrated memory lapse to my mental annoyance list, and start picturing a little green man flying around Fred Flintstone's head while holding a bag full of lox and cream cheese.

I decide that if Van and I are going to get anywhere, I'll have to explain something. "Look," I say, "You clearly have a lousy memory. I, on the other hand, have a terrific memory. My head is completely stuffed full of random trivia, and though it might take me a second or two to access it, I will eventually access it. When you throw out all these weird guesses, though, it distracts me. It confuses me. It totally erases my brain."

"Oh," Van says, looking equally embarrassed and apologetic.

It takes a minute or two for our conversation to restart, but once again it gets catches. Like me, he loves bad monster movies, and he lists his favorites: Godzilla. Mothra. Reptillicus. "What's the name of that giant turtle from the 50s?" he asks.

And he stops for a second.

I smile. He's learned his lesson! I've finally got a chance! I fire up my brain and load the memory tapes.

"That's easy," I say. "Kid stuff. It's -- it's -- "

But I'm too late. A spark fires up in his eyes as his brain spews out another fart. "Godiva? Caracas? Kimora? KIMORA!" He nearly high-fives himself as he basks in the glow of pride. "I finally got one!" he says. "It's Kimora."

I fix my gaze in his direction while my heart pounds like a Vanagon headed uphill. "No," I say, slightly squeaking the word, "it isn't Kimora. Kimora is a fashion designer, the ex-wife of Russell Simmons. She didn't fly over Japan while shooting sparks out of her ass."

Van watches while I turn a shade of purple not usually seen in human complexions. "Sorry," he says. "I forgot. Well, we can still go out some time, right?"

"Absolutely," I say. "Totally." I get up from my bar stool and put my jacket on. "Give me a call some time. 212-432-7827."

He grabs his phone and starts to punch in the digits. And I yell, "THREE! FIVE! NINE! SIXTEEN! EIGHTY-FOUR!" while I'm walking away.

Ed. note: Churros. The Great Gazoo. Gamera. You're welcome.

Idaho survivalists have announced plans to create an armed fortress city surrounded by a "defensible perimeter" complete with gun towers.

The Citadel will house between 3,500 and 7,000 patriotic American families who agree that being prepared for the emergencies of life and being proficient with the American icon of Liberty -- the Rifle -- are prudent measures.

Google is nuts to say the Liberty Bell is the real icon of Liberty. If you could kill somebody with giant bells there'd be corpses around my windchimes.

The Citadel is Liberty-driven: specifically Thomas Jefferson's Rightful Liberty. Marxists, Socialists, Liberals and Establishment Republicans will likely find that life in our community is incompatible with their existing ideology and preferred lifestyles.

My preferred lifestyle? NOT TOO CLOSE TO SURVIVALISTS IN GUN TOWERS.

[T]he Citadel intends to purchase between 2,000 and 3,000 acres. Of that, 640-1,280 acres are to be walled-in (minimum one square mile).

Enjoy freedom! Enjoy liberty! Enjoy knowing you won't have to walk a half-mile across town if you enroll your kids in the boarding school.

Your home can be finished with several facades, from a log cabin to vinyl siding . . . or more. Your house, your choice! . . . All homes will be built of poured concrete for exceptional strength and durability.

Hey, the Founding Fathers never said I couldn't put a log cabin facade on a concrete house, so you can go fuck yourself.

You are responsible for completing the interior of your home as you wish. . . . [E]very single detail, from paint to tiles to counters, is your choice.

Okay, sign me up! I'm sick and tired of Nazi decorators forcing me to use that goddamned Navajo Sand.

There will be no recycling police....

Because Thomas Jefferson would have shot himself in the head before putting the foil tray from his TV dinner into a separate bag.

There will be no HOA.

Well, that should make things interesting, but I probably won't drop by right away. I'm pretty sure the first few hundred inhabitants are going to die of scurvy after their giant American flags blot out the sun.

At the moment the Citadel Project is accepting only Application Fees ($208). All Application Fees will ultimately be deposited into a Citadel business bank account, after clearing PayPal and other servicers.

Yes, they're fighting tyrannical government intervention but giving a dimwitted eBay subsidiary 2.9% of all their income.

The model will be similar in many ways to that of Disneyland. It is walled, gated, private property with controlled access. People pay to enter and agree to the rules because they see value in doing so. . . . Millions of people visit Disneyland and interact peacefully. It's exceptionally rare to hear of any serious problems.

Disneyland? Yeah, this'll be just like Disneyland. Folks will definitely wait two hours in line to ride Cletus T. Jones, Jr.

Still, there's one benefit the Citadel will have: you won't have to wander around half an hour trying to find Goofy.

(via Joe.My.God)

Even better? Miss Nebraska hula-hooping to Fuck Tha Police.

Two gay men in Plano, Texas claim they were asked to leave a bowling alley because they are gay.

Boyfriends Alberto Lesmes and Chad Hemp were bowling at Main Event Entertainment when they realized their lane was broken. They were moved elsewhere, but when a kid nearby kept bowling in their lane they raised another fuss.

According to Main Event CEO Charlie Keegan, the guys didn't ask for somebody to keep an eye on the idiot kid. They didn't ask somebody to smack the kid's parents in the head. No, they asked for a lane with "privacy."

Management refused, and the guys left. Now they're mad.

Call me crazy, but I'm siding with management. I mean, we gays don't go to a bowling alley for privacy: we go to Celine Dion concerts for that. Then again, there's nothing like a seven-year-old girl throwing a twenty-pound ball around that'll make you want to be alone.

On the other hand, maybe the CEO was insinuating that these guys wanted to do lewd acts, like we homosexuals do in places where there's alcohol and scorecards. In that case, I'm on the gay men's side. I don't see anything wrong with asking the owner if he has a lane or two downstairs, or around the corner, or maybe hidden behind a potted plant where my partner and I can take advantage of all the slick surfaces and chalk. Is that so wrong? I mean, sometimes you just want to fuck, and air hockey tables are so small.

Yes, I realize Broadway Backwards is an annual benefit performance where theater stars sing songs written for the opposite sex. Yes, I know it's supposed to be great fun, and all the proceeds go to charity. But honestly, when ticket prices go down from $25,000, I start to think that despite the inclusiveness of our community, it seems like all these fabulous homo events are just for the 1% gays. I don't know; it's probably just my imagination.

The Passive-Aggressive Roadshow

When I saw you holding this in line I thought, "Wow, if that's the most valuable thing at her house she must not have shoes or frozen food."

You say you found this at a thrift shop. Well, I have great news: you've almost gotten rid of that poor-people smell.

You mentioned that your husband got mad at you for buying this. Well, it's good to know there's somebody at your house who can change the lightbulbs and close the fridge.

Your mother said it's valuable? Well, my mother said my nose would shrink to fit my face.

I've never seen anything like this in my entire life, and I let the UPS man use my bathroom.

You think it's Tiffany. Well, I think Chuck Norris is attractive, and I'd have an easier time finding an expert who agrees with me.

If this were in my store, I'd put something attractive in front of it.

At a well-publicized auction, I think people would say, "Why is this at a well-publicized auction?"

If two bidders really liked this, it could go for a lot of money. And if Liz Taylor came back from the dead and thought this was a giant Twinkie, it could go for even more.

If I were you, I would insure this for $10,000. And then I'd burn down my house.

I guess we can't really blame you. You tried it once before and it worked. You liked calling your enemies "gay," and just because you were told it was offensive didn't mean you'd stop doing it. You thought and thought and thought, and finally you came up with a stratagem: you changed what you said the word meant. You allegedly severed that awkward connection to homosexuality, so no longer would it be a homophobic slur. No, now it just meant that somebody was absolutely pitiful or unspeakably lame.

Got it? Now all the offense is gone!

You kept using the word, and nobody hit you. Nobody called you an idiot with Cheetos for brains. In fact, you were probably surprised by how well your little stunt worked. Now you can taunt and bully with the "gay" word and nobody can complain.

It worked so well you went after "faggot" next.

That was a tough one. It'd been around for thousands of years, so it had a history of horrifying. You tried and you tried but you just couldn't drop it, so you figured you'd change with it meant too.

And now, you say, the word "faggot" doesn't have anything to do with homosexuality. Now it means a dude who acts like a lady. You know, a whiny effeminate type of lady who minces and prances and shops too much and says stuff like, "Hey, girlfriend!" and "Oh no you di'int!"

It's got nothing at all to do with being gay.

Instantly every hetero in the world leapt atop the trend. The gay community futilely tried fighting back, but it was like sticking a cork in a broken dam. They got apologies from Tank Carder, Amar’e Stoudemire, Justin Fontaine, Azealia Banks, and Charlie Sheen, but the word never showed any sign of going away.

Finally, in desperation, the gay community decided: if we can't beat them, we're joining them.

Sure, it'd be terrific if we could take the high road, but sometimes you've just got to act like a pro athlete. I know we'd all love to stay smart, but sometimes you've just got to be a rapper. It'd be great if we could keep our dignity and stay classy, but sometimes you've just got to put your balls to the wall and say, "Fuck it. I'm acting like a total NASCAR fan."

An Oregon woman has claimed she is the mother of Simon Cowell's love child.

The unnamed woman has contacted Entertainment Weekly and Us Magazine to sell the exclusive story, so more details should be revealed soon. If Cowell is found to be the father, she could be in for a financial windfall. We have contacted his representatives but so far have received no reply.

We've always taken these claims with a grain of salt, but as you can see from the photo below the resemblance is striking.

Uh, yeah, 'cuz kids these days don't know what stupid look like.

And Now A Word From Our Sponsor

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What? Your kid is looking in the wrong column? Better check out this week's special on Psychology Today.

Caught this sign at the local Chase bank. Drop off $100 and when you come back thirteen months later they'll give it back to you plus a quarter.

Well, maybe if you ask nicely they'll give you a shiny one.

Looking for new ways to save money in the new year? Turn to Bankrate, the best consumer financial services company that buys space on Earthlink's logout page. They've collected some of the best tips your favorite Hollywood stars have for saving money in 10 True Tales of Celebrity Frugality, which we've edited and summarized. As Bankrate says, "Following their frugal habits could help your bottom line in the new year."

• Rob Lowe: Spend money to create memories, not just buy things. For instance, if your child expresses an interest in tennis, take them to Wimbledon.


• Joel McHale: You might be tempted to go crazy with your money, but there are perfectly nice cars you can buy for under two hundred grand.


• Nicholas Sparks: Sell all your extra homes, because then you won't feel obligated to go visit them.


• Patrick Warburton: In Las Vegas, walk away from the poker table when you're down three grand.


• Jill Hennessey: Instead of buying expensive designer clothes, find cheap ripoffs. Check the labels in clothes to make sure they're made in China.


• Roger Daltrey: Don't go around buying expensive homes: castles have much better resale value. Also, save money on grocery bills by buying a farm. The fruits and vegetables your migrant workers collect will cost a fraction of what you'd pay in an organic store.


• Carson Kressley: Take the subway instead of a cab, then occasionally reward yourself with an expensive pair of shoes or a stable of a dozen racehorses.


• Kris Jenner: Work hard and save your money. Grind that booty even when you're exhausted, because the day will come when your sex tapes just don't sell.

I spent most of last week floating on a cloud. A friend dragged me along as a guest to an upscale cocktail party, and while I was off getting us drinks a man just happened to strike up a conversation. He was maybe ten years older than me and was pretty average-looking, but everything about him screamed "Out of my league." His suit was perfectly tailored, his shoes were the softest leather, and his watch probably cost more than my education. My heart fluttered every time he spoke. While I'm not precisely a golddigger, I've always found that a dude with a Mercedes and a penthouse warms my heart far more than a guy with two roommates and a subway pass.

Max asked me out to dinner, casually dropping the name of one of the more exclusive restaurants in town. He definitely had good taste, picking the newest five-star brasserie rather than one of those cold aspic joints where the Beef Wellington isn't going to scare grandpa. On date night I put on my best clothes, nearly shaking from excitement, and I felt the first twinge of emotional attachment when I saw his big black Maserati at the curb.

He seemed a bit reserved in the car, which further drew me in. I inhaled the scent of leather, listened to the rich sound of the hidden speakers and subwoofers that surrounded me, and adjusted the support of my lumbar. It seemed like seconds later we were sitting at the best table in the restaurant. The tuxedoed waiter was saying something, but between the crowd din and my nervousness it was like I had clouds in my head. He never offered me a menu, instead reciting a list of items that only occasionally sounded like food.

And then all eyes turned toward me.

"It all sounds so good," I said to Max, hoping for intervention. "Doesn't it?"

He nodded. "There's a four-month wait for reservations."

Well, that didn't help, I thought. I turned to the waiter: "What do you recommend?"

Max shot me a glance like I'd just shot his dog. "I'm sure everything is good," he snapped.

I inhaled deep. I fixed my eyes on the waiter so I'd miss Max's reaction and said, "Could you recite the specials just one more time?"

I heard a sigh emanate from my companion before the waiter complied. I struggled to parse the words into recognizable chunks, but it was fruitless. Finally I braced myself for the leap into the freezing pool. "I'd like the Saute Deal," I declared.

Max went white, and the waiter hid his face behind his hands. I knew my order would be an incomprehensible mess: I just didn't know how incomprehensible. Max's chair scraped the ground as his whole body rebelled at my idiocy, and it took forever for the waiter to regain his composure. "Do you mean the Sautéed Eel?" he finally said.

I wanted to sink into the ground as a soft breeze sent Max's woodsy cologne past me. What a total moron I was. Max evidently agreed, as he finished the conversation for me. "Yes," he said, "that'll be fine. Roman is a new friend of mine, and he's not used to fine dining. I thought I would broaden his horizons by bringing him to your establishment."

"Very good," said the waiter. "And what can I get for you?"

Max thought for a second as I said goodbye to his strong jaw, his shellacked hair, his Maserati. "I'd like the Braised Bee Fart," he declared.

Nick Stahl, a star of the HBO series Carnivàle, was arrested last night after LAPD vice officers working undercover allegedly caught him pleasuring himself inside a sex shop in Hollywood.

Police say the actor was inside the store's private porn-viewing booth committing a lewd act. He was booked for misdemeanor lewd conduct but released a short time later.

What's next for the LAPD? Well, they hear there's a lot of nudity in those other little booths that say "BATHROOM" on the door.

The second I spotted the New York Times headline "12 Restaurant Triumphs of 2012" I started shaking with excitement. I mean, you know your city is amazing when even the restaurants have triumphs.

The list is long and impressive, including these highlights:

• The waitstaff at Gwynett St. invented a new technique for surgically repairing fused palates in utero.


• The chef at La Vara helped with the mathematical formulae that enabled robotic space rover Curiosity to safely land on Mars.


• The maitre d' at Calliope went undercover to secretly assist the pro-democracy movement in Myanmar.


• The saucier at Perla passionately stood up for the right to education for girls in Iran in stark defiance of the Taliban.

Ha. No, I'm kidding. Actually, a Gwynett St. chef made tofu from almonds. At Calliope, somebody put "tangy" rabbit kidneys on toast. At Perla, they threw some foie gras into "the sauce for roasted guinea hen."

I mean, c'mon. Even the folks in Les Miz would have stopped their fighting and starving and gone, "Now zat is what you call zee triomphe!"

Okay, maybe they wouldn't have. In fact, I'm kind of thinking the word "triumph" doesn't belong here. There's a scale of human ingenuity that ranges from a high of inventing the helicopter down to, I don't know, learning how to get off an escalator, or getting your own show on Bravo, and once you sink past "Knowing all the words to 'Ice Ice Baby,'" you should probably downgrade the description from "triumph" to something more like "achievement."

One of these "triumphs," though, is particularly strange. It's from the restaurant Blanca, which is by far the most expensive eatery in a part of Brooklyn primarily known for its bedbugs. The "triumph" here encapsulates my feelings about the current state of "fine dining" in the world.

I might have been happier with a slightly faster and less costly meal ($180 a person before tax, tip or drinks), but at how many other restaurants can you spoon up caviar while listening to a vintage Fleetwood Mac LP?

That's it, guys. After patiently reading about the triumph of a "spackle of mole poblano" and the triumph of "a puffed chip made of rock tripe," this is where I check out.

Because really, is this a good thing -- being able to pay astronomical amounts of money for food without sacrificing your ability to listen to bands ordinarily experienced in your underwear? Do people really want to savor the fruits of pregnant fish while getting reacquainted with something that was only mildly entertaining when you were 16 and zonked on Lebanese hashish? I don't know about you, but when I spend $180 for dinner, I want to listen to a string quartet. I want violinists to come by my table, and only leave when I make the appropriate dismissive gesture. I want something that screams, "Man, this is one fuckin' special occasion!" rather than, "We all agree that music has sucked since 1972."

So call me crazy, but count me out of this year's "triumphs." I'll keep wishing all of these fabulous new restaurants would go away. I'll keep wishing that we still lived in a time when there were neighborhoods that cool people could afford, when you had to walk three or four minutes before passing a restaurant with $180 tasting dinners. And yes, maybe I'm living in the past, but at least I'm not sitting at home thinking, "Gosh, I'd love to go out, but what if they make me eat caviar while listening to Grizzly Bear?"

There's a big scandal in Rich People World today. Evidently sad regular-person Callie Schweitzer was Facebook Friends with Randi Zuckerberg -- Facebook founder Mark Zuckerberg's sister -- but didn't fully comprehend the privilege and responsibility that entailed. When Randi posted a holiday snapshot of a casual sibling scene, silly Callie tweeted it, without realizing that Randi's post was intended for a select few while Callie's went out to the entire unwashed world.

Needless to say, artisanal shit is hitting the fan.

"You reposting [this photo] to Twitter is way uncool," Randi wrote. "Genuinely sorry," Callie replied, perhaps after discovering a flaming Birkin bag full of dog poop on her doorstep.

While others will wring their hands about privacy and irony, the rest of us will seize the opportunity to gaze into a rarefied world that ordinarily locks us out. It's clear from the hubbub that this is an extraordinary opportunity to inspect über-rich American life that we're probably never going to see again, so let's take squeeze every bit of information out of it.

This is quite unlike any Christmas we know, since we don't see any beer cans and the men are wearing shirts with sleeves. These are people from society's highest echelon: they have an oven on top of their oven, presumably so their stuffing doesn't get cramped, and they probably don't cry when they see the AFTER photos in Sears Cabinet Refinishing ads.

Clearly there are benefits to being related to one of the world's richest men, because the scarcest of the world's riches are available to them. In the upper stove, a wildebeest roast cooks. In the lower is a chupacabra steak. The dog is a special breed that has a face on both ends, and Mark has just given them iPhones with working maps.

These people rejoice in their privilege. The hunky dude in the black t-shirt is married to Mark's pregnant sister, I'm thinking, because he couldn't get further away from her without adding another wing onto the house. He used to be just another married guy until Mark bought him a Harley Davidson and he became the world's four millionth accountant/outlaw.

Mark's two sisters, on the left and right, hear pings on their iPhones and discover notes from Amazon saying they've just been given $2.7 million dollar gift certificates. The sister on the left is picturing herself in a new Miata. The pregnant one is seconds away from ordering the book, Why Do Husbands Cheat? Sadly, the book will arrive too late, because in ten minutes her hubby is going to putter back to that truckstop where they serve artisanal S'Mores and keep tilting at the windmill of Getting A Waitress To Let Him Touch Her Boobs.

Mark's personal assistant, in red, gasps at his tweet that extra help has been hired and this year she won't have to eat out front with a hose in her hand to keep the neighbor's Moodle from stepping on their lawn.

Perhaps your forehead furrows when you examine the kitchen. You're just getting over your Massive Island Envy when you notice that right next to the big faucet for big vegetables there's a small faucet for small vegetables. Why is there a brown towel crumpled on the countertop? Because just out of view there's an Asian woman named Thaksincha who's giving everyone foot massages after every fourteenth step.

Oddly, though, after about half an hour spent analyzing this photo, our envy fades. These folks aren't in any better shape than we are: They drink from mismatched glasses. They join J. Crew focus groups just to get experimental sweatpants. They have hairstyles designed to stay out of the way when they puke. When their brussels sprouts are finally done they're going to discover that you can't repurpose a plastic dog toy as a trivet.

We pause and wonder. Are they, indeed, better off than we are? Are their lives more enjoyable because of their untold wealth? Do they deserve our envy or our pity?

We're on the fence. We can't decide. It's when we notice that they're serving three types of salsa that we buy a bus ticket to Palo Alto and start looking around for rocks.

Dear Jean Valjean,

Don't steal bread. If you really need money, see if you can suspend your gym membership for a month or two.

Hope this helps,
RomanHans

In an effort to bolster his father's reputation in the days before the presidential election, Mitt Romney’s son Tagg drew up a list of twelve good deeds his father had done, such as helping a dying teenager write his will.

SAINT PETER: Let's see: you were a powerful billionaire with a lot of family connections. Why should I let you into heaven?

MITT ROMNEY: Well, once I paid a kid's LegalZoom bill.

Roman's Retorts

To someone offering unneeded advice:

You sound like my wife. Not in what you're saying: it's that high-pitched, whiny tone.

Saying increased gun ownership would lead to a decrease in violence is like saying if everybody had cigarettes nobody would smoke.

Everybody's freaking out over these new photos of earth from space but as usual I just don't get it.

This shot is from a new series by NASA called the "black marble" photos, because the earth supposedly looks like a black marble floating in space. For the last couple days everybody's been transfixed by these photos, raving about how beautiful the earth is, with some folks even saying they're proof positive that the earth must have been created by a God.

Beautiful, huh? Amazing. Oh, except check out the small print:

Composite map of the world assembled from data acquired by the Suomi NPP satellite in April and October 2012.

Got that? THIS ISN'T ONE PHOTO. This is the best parts of a bunch of photos cobbled together. Think about it for a minute: is this impressive, or is this sad?

Say one day you go visit your grandma, and see her huddled over the kitchen table, hard at work. The table is completely covered with little bits of chopped-up photos, and she's holding a magnifying glass and some tape.

"What are you doing?" you ask.

"I've always wanted a picture of me looking pretty," she says. "I've almost finished the neck and chin; see if you can find some good lips."

In fact, these "black marble" photos are even sadder than that. This isn't the work of some doddering old lady who still gives you cassette tapes for Christmas: these are America's brightest minds working tirelessly. And rather than using snippets of photos, they toiling at the pixel level.

Even the Hunchback of Notre Dame didn't have to sort through pixels to piece together his Grindr shot.

Now, I can sympathize. I'm not particularly photogenic. If I don't aim my face at precisely the right angle, I look like a Shar-Pei eating a tube of Pringles. But those are the breaks! A photo is supposed to mirror reality, and if reality isn't nice, then tough shit.

Of course, I realize how tempting it is to "clean up" pictures in the era of Photoshop. But unlike shoplifting and french-kissing chickens, this isn't a victimless crime. There are consequences. They create unrealistic images in our heads of what things are supposed to look like. You might gawk and gape at this photo, but me, I'm thinking of all the planets that don't have teams of scientists airbrushing their publicity stills.

I'm picturing Jupiter, that giant gray gas bag, seeing these shots. After four seconds of thinking, "Wow, that's a pretty planet," she'll start stuffing Häagen-Dazs in her crater and tweeting, "HOW COM ILL NEVR LOOK LIK THAT :("

Lots of cool stuff being auctioned online to benefit the Hurricane Sandy Relief Fund. Estimated value of this guitar is $50,000, $60,000 if they can scrape Alicia Keys' name off.

Big-Haired One Direction Singer Harry Styles Covers Up Failed Study of Dark Side Of The Moon in Black and White

Welcome to Air Bagan. We know you'll enjoy flying with us. We are very grateful that you chose us for your flight within Myanmar, since you have many options. However, we understand that we're world-renowned for our service, plus not everybody likes mules.

We know you've gone through a lot to fly with us since we aren't on the internet and don't accept credit cards or most recognized forms of currency. We know it was difficult waking up at four in the morning to call us during business hours, finding someone with a fax machine to get our route information, and asking Western Union if it really is possible to wire someone forty-six dollars worth of marmoset skins.

We're sure you find it worth your trouble. For instance, you'll notice on Air Bagan we don't tell you to switch off your electrical appliances during takeoff. This is because on Air Bagan there is virtually nothing in the cockpit that's electronic. Keep on texting your sister, or Skyping grandma. On ordinary airlines, your electrical appliances interfere with the navigation systems, so you'll have to pause your Angry Mario Birds or Super Tetris Q*bert. This is not a problem on Air Bagan. Whip out that hair dryer, paper shredder, or weed whacker and know it will have absolutely no effect on the levers and pulleys in our cockpit.

Plus, since our planes are just two seats across, everyone gets a window seat. You can see Myanmar's greatest attractions from the air. Look out the left side right now: see that woman leading the oxcart? She can eat more than eighteen men. There are many benefits to flying at 200 feet, though the turbulence makes our passengers scream so much you'd think they were fighting Jackie Chan.

On Air Bagan, you don't have to worry about unseen problems bringing your plane down. Air Bagan planes use propellers instead of jet engines, so you'll know even before the pilot when you're going to be killed. You don't have to be a mechanic analyzing every bump and squeak to detect a mechanical problem: no, a quick glance out the window will tell you if the plane is doing okay or not. Are the propellers spinning? Everything's cool. Has one of them stopped? Kind of a problem. Has one of them broken loose from its mooring and whirled to earth, where it's slicing a herd of cows into sausage? Kind of a major problem.

Yet there is no extra charge for this service.

Since this flight will take fourteen hours, we'll just be serving a small snack. In many parts of the world, airline food is restaurant quality, but we are happy to tell you our food is better than most Burmese restaurants. In fact, the quality approaches that of American vending machines. But don't thank us: we're happy to serve you, and with all the mechanical problems we've been having lately, the corn dogs pretty much make themselves.

Dear Old People,

In the split-second before you activate those tiny muscles that commence bodily evacuation, ask yourself one small question:

Am I definitely sitting on a toilet?

Thanks,
The People Who Take Care Of You

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, and this shot surely qualifies. Here's First Daughter Jenna Bush Hager hiding her baby bump with a puffy jacket at a Manhattan Whole Foods store.

What words does this picture evoke? First out of the gate is "clueless." She protecting her baby from cold with that ridiculous jacket but clearly unconcerned about afflicting the world with another case of cameltoe. Are there no puffy cumberbunds where she shops?

Next up is "hypocrite." The daughter of a dude who spent eight years weakening consumer protections and selling American wilderness to oil companies is shopping for organic, fair trade food. "Where's this olive oil from?" hubby Henry Hager is wondering. "Greece? Hmm. Is that downwind from where Pappy-In-Law sold Alaska to Exxon/Mobil?"

After that come "rich" and "heterosexual." On the female we see blonde streaks that cost more in upkeep than a 1986 Vanagon. On the male we see a style-less haircut, and godforsaken shoes with no socks. And blue cargo shorts? Were they designed for the dockworker who really, really wanted clothes that made his eyes pop? Clearly the ratty old t-shirt has been chosen to match the shorts, which is the sole concession the heterosexual scion of Republican billionaires makes when he knows the whole world will be watching him.

Coming up toward the rear is "unfit." If these people were exercising, why aren't they sweating? Sure, she's wearing tights and running shoes, but he's wearing shorts that have a special pocket for a stapler. Those are the shoes that got Skechers sued for saying they'll shape your ass while you sleep. And how do you explain his legs? If they were jogging, did she just carry the jacket with her? Clearly their exercise routine includes lots of breaks for Jamba Juice and a limousine.

Last, the word "sensible" surfaces, though just barely. Yes, her life has been paved with gold and Grey Poupon, but in the right side of the photo there's clearly anguish in her eyes as some small semblance of humanity rises in her and she plaintively asks her no-socked hubby, "Really, Henry? Twelve dollars for a tomato?"

I do.

Nobody wants to sleep with folks from Staten Island.

Testimony Of Transgender Woman Who Says Her Boyfriend Beat Her Up Goes "From Weepy To Sassy," Reports NY Daily News

At first I thought it was the word "sassy" that pissed me off here. You don't often read that word in newspaper accounts where a woman says her boyfriend hit her, slammed her into a phone booth, and dragged her around by her hair. Nope, there aren't that many tales of accused assaults where the victim is described like the maid from The Jeffersons. You half expect the woman here to snap back to the attorneys like, "I done chopped off my balls, so how come y'all keeps bustin' 'em?"

There's a story in last Tuesday's paper where a young girl accuses an older man of repeated sexual assault. She's not described as sassy or weepy. No, she had a "tortuous journey." On the stand she "recounted her trauma." At no point do you think she's going to snap, "Buddy, you can kiss my grits!"

Here's what the victim does to merit the "sassy" label:

After lunch, [victim Claudia] Charriez rejected [Defense attorney Jason] Berland’s suggestions that some bruises might predate the incident.

“This is why girls like me don’t want to come forward when guys like this do this,” she said over her shoulder to the judge, flicking the edge of her black wool cape with its fur pompoms.

Gosh. Yes, that's sassy. Girlfriend's saying assault victims may be reluctant to testify because the prosecution will malign their reputations. Can a sistah get two snaps up for that? Or maybe it was the pompom-flicking that did it. I'll bet Mother Teresa wouldn't be a saint today if she'd owned a poncho.

But no, eventually I decided it was "weepy" that pissed me off. Not "sad" or "tearful" -- "weepy." See, you use the word "weepy" when you don't think words like "sad" or "tearful" fit, which seems odd in a case where a woman was choked her so hard a contact lens popped out. It seems like the reporter didn't taking this assault very seriously.

I know a lot of people will say we should write angry letters, or boycott the Daily News. Me, I think we should be understanding. I'm sure the writer has feelings like the rest of us: he just expressed himself wrong. I'm 100% positive that if, God forbid, his wife got crushed by a catering truck or his three-year-old daughter was diagnosed with leukemia, he'd be all, like, wah wah wah.

This could have had a far worse ending. I mean, have you ever had that passion fruit crap?

Thailand is a country where true love blossoms on literally every street corner, warming even the coldest heart.

Every step along the way, it's so exhilarating watching the natural unfolding of Mother Nature's circle of life. It starts with that first quizzical glance the old white dude gives his hot Asian girlfriend as he asks himself, "Who is this chick who's willing to date a Keith Richards lookalike just because he's got a little cash?"

Next comes the air of gratitude he sports after he realizes he can share his ideas about gender roles with a woman and she's not going to laugh at him.

After that, there's the mantle of contentment he wears when he realizes he's actually found a partner who won't yell at him when he comes home drunk. That soon gives way to the bulletproof confidence he feels as he realizes he'll never have to do laundry again.

Finally, at a makeshift altar on the white sand beach, the circle closes. As he stands there with tears welling up in his eyes, she stops texting for a minute, shoots the crowd a confused look, and thinks, "Wait, who is this dude again?"

This is so weird! I was searching the Congressional record this morning and ran across the strangest transcript from 1988. This is actually Michael Jackson and Marvin Gaye testifying before the Senate. I never heard about this! It definitely gives you some insight into their personalities.

CHAIRMAN: The Committee on Foreign Affairs will come to order. The Committee is meeting today to hear testimony on the report by the President's National Commission on Economic Development in Third-World Nations.

We have two guests today who would like to make statements, and I am very pleased that they are here. They are spending all day on the Hill, and I would like to formally welcome them. With that, I present to you Mr. Marvin Gaye and Mr. Michael Jackson.

GAYE: Thank you Chairman Hastings and members of the Committee. We respectfully submit that we need to save the world.

JACKSON: That's right. We need to save the world.

GAYE: We need to save the world, and save the children.

JACKSON: Yes, save the world and the children.

GAYE: And the babies. We need to save the babies.

JACKSON: Yes, we need to save the world, and the children, and the babies.

GAYE: And the animals and the birds.

JACKSON: Okay.

GAYE: Right on.

JACKSON: We love you all.

CHAIRMAN: I want to thank all of the Members for being here, and especially our two guests. If there is no further business, this hearing stands adjourned.

[Whereupon, at 5:16 p.m., the Committee was adjourned.]

Kansas City Chiefs linebacker Brandon Siler defending gun ownership despite the fact his temmate Jovan Belcher killed his girlfriend and himself:

Well, a majority of people own one, especially where they're legal. Most of the time they're for self-defense or sport.

Wait, so only some guns are used for murder/suicides? I used to be for gun control but buddy, count me in on the other side!

Besides, the idea that you can control guns is ridiculous, like Prohibition. Instead, picture a world where everybody had a gun and could defend themselves. It would be a whole new world! Here's what your average gun stickup sounds like now:

ROBBER: Stick 'em up! Give me your iPod!

And here's what it would sound like if everybody had a gun:

ROBBER: <bang!>

Because c'mon, no robber is going to take a chance he's got Quick Draw McGraw on his hands. No, the only reason he doesn't shoot you right off the bat is because the odds are really low that you're armed. Once that changes, it's a whole new ball game.

Burglaries would change, too. Think somebody would break into your house and steal all your stuff, hoping not to awaken you, if he knew you were armed? NO! He'd break into your house, shoot you in the head, and then steal all your stuff!

Okay, maybe it's not the best of circumstances for the victim. In the end, though, society wins. Somebody's bound to hear that gunshot, and the robber will be history. Well, unless he can scream, "THE GUY HAD A KNIFE!" before you whip out your Glock. It's win-win all around, though if your friends are prone to random collapsing better think about wandering around with them.

See, this is probably one reason I'm not a Christian. I'm not really tempted to buy complimentary cds.

Ohmigod. Is this amazing? I am just totally blown away. To me it totally exemplifies the state of technology today. Somebody's actually constructed the Luxo lamp made famous in that Pixar short. It follows your movement, it responds to noise, it can even turn itself on and off.

The one thing it doesn't do? GIVE OFF LIGHT.

Raoul has many talents. He can make a fetching hostess gift out of eight rocks and Chapstick. He can find an attractive jacket at Burlington Coat Factory. And he can communicate with animals. Anybody who's seen him watch The Dog Whisperer knows that. He sits eight inches away from the TV, and whenever Cesar Millan does anything -- whether it's reprimanding the animal, lecturing it, or depositing it into a giant Pringles can -- Raoul agrees effusively, saying, "Yes, that's exactly what little Nippy needs!"

So naturally when we talked of a weekend in Thailand, his number-one requirement was that we see elephants. They were his brothers, he said. They were related. I didn't inquire whether this was why he had three-inch-long eyelashes and extraordinarily thick skin. Eight minutes after landing in Chiang Mai we were flagging down a bus in search of his big gray family.

"Do you go to any elephant camps?" I asked the smiling driver.

Clueless. No English whatsoever. Even repeating the words "elephant camp" got no glimmer of recognition.

Finally a schoolgirl, the bus' lone rider, intervened. She said something in Thai to the driver, and the driver immediately brightened. "Yes!" she barked, suddenly linguistic. "Fifteen dollars!"

We agreed. Ten seconds later we were burning rubber in the opposite direction and the little girl was waving goodbye to us from the sidewalk. For close to an hour we puttered along winding mountain roads before pulling over in a cloud of dust.

MAESA ELEPHANT CAMP," a sign said.

The place looked a little scruffy, so I grabbed a brochure to make sure we were doing the right thing. It had all the politically-correct words: they made efforts to ensure the animals stayed "mentally and physically vigorous." "[O]nly the best and most sanitary nutrition and treatment are provided to all elephant [sic]," it said. Their philosophy was to "create a natural and healthy environment for the elephants."

We paid our admission and wandered in. Needless to say, I was a bit shocked to discover that the "best treatment" included hitting the elephants on the head while they ferried tourists around on $20 rides. I started to suspect that this environment was neither natural nor healthy during a show where elephants kicked footballs, played harmonicas, and painted pictures of flowers.

Still, I tried to suppress my irritation and focus on my fledgling feelings of excitement. Raoul, on the other hand, could hardly be contained. He touched the elephants, petted them, talked to them. He greeted them like long-lost relatives, staring in their bloodshot eyes like he could read their minds.

"Is he happy here?" I asked, like grandma asking a psychic how grandpappy was faring in heaven.

"Yes," he said. "They get three meals a day. It's peaceful. They loved living in the jungle but it doesn't get more stressful than that."

I was about to say they've obviously never had Time Warner Cable but I bit my lip. I spotted a table where a woman was selling elephant food -- bananas and sugarcane -- so I went for it. Whatever I thought about this place, it was certainly no crime to feed an elephant. I tore a banana off the bunch and, realizing there was probably a reason these guys were chained down, tentatively waved it toward one of the smaller ones.

The elephant tried to reach for it but couldn't. It straightened its trunk, it tugged on its chain, it grunted its frustration, but it still couldn't reach.

"Move in closer," Raoul commanded. "He's chained down and he's straining."

I cautiously slid an inch closer. The elephant pulled on its chain and ramped up the grunting but the banana was still too far away.

"Get closer!" Raoul snapped. "GET CLOSER!"

I leaned forward another few inches but it didn't help. The animal stretched and struggled against its chain but still couldn't get the treat. It screamed and roared and bellowed in distress.

"OMHIGOD!" Raoul yelled. "GET CLOSER!" YOU'RE TORTURING HIM! YOU'RE TORTURING HIM!"

Raoul was totally freaking out at this point, seconds away from lifting me up and feeing me to the elephant. Yes, I thought, elephants are chained to the ground and whacked with sticks here, yet I'm the villain. I'm the guy who needs to be yelled at.

Against my better judgment I moved a couple inches closer to the elephant and for the next few seconds life slid into slow motion. The elephant, you see, had been faking it. It could have reached the banana: it just didn't want to. It wanted the dozen bananas and five sticks of sugarcane tied together with raffia that I was holding behind my back. And when I moved those last inches forward, it decided that it could finally reach them.

All of a sudden the elephant lurched a good two feet forward. The massive gray muscle that was its trunk walloped me on the side and reached around me, and with its trunk acting like iron fingers it latched onto my little bundle of food.

And it yanked. It yanked exactly as hard as you'd think a wild, forty-ton animal would yank. For a millisecond I felt the searing pain of overstretched raffia about to slice my fingers off like four little Vienna sausages, whereupon I totally abandoned my grip and hoped the day would end with no permanent disfigurement. The elephant ferried the entire bundle to his mouth and dumped it in. He chomped away happily at the dozen bananas, five sticks of sugarcane, and the raffia that tied them together.

I glanced at my fingers and the bright red welt that was surfacing. I realized that in slightly altered circumstances, this is where my fingers would end.

I shot Raoul a look that was just short of total shock. He shrugged. "Don't get too close," he said.