Sure, politics is a bizarre process, but there's one thing about it that totally mystifies me. It seems like it's the only field where unsuccessful people don't try to imitate the successful folks.

Say you own a company that makes clothing. A rival company puts out a line of skinny jeans, and they immediately sell out. They're in all the magazines. You're a smart businessman, so what's your immediate thought?

(1) "Times have changed, and I need to change with the times."
(2) "Blast them! One day people will want bellbottoms again!"

Obama campaigned as a pro-gay, pro-choice, pro-environment candidate. He beat the guy who was not. Naturally this sent the Republican party into a tailspin. They had to retool! They hid away in their bunker for a few months, and when they emerged they were holding Rick Santorum.

Yeah, Rick Santorum. In a battle of wits, he'd lose to the counter guy at Taco Bell. His clothes are slightly cheaper than religious people who go door-to-door. But he's got the message! Let gay people marry, and pretty soon chickens will be raping elephants!

Oh. Okay.

It reminds me of Wal-Mart. They stand on the sidelines as the trends zip by. Women's underwear shrinks until it's the size of a Post-It and they're still standing there going, "But these granny panties will make you feel safe!"

Remember when the Strokes hit it big? Ten seconds later there were forty similar bands. We were spoiled for choice. We'd ask ourselves, "Do I want to listen to the Strokes copycat with the chick lead singer or the one whose songs are all in B-flat?"

In the political bizarro world, though, the Republican agenda is set in stone. Nobody changes their style. We shake our heads as they maintain that waltzes are coming back, but you gotta admit they get their money's worth with those accordions.

DJ Shadow on Burning Man

Maybe “hate” is a little strong, because I’ve never actually been. What I mean to say is that I hate the 40-something investment bankers and efficiency experts I meet at social engagements who describe their Burning Man experiences as “transcendental,” and then when pressed for an example can only offer that an erection resulting from being jabbed in the stomach by a cattle prod is unlike any other.

Sigh. Sometimes you see things that just make you rethink everything you've learned.

Once again, here comes footage from YouTube to remind us that the world is a mystifying place.



Is that incredible? A moob in half a slankie actually has a girlfriend who reads Bride.

A "fart fetish group" wants to license the rights to Nancy Grace's on-air Dancing with the Stars fart. But what if it wasn't Nancy, but the host, or her partner, who farted? And now Nancy is stuck being the fart fetish pin-up girl for the rest of her life. Such are the bargains we make for fame.

Does anybody know any fart fetishists? I wonder if they're reluctant to pleasure themselves to the DWTS footage because they can't be sure it's Nancy farting, and masturbating to a dude's farts would be totally gay.

Three days on a boat and they can't even get the Vivian Girls to plug in their instruments? What, will they be holding Mai Tais in both hands?

Edward Devereux Sheffe III Says Wall Street Protesters Are Hurting Ordinary Middle-Class People Just Like Him

"You guys need to be in Greenwich, Connecticut where the rich people live," says the peeved millionaire whose classical music listening is presumably interrupted by chants. "The people you're disturbing are middle-class people just like you."

In a new rap track, Nick Cannon says to his nemesis Charlamagne, "Man, you about as gay as dick pics."

Sigh. It really pisses me off when idiots use "gay" to mean "lame," but in this case maybe it's just envy. I mean, I'd absolutely love to Nick Cannon for a living.

How TV Shows Find Men Who Play Gay And Act Effeminate

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

Store clerks love me. All of them, from the fresh-faced students at Cold Stone Creamery to the paper-hatted, gold-toothed folks at Taco Bell. They smile and wave at me as I walk through the door, knowing from our past exchanges that I'm a friendly customer. I'll ask how they're doing, or make small talk about the weather. I never fumble for exact change. And when I leave and they offer a hearty, "Hey, have a good day!", I always offer a cheery, "You too!"

Well, except for Armando, at Kang's Fruits and Vegetables. He's a total underhanded bastard, and the worst thing is, he's got everybody thinking he's totally nice. Oh, on the contrary. He's the worst rat bastard there is.

I didn't even realize it until I'd gone to Kang's a few times. On the surface he seemed perfectly pleasant, always saying stuff like, "Hi, how are you?" and "Hey, good to see you!" Stupid me: I thought he was being friendly, when in reality he was just biding time until I dropped my guard.

On my fourth visit he drew me into his insidious little game. See, I picked up some mint, some limes and a liter of club soda. I was going to make mojitos. I put everything on the counter, and he kept up a long line of chatter while he was ringing up my purchases. It was so innocuous and inane that it all but insisted I ignore it. "Mm, mint!" he declared. "Delicious. Man, that's fresh! And limes! How many have you got, four? Four for a dollar. Club soda! Do I see a pattern? Somebody's making mojitos tonight!"

He smiled at me, like he was being totally friendly, and like a sap I smiled back. "Love 'em," I said cluelessly. I pointed at my bare wrist. "Drinking time starts now!"

He chuckled and said, "That'll be four-fifty," and I handed him a five. He gave me a couple quarters change, and I grabbed my bag and started out. That's when the ominous tone should have sounded in my head.

He called, "Enjoy your mojitos!" I waved and said, "You too!"

I was about halfway home when it hit me. Wait, I thought. What just happened? He's not making mojitos. Did I just tell somebody who isn't making mojitos to enjoy their mojitos?

I fumed for the rest of the night, barely tasting my drinks. Was it possible? Was there a store clerk who didn't offer a standardized greeting to his customers? Isn't that against the rules?

See, when somebody in the service industry says goodbye to a customer, it has to be generic. It has to be universal, like "Have a great day!" or "Have a good one!" or "Enjoy the weather!" They talk to thousands of people a day, people they know nothing about, so they need a greeting that's good for everyone. But it has to be good for the customer too. It has to be something you don't really need to listen to. You can continue thinking about more important matters while the help chatters on, and when you leave you parrot that trusty old, "You too!"

Armando, the rat bastard, went totally off the script. If it was legal, it wasn't fair, because then we'd all be forced to listen to what these people were saying. And if it was a new trend, it definitely had to be nipped in the bud before all the other clerks went AWOL.

The incident may have ruined my evening, but the next time I went to Kang's it was a distant memory. Clearly Armando had forgotten about it too, greeting me like a long-lost pal. He punched in all my purchases, keeping up a long line of friendly banter. He was so friendly and chatty he caught me off guard. "Enjoy your food!" he said, with the wave of a friendly hand.

I grabbed my bags and smiled. "You too!" I blithely replied.

"You too." Goddamn that bastard, I thought, clutching my bags with white knuckles. "You too enjoy your food, even though you aren't buying any and I have absolutely no clue what it is you eat." I could have sworn I heard him chuckling as I headed for the exit, face burning red as my beets.

The next time I went to Kang's I was ready. I picked out a couple potatoes, then strolled up to the counter, eyeing him warily. He waved, all smiles. "Hi!" he said. "How are you today!"

I said "Fine, thanks!" though I meant, "I'm wise to you, buddy!"

"You're in a good mood today," he said.

I dissected the words and came up with a believable response. "I'm going on vacation," I lied. He said oh. He packed all my groceries into a bag and now it was time to say goodbye. I said, "Have a great day!" and he nodded, upset that I'd beaten him to the farewell-greeting punch. He did the little pistol thing to acknowledge that I'd gotten him, and I grabbed my bags in triumph and started off. Disconsolate with defeat he droned, "Well, enjoy your vacation," and bursting with triumph I said, "You too!"

That night I had a premonition. I realized I could never go back to Kang's. Clear as day I saw it: I buy some produce, he hands me my change, he says, "Thanks for coming in!" and I say, "You too."

Before I can stop myself, my hands are around his neck and there's curly endive all over the floor. I'm arrested, pronounced guilty, and thrown onto Death Row.

Finally the day comes. I'm strapped into the electric chair. "Have a nice life!" I say to my executioner. "You too!" he says without thinking, and then he giggles as he flips the switch.

Last night I had sex with a blind man, and I tell you, we must have kept the neighbors up. All night long it was, "Marco?" "Polo!" "MARCO?" "POLO!"

My nephew turned four the other day, so I bought him something called "Baby's First Computer." It had a little screen, and a bunch of knobs and buttons, and a little keyboard. It reminded me of the Playskool Busy Box I used to love, where you spin a wheel with a bright barber pole stripe, turn a crank, and slide a little plastic airplane up and down along a slot. I sure cried when somebody stole it from our house while I was at prom. I pictured little Ronald pounding on it with glee while Mommy and Daddy worked on their real computers. Heck, I thought, if he was anything like me, he would have been thrilled just to have the box!

At his birthday party at my sister's house, Ronald tore off the gift wrap and turned the toy over and over in his hands. "Let me guess," he said. "You didn't get this at the Apple Store?"

"It's from Amazon," I replied.

"Oh," he said brightly. "Okay. Because they did such a great job with the Kindle."

"Pull it out!" I urged. "Turn it on!"

He pried one end open and slid out the yellow plastic toy. "What operating system is it?"

"Well, this is an introductory computer. I'm not sure it has an operating system."

He rolled his eyes and sighed. "Christ. And I thought you couldn't do worse than Windows XT. Okay, I can probably hack it so it'll run Linux."

He pulled off the plastic wrapper and visibly flinched. "Ohmigod," he said under his breath, "LCD? What, wasn't woodburning available?"

"Look at how fun this is!" I said, grabbing a smaller plastic bag. "It's got a pretend mouse that's shaped just like a mouse!"

"Oh, my," he said, "that certainly is impressive. I've never seen a wireless laser mouse that squeaks when you click it." He speed-read the instruction sheet with a growing look of disgust. "Wait. No AirPort? No wi-fi?"

I wasn't exactly proficient at baby talk, so this went over my head. Instead of replying I grabbed the cord because I didn't want him to strangle himself. "You plug this into Mommy's telephone, and you can see pictures from the internet!"

From all the coughing and spluttering you'd think he was choking on corn. "One fuckin' cable to dialup? Christ, this shit's barely worth booting up."

I've never had any kids so I seriously do not speak babble. "Does baby wike his new toy?"

"Eh," he said. "You know what? I don't touch crap at McDonalds, and there I've only got a fifty-fifty chance of catching a bug." He exhaled hard. "Christ, I just did a speed test and this thing's not downloading 50K a second."

I blinked. "Is computer too swow for baby?"

"Yes," he replied. "When iddy biddy baby fine-a-wee get porn, big hand will be waaay past widdle hand."

He shook his head one final time before disconnecting the toy. "Oh, fuck it," he said. "Thanks but no thanks. Christ, the Flintstones would toss this fucker out the -- "

Almost before he got the words out of his mouth, my sister stomped in and walloped him in the head with an oven mitt. "I m-m-mean," he stuttered, "thank you Unca Roman. I wuv it!"

Sue grabbed the toy and thrust it at me. "It's too advanced for him," she said. "He's only four, and he isn't smart. Maybe in another year or six."

I nodded. Well, I tried. I thought at least the lights would entertain little Ronald, but when I tried it myself at home I had to admit she was right. I couldn't get a beep or a boop out of it, and couldn't even fit my head inside the box.

Though Cyril had lived in America for over twenty years, he'd been born in London. Naturally I was mesmerized by his sexy accent, but quickly learned it came with a down side. Every time he spoke, he said something that made no sense. These odd mutterings were British colloquialisms, I guessed, though exactly how they could have gotten so entrenched in his vocabulary confounded me. I thought they were fun for our first few dates. They were colorful. But eventually I realized they were conversation killers, and, you know, sometimes there are conversations you want to see all the way through to the end.

One night we were discussing art with another couple. "I like Picasso and I like Manet," Cyril declared. "It's all swings and roundabouts."

He looked to everyone for agreement but instead all he got was "Whaaa?" And immediately the conversation swerved from art to "Gosh, aren't British people fascinating?"

I figured Cyril would eventually catch on, but he didn't. For two months I watched every conversation go up in flames. I began to read odd psychology into it. Were idioms just his way of saying, "I'm special!" rather than whatever he pretended to spout? I mean, I learned his Britishisms in about eight minutes, so he certainly should have gotten our language down. His feigned surprise at realizing nobody understood him was certainly wearing thin.

So, I became his translator. He did his little "I'm foreign!" thing, and I followed behind with a shovel, reassuring people that yes, there was a country in the world where what he said made sense. It wasn't fun. I think it was the tenth time I explained to someone that "spend a penny" meant "go to the bathroom" that I realized I wanted to fight back.

I decided to give Cyril a taste of his own medicine. I couldn't make out any kind of pattern to British idioms -- they seemed to be just a random melange of unrelated words -- so I made up American ones. Like him, I threw them liberally into everything I said.

"What do you want for dinner tonight?" Cyril asked.

"Oh, I don't care," I replied. "Really, it's the pig's moustache."

He glanced at me with furrowed brow. "The pig's moustache?" he asked. "Is that supposed to mean something?"

"It's colloquial, I guess," I said with a shrug. "Kind of like 'swings and roundabouts.'"

"Oh," he said. "Okay. You want to go to a restaurant?"

"Sure, that'd be fine," I replied. "That sounds like an ostrich tango."

I could almost see his eyes narrow. "How about the French place down the street?" he asked. "I hear it's the dog's breakfast, and cheap as chips to boot."

"Absolutely!" I replied. "But let's get a move on. I could eat the devil's dandruff."

From that point on, it was war. Nothing either of us said made any sense. For weeks we spouted absolute nonsense. We'd start a sentence, then finish it with whatever popped into our heads. We both agreed the latest Woody Allen film was the gypsy's jockstrap. Apple-picking in the Hudson valley sounded like an Amish volcano. When he ran into our neighbor at three a.m. she looked like an astronaut's handshake.

Miming words would have communicated more.

Finally, one day he'd had it. He didn't explode. In fact, I'm not real sure what he did, because as usual I understood about half of what he said.

"Roman," he said, "I love you. You're all fur coat and no knickers."

I smiled. I guessed I'd won, but wasn't positive. Instead I decided that change is seriously overrated. I didn't give a fuck what Cyril said, because in my book he was the cat's tattoo.

Asshole of the Day

There's a special place in hell for those online companies where, when you create an online account, they sign you up for a whole bunch of email lists that have to be INDIVIDUALLY unsubscribed.

I'm talking about MTV, of course. Don't give them your email address unless you want updates about the Black Eyed Peas, Carson Daly, and Sponge Bob sixty times a day. You're unsubscribing to Nick Jr. emails? That's one down, eighty to go.

And I couldn't broach the subject without mentioning Facebook. Register once and now you've got pages of privacy checklists to ponder. Can we give your personal information to bowling alley owners in Chicago? No? How about single moms in Detroit?

But the real problem child today is Zagat. I don't know: maybe I entered a contest, maybe I commented on some page, maybe I typed in a restaurant recommendation. Shortly after I got a junk email from them, and when I hit the "unsubscribe" button I read this:


Yes. That's right. I was being unsubscribed from their "Welcome" emails. Isn't that thoughtful? Now that they know I'm not interested, they've got no more "Welcome" emails for me.

Needless to say, they've got other email lists that still include me. When I hit "unsubscribe" on another note I read this:


Sigh. Okay, Zagat, it's on. You keep emailing me, and I'll keep declaring you Asshole of the Day. Do I have to unsubscribe to "At The Table" and "On The Grill" and "Under The Apron" before they'll leave me alone? Stay tuned. I'm thinking it could be some time before I finally get to that "Tears Upon Parting" email list.

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

Wow. I'm totally enamored of this new hot librarian calendar, "Men of the Stacks."


I bet Sol would be gentle with my Special Collection.


Something tells me Gabriel could show me some good Faulkner.


Looks like Zach has licked that Dewey -- oh, fuck it, just buy the calendar.

Hope This Helps

Wow, that sounds interesting. Let's click through.

INTERVIEWER: What do you make of the rumors that Cary was gay?

DYAN CANNON: I just want to tell you that part of our life was very fulfilling, so I don’t know. In Hollywood they talk about everyone in some form or another. If that was the case, I never saw any indication of it.

Dear Fox News:

You have a small grammatical error in your headline. Where you write "DENIES GAY RUMORS" you mean "SAYS 'HEY, HE NEVER FUCKED ANY DUDES IN FRONT OF ME!'"

Hope this helps,
RomanHans

Feds Say Rape Requires Va-Jay-Jay

The definition of rape used by the F.B.I. -- “the carnal knowledge of a female, forcibly and against her will” -- does not take into account sexual-assault cases that involve anal or oral penetration or penetration with an object, cases where the victims were drugged or under the influence of alcohol or cases with male victims. As a result, many sexual assaults are not counted as rapes in the yearly federal accounting.

In Chicago, the police department recorded close to 1,400 sexual assaults in 2010, according to the department’s Web site. But none of these appeared in the federal crime report because Chicago’s broader definition of rape is not accepted by the F.B.I.

Got that, chicks? So next time you want to make the federal statistics, convince the dude you give lousy blowjobs.

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

Dear Monopoly Player,

Thank you for buying the new Citibank edition of Hasbro's Monopoly. We know you'll enjoy the ease and convenience that come with electronic banking. At the beginning of each game, your Cash Card will be preloaded with $1,500 just for you. Buy properties and pay rent. Pass Go and collect $200. Instead of the hassle and bother of paper money, simply swipe your Cash Card and we'll do the math for you. What could be simpler than that?

Citibank

Dear Monopoly Player,

Enclosed is our new eighty-page privacy policy and user agreement. Please read it thoroughly and keep it in your files.

Citibank

Dear Monopoly Player,

Your balance dropped below the $2,000 minimum, so you've been charged a $80 maintenance fee, as per our latest privacy policy and user agreement.

Citibank

Dear Monopoly Player,

Congratulations on your recent purchase of Mediterranean Avenue. Since this is a property with a foreign name, you've been charged a foreign transaction fee of $104 plus 18% of the purchase price.

Citibank

Dear Monopoly Player,

We notice you bought Ventnor.

If you're in need of financial advice, please call our Customer Service department between the hours of 10 and 4 Monday-Friday CST.

Citibank

Dear Monopoly Player,

Our security software recently noticed that someone tried to purchase B&O Railroad with your Pre-Loaded Cash Card.

You already own Reading Railroad, so naturally this purchase was flagged as suspicious. As a security precaution, your card was deactivated and your account frozen.

If indeed you tried to purchase B&O Railroad, please call our Customer Service department between the hours of 10 and 4 Monday-Friday CST.

Citibank

Dear Monopoly Player,

Baltic? Really?

Citibank

Dear Monopoly Player,

According to our records, you haven't used your Pre-Loaded Cash Cards for eight minutes, so you've been assessed $204 in dormant account charges.

Citibank

Dear Monopoly Player,

We noticed that eight people landed on Ventnor, and you didn't charge any of them rent.

As you know, dude, we earn a small commission on all transactions processed on your Pre-Loaded Cash Card.

So, once more. Try it once more. And in the mean time, watch out for your little dog.

Citibank