Friday's News Flashes

The British defense ministry announced today that Prince Harry, the third in line to the throne, would have to come home from Afghanistan because it was too risky for him to stay there.

The media had agreed to keep news of his deployment secret, for his own protection, but that agreement was broken Thursday by the Drudge Report.

Stating that the safety of their royal family is of paramount importance, the defense ministry immediately pulled Prince Harry out of the war zone and had him driven home by a drunk guy.


While going to the bathroom on a moving train, a pregnant woman in India gave birth, and her baby shot out through the toilet and onto the train tracks.

And today four American health insurers issued press releases saying "Now that's the way it's supposed to be done."


1 in 100 U.S. Adults Behind Bars, New Study Says

For those keeping score, then, now eleven percent of America is gay.


Twin gay-porn stars Keyontyli and Taleon Goffney have been arrested for allegedly breaking into area businesses by using a handsaw and an ax to get in through the roof.

The police said they'd never have been caught the pair if they hadn't stood on one building for twenty minutes repeating, "Oh, yeah -- I'm really gonna plow through that tight hole."


Huge bundles of cocaine worth fourteen million dollars have washed up on beaches in southwest England.

And here's a video of Amy Winehouse heading in that direction with a hopeful look and a truck.

Thursday's Thoughts

In the New York Post today: A rich lady takes out the trash and gets stuck in the garbage room. Much misery ensues.

The story raises more questions than it answers. How can a real estate agent afford to live in a building where the cheapest condo is three million dollars? One of New York's most glamorous buildings has particle board laid down in the hallways to protect the rugs? How much money do you need before getting locked out of your apartment becomes news?

Still, the important information is there.

JOANNA CUTLER HAS A FABERGÉ EGG IN HER 14TH FLOOR CONDO AT 768 FIFTH AVENUE AND OCCASIONALLY LEAVES HER DOOR UNLOCKED.

And you thought the Post never printed anything useful.


Twenty police officers in a small Romanian town have started taking ballet lessons.

To the surprise of the residents, the students are perfectly happy with their studies. "I think we need these lessons, and hope we can learn very quickly how to move with elegance on the streets," one declared.

Unfortunately, it's all been a mistake. The police chief insists he never sent them out to find hoofers.


A group dedicated to raising the awareness of prostate cancer has introduced a new cartoon character called Prosty the Spokesgland.

Unfortunately, the character hasn't caught on. Though it's slightly more popular than another medical spokescharacter, Ewdolph the Red-Veined Carbuncle.




Three thousand villagers in India attended an elaborate Hindu wedding ceremony for two monkeys. Jhumuri, the bride, was smeared with sandalwood paste and dressed in a five-metre long sari. The couple was showered with wedding gifts, including a gold necklace for Jhumuri, and the reception included a vegetarian feast, music, dancing and fireworks.

After the ceremony, the two monkeys scampered off to start a new life together.

Oh, look! I caught the bou --

Never mind.

Worldwide Wednesday

ROME, Italy -- The country's highest appeals court has ruled that it is a crime for men to touch their genitals in public.

The ruling ended the appeal of an unnamed 42-year-old workman who allegedly fondled himself. His lawyer defended the practice, saying it's a local superstition that men touch their genitals to ward off bad luck.

Apparently it's the Italian equivalent of knocking on wood.


LOS ANGELES -- Michael Jackson's Neverland Ranch will be put up for public sale unless he pays more than $24 million owed on the property, according to a Tuesday court filing.

When told about the auction, Jackson said, "It's a sad time in America when someone so naive and trusting is forced to -- oh, never mind."


LOS ANGELES -- Actress Pamela Anderson is seeking an annulment of her marriage to Rick Salomon after just two months.

The pair cite irreconcilable differences as the reason behind the split. She wanted to release their sex video in HD-DVD, and Salomon preferred Blu-ray.


BRISBANE, Australia -- Two children watched in horror as a 16-foot python swallowed their family dog whole.

"It was so sad," one of the kids sobbed, "when we called 'Here boy!' for the thousandth time and the lump didn't move."


GREAT FALLS, Mont. -- A fourth-grader has won a planetary mnemonic contest, devising a handy way to remember the planets.

National Geographic created the contest in response to the recent announcement by the scientific community that there are now 11 recognized planets -- Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Ceres, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Pluto and Eris. Ceres, Pluto and Eris are considered dwarf planets.

The winning mnemonic is My Very Exciting Magic Carpet Just Sailed Under Nine Palace Elephants.

That is so impressive! I guess some kids are just born Proficient At Nearly Startling Young Ages, Skillfully Studying Earth Sciences.


NORWAY -- After years of planning and construction, the world's first secure, deep-frozen repository for seed storage has opened. The repository, located 400 feet below the ground, provides an insurance policy should a large-scale disaster strike the earth's agriculture.

According to a press release, there hasn't been so much seed buried so deep since my honeymoon.

Tuesday's News Roundup

At 5:30 Eastern time today, every Starbucks in America will close for three hours.

Why do I get the feeling Rudy Giuliani is going to pop up out of nowhere and yell, "SEE?"


The United States attorney for New Jersey, Christopher Christie, gave ex-Attorney General John Ashcroft a no-bid federal job that could pay him up to $52 million dollars. Mr. Christie suspects a medical supply company of fraud, but if they pay Ashcroft to "monitor" their activities, they won't be brought to trial.

Got that? Christie accused a company of something, then told them that if they paid his friend big bucks for protection he'd leave them alone.

I'm sure it's all perfectly legal. And his wife Carmela and daughter Meadow totally agree.


NEW YORK -- Selma Blair is set to go Sapphic in the indie black comedy "Driving Lessons." Blair will star as an unhappily-married high school teacher whose sudden memory loss prompts her to get romantically involved with a female student.

Bravo for Hollywood! I applaud them for taking a stand, for coming out and saying that it's okay to be gay as long as it's prompted by a medical emergency.


Martin Scorcese's next film stars Leonardo Dicaprio and Max von Sydow, and is set on an island that's populated almost entirely by mental patients.

Working title is "Raging Kangaroo."


NEW YORK -- An independent movie producer with rights to several George Romero movies is suing video game maker Capcom Co Ltd, alleging that their popular "Dead Rising" game is essentially a computer game version of "Dawn of the Dead."

Both works are dark, sometimes grimly funny social commentaries that spotlight shopping zombies, the complaint says.

Also named in the complaint are the movie "Shaun of the Dead" and the New York Times "Style" section.


Most Brits remember their first car more readily than their first kiss, according to a new survey.

I remember my first. Cost me two hundred dollars, and the neighbors had to close their windows because the damned thing puttered so loud.

That's why I've got happier memories of my first car.

Morning After Blogging From the Brown Carpet

The Academy Awards were absolutely endless. Honestly, it was so bad it makes me wonder why the thing is televised. Is it supposed to be entertaining? Spending eighty-four minutes giving an award to a cinematographer hardly qualifies on that score. Is it a public service, bringing worldwide recognition to people who don't ordinarily get it? Then the score is White Sound Editors 15, Black Actors 1.

Forget Florida: the Academy Awards is where old white men go to die. On ABC, during prime time. I remember seeing exactly one black woman throughout the whole evening, and she was played by Seth Rogan.

There was more than a hint of desperation about the evening. The Academy has recognized some real questionable stuff, and they were more than happy to remind us. Red Buttons was once best supporting actor? Shelley Winters was best actress? Ernest Borgnine was best actor? That's less a movie than half the Hollywood Squares. The Academy reminded us not once but twice that "Rocky" won best picture. That's like the Grammy producers mounting a tribute to Boogie Oogie Oogie.

I didn't like any of the movies that won, and the ones I liked didn't win anything. "Juno" only got an award for writing. "The Bourne Ultimatum," a personal favorite, didn't get much of anything. And what's the film where the main guy like sits there frozen, and just occasionally bats an eye? Oh, that's right -- "Michael Clayton." It was almost totally ignored.

As for the red carpet, well -- if I enjoyed having overinflated boobs stuck in my face I'd watch presidential speeches, thanks.

Still, there were some highlights. I loved seeing Daniel Day-Lewis surprise George Clooney with a kiss. I loved seeing the short little tributes to people who have left this world and gone to a simpler place. Yes, the best song performances.

And the best short documentary award almost brought a tear to my eye. Wasn't that cool? Soldiers who are fighting to bring civil rights to Iraqis presented an Oscar to filmmakers trying to bring civil rights to us.

The only other moment of GLBT interest was when Seth Rudin, the producer of "No Country for Old Men," thanked his boyfriend. He also thanked Miramax for their "brilliant" marketing of the movie, which surprised me. I mean, I still don't want to see it. I still don't know what it's about. But I'm glad Javier Bardem won. It was absolutely criminal when she was ignored for her work in "The Incredibles."

Okay, I lied. I don't know what I'd do with five cents either. I really need to get you to click through to more pages. Hey, weren't you looking for some kind of information? I probably can't help with that, but I do know something about computers that might be useful.

1. Possibly useful information about computers

Frankly, I don't know what I can do with three cents. However, because you've clicked through to these ads, it's up to five cents now, and I know what I'd do with five cents.

1. What I'd do with five cents

Computer screens have a limited size, and only a certain amount of advertising fits on them. If a website can get you to click through to multiple screens, though, they can force you to look at multiple ads. For instance, I just made three cents by forcing you to look at all the ads here. Do you know what I can do with three cents?

1. What I can do with three cents

I don't like to go to About.com's website for one simple reason. I'm usually looking for a modicum of depth, and About.com stays at a completely trivial level, printing one ridiculously simplistic paragraph per page. You might think there are a myriad of good reasons for doing this, but I think primarily there's just one.

1. The reason About.com prints one paragraph per page

Friday's News Roundup

Minnie Driver complained to an interviewer about blog culture invading the privacy of celebrities. "I was just in the clothes shop," she said, "and this girl was just standing there filming me with her phone. I so wanted to be like 'what are you doing you silly woman? Haven't you got anything better to do than watch me, like, flick through T-shirts?'

I don't believe this story for a second. Nobody's that weird. The girl was probably hoping Minnie would change clothes.


A gym in the Netherlands has declared Sundays to be clothing-optional workout days. The owner says the stunt has proved a huge boon for business, drawing kudos from the area's grateful nudists.

Is it just me, or can every Dutch news story be turned into a joke by adding, "And then a boy stuck his finger in a dike"?


Overweight police officers in Aguascalientes, Mexico are being offered cash bonuses to slim down. One politician behind the plan told reporters that some obese officers stopped chasing criminals after running just fifteen feet.

Oh, like this is smart. What do you call Mexicans who are good at running? Californians.


Last Sunday the pastor at a Florida church told his married members to have sex with their partners every day for 30 days.

Next Sunday's sermon: God speaks to the faithful through a burning bush.


RIGA, Latvia -- A British man was arrested and sentenced to five days in jail for urinating on Latvia's Freedom Monument.

I saw film footage of this on the news, and I don't see why they made such a fuss about it. Honestly, it's just a squat, unimpressive little pole.

And the monument's no Taj Mahal either.

Looney Tunes

According to Fabian Escalante, Fidel Castro's bodyguard, the CIA made a total of 638 attempts on Castro's life, and every single one failed miserably. Sound familiar? It reminds me of another mythic rivalry that went on for quite a few years. In fact, I'll bet you can't tell which of the following were ways the CIA tried to kill or disable Castro, and which Wile E. Coyote used to get the Road Runner.

1. Tried to stab him with a ballpoint pen filled with poison.

2. Sent him a spring-loaded boxing glove in the mail.

3. Tried to squash him with a jet-propelled pogo stick.

4. Dusted his shoes with hair removal powder.

5. Tried to make him walk into a square of quick-drying cement.

6. Gave him a diving suit coated with deadly bacteria.

7. Painted a tunnel on a rock and hoped he'd run into it.

8. Laced his food with iron filings so he'd be pulled toward a giant magnet.

9. Tried to hit him with a remote controlled plane packed with explosives.

10. Tried to crush him with an enormous boulder shot from a catapult.

11. Volleyed explosive tennis balls at him.

12. Chased after him with a jar full of angry bees.

13. Put an explosive seashell where he was about to go skindiving.

14. Left bird seed under a giant hammer.



Answers: 1, 4, 6, 9, and 13 are ways the CIA tried to get Castro. 2, 3, 5, 7, 8, 10, 11, 12, and 14 are Wile E. Coyote tricks.

Why TV Is Better Than Sex

According to a recent study, half the men in England would give up sex in exchange for a big-screen TV. Count me in with that group! Here are ten reasons why TV is better than sex.

10. On Amazing Race everyone applauds when you finish first.

9. Nobody thinks you're selfish when you ignore most of Grey's Anatomy.

8. The choices on TV include Small Wonder and Medium. In real life it's all Extra Large, Extra Large, Extra Large.

7. When you're watching TV, you only have to worry about the cable going down.

6. On Lost the castaways stand a good chance of getting off.

5. You don't have to beg your partner to let your friends come over and watch.

4. When you feel like enjoying Two and a Half Men, you don't have to post an ad on Craig's List.

3. On Bewitched they had a back-up Dick in case the first one didn't work out.

2. When somebody gets nailed by inflexible Bones, you can think, "Buddy, better you than me!"

1. On Sesame Street nobody runs away screaming when you announce you're the King of P.

An Open Letter to Britney Spears

Dear Britney,

You don't know me, but I've been watching your exploits from afar. It's obvious to even the casual observer that you're on the road to ruin, and the time has finally come for me to speak up.

You are completely out of control, girlfriend, and you desperately need someone to help. I've been in that exact same situation, so I think I am uniquely qualified for that position.

Hell, I've cut more lines than Francis Ford Coppola. My nose was redder than Rudolph's. It didn't just run occasionally: it stretched beforehand, and did cool-down exercises afterward.

Frankly, if I'd worked in a French restaurant I'd have shot less horse. I've had more bad trips than Steve Fossett, and scored more shit than Danny Elfman. My veins were so abused I had to shoot smack in my arteries and then stand in a centrifuge. Hell, take one look at me and it's obvious I didn't spend my cash on clothes.

As for exposing myself, girlfriend, you aren't even a close second. Mussolini actually asked me for advice about parading his privates. I had to fax my calendar to Sotheby's to make sure they weren't showing their jewels at the same time.

Sex? Been there, done that, got the Valtrex. I've forced more tongues into grooves than Bob Vila. I've been drilled like the Alaska wilderness, and blown more sailors than Hurricane Katrina. I've fingered more organs than Liberace, aired more old Slash than VH1, flogged more tired Dickens than PBS.

So trust me, girlfriend. I've been there. I'm probably the one person in the world who can help. Please, call me today.

Signed,
Everybody in Hollywood

P. S. You won't mind if I sell this as a reality show, right?

Crap Baby Crap

I saw "Gone Baby Gone" last night. The commercials for the DVD say "It'll leave you talking long after it's over," and they're right. Mostly you'll be saying, "Wow. That was a massive pile of crap."

Save yourself two hours and read this instead. Naturally, it gives away the end.

"Gone Baby Gone" opens with Police Captain Jack Doyle talking about poor little Amanda's abduction. "My own child was abducted years ago," he tells the press corps, "so I will really hunt for Amanda. I'm not saying I wouldn't have otherwise, but we'll never really know, right?"

NEWS ANCHOR: Little Amanda was last seen with her doll Mirabelle. Repeating: with her doll Mirabelle. So if you come across a lost little girl whose doll has a different name, just ignore her, please.

Casey Affleck and Michelle Monaghan run a detective agency. They're also soulmates who've known each other since they were young, but it'll take this kidnapping to prompt their first discussion about whether or not they want to have kids. In desperation, Amanda's aunt Bea turns to them for help.

MICHELLE: Let's not take the case. It's too depressing. Either we'll find Amanda dead, which is sad, or we'll find her alive with a child molester, which is even sadder.

CASEY: Remind me: you're a private detective exactly why?

Casey is from the hood, so people will talk to him who wouldn't talk to the cops. He goes to a bar where Amanda's mom Helene was a regular and discovers Helene did drugs with her boyfriend Ray in the bar's bathroom the very night of Amanda's disappearance. Various scary people twice Casey's size get pissed off about his prying, but he pulls a gun and/or pistol whips them. Though this is a small town and everybody knows where Casey lives, the next scene doesn't show anyone beating the crap out of him or burning down his house.

Casey and Michelle meet with Remy and Nick, two police officers, to swap information. Though the whole city is in turmoil, these are the only two guys actually working on the case. The others are evidently making sure all the yellow tape stays up.

After Ray is found dead, it's obvious Helene is hiding something. Casey and Michelle confront her and she admits she ran drugs for a Jamaican gangster named Cheese. (Me, I'd have made him Swiss.) She and Ray ripped him off for over a hundred thousand dollars. Casey and Michelle relate this story to Remy and Nick.

CASEY: Can we ask Cheese if he'll swap Amanda for the cash, PLEASE? We're from the hood, so he'll talk to us.

REMY: Buddy, all we've got going for us is the element of surprise. We've got exactly one shot at breaking Cheese, and if we blow it we're finished, Amanda's good as dead. But you two are amateur detectives, so if you want to, sure!

Cheese pleads ignorance. "Bitches love the Cheddar," he suddenly announces, making viewers wonder how they feel about Colby or Jack. Later that night, though, Casey and Michelle get a mysterious call agreeing to the exchange. They turn up at the old quarry (now a small lake) and all hell breaks loose. Shots are fired, Cheese is killed, and after a splash is heard, Amanda's doll is seen floating in the water.

CASEY: Well, that's it. Little Amanda is dead. Nobody saw her fall in, and it's a still body of water so she'd just sink straight down and stay there, but divers are expensive and we all heard the splash so I guess the case is closed.

Several months later, one of Casey's contacts drags him to a house where two drug fiends and a child molester are holed up. Casey suspected them of having Amanda, but obviously they weren't involved. They find the body of another missing child, though, so Casey shoots the unarmed molester in the back of the head. The police all agree it's cool so he's not detained.

Casey and Remy have a drunken talk where Remy admits to four hundred different crimes, contradicts eighteen things he said earlier, and talks about having a PlayStation back in 1962.

CASEY (thinking): Hmm. That's odd; they weren't invented until 1995. Could Remy have lied to me?

He questions Amanda's uncle Lionel at Helene's favorite bar, and Lionel spills the beans: It's the cops that took Amanda -- and she's alive! They wanted to save her from her crack-whore mom. While he's telling this to Casey, a masked burglar comes in and points a sawed-off shotgun at him. Casey immediately realizes it's not a robbery.

CASEY: He already told me that the cops took Amanda! I know! And since I'm yelling, everybody knows now! Don't kill him!

The bartender shoots the robber twice through the heart, and the mask falls off. It's Remy. He runs away, still armed, and Casey chases, making everybody wonder why he'd risk being injured when he could wait a couple minutes until the dude dies outside. Remy confirms his involvement with his dying breath, and Casey realizes Captain Jack is involved too. He's about to confront him when Michelle announces that she knew he took the girl.

MICHELLE: C'mon! Leave the man alone! Jesus wants us to steal attractive white children from drug-abusing hookers. We all know the system doesn't work, though if anybody'd talked to Child Protective Services at any point in the past Amanda would be in a foster home right now.

CASEY: Amanda belongs with her mother. I'm going to get her and bring her back.

MICHELLE: If you do, I'm leaving you. I'm going to move in with my sister.

The whole audience shudders. For the sister.

Casey does what he threatened, and the police arrest Captain Jack. In the last scene, Casey is with Helene and Amanda. Helene is dressed in hot pants and tank top for her usual coke whore's night out.

HELENE: Can you babysit for me? There's a biker I should be blowing right now.

CASEY: Sure. (Thinking to himself.) Did I do the right thing? Have I lost my soulmate? What kind of life is this for poor Amanda? Isn't there something we can do to save our children? They're our future, after all! (Aloud, to Amanda.) Hey, what's on TV?

FIN

Excuse of the Day

I wanted to send you a Valentine card but Hallmark was down.

Everybody's Talking about the Infidelity Test Kit

I am absolutely dumbfounded by this new product I found on Gawker. It's called CheckMate, and essentially it's a semen detector that supposedly works for either men or women.

Say you're a guy, and you suspect your wife is cheating. Piece of cake! You test a pair of her worn underwear for the presence of semen. How does it work? The website invents the euphemism "flowback," but I think "dripping" is clear enough.

Now, if you've been paying attention, you've noticed a small flaw in this scenario. How do you know it's not your semen that you're detecting? And the answer is, you don't.

"You must abstain from having sex with the woman you are testing for a period of 7 days to insure that any semen present did not come from you. Because relationships tend to breakdown [sic] slowly over an extended period of time, the vast majority of men using this product are not having sex on a regular basis anyway, and the 7 day abstinence period is never usually a factor."

In other words, you can't do her for a week beforehand. But hey, if you were doing her, you wouldn't be suspicious, right?

Their theory totally falls apart for women who suspect their men of cheating. "Say for example, he left the house on Sunday afternoon, and told you he was going to play golf. Then, when he came home and took a shower, you got his underwear and did the test. If any semen was present, what is he going to say? I was masturbating on the golf course?"

I'd say "Sure!" but I suspect it's a trick question. Like a guy who spends an afternoon in Bermuda shorts and a beret can be shamed by any societal norms.

The website says the location of the semen is the clincher. "Say for example you discover one small localized stain at the bottom of the underwear. This may indicate dripping after masturbation. But, if you happen to find a stain in the upper waist band area of the underwear, this would more than likely indicate he was at least semi erect, and may have pulled his pants back up quickly after ejaculating."

Um, a couple small quibbles. One, most men are semi-erect before or after masturbating. And two, if we pleasure ourselves in, say, the office bathroom, we aren't going to linger over brandy and cigarettes.

Still, I'll give the test makers one concession. if you find any evidence of flowback, you've got a problem on your hands.

Everybody's Talking about the Infidelity Test Kit^TM

Thursday's Thoughts

From today's New York Times, by Cintra Wilson:

GRAVITY shifted the items in my dish rack the other day, making the blade of one of my better knives suddenly slide its entire length along the stem of a wet wineglass. It gave me goose bumps, it was such an unexpectedly erotic sound; the kind of foley you’d hear if Liliana Cavani ("The Night Porter") directed a Batman movie: Zing!

If it's possible to be scared gay, lady, I'm there.


Director Madonna as Good as Actor Madonna: Critics

Thus answering the question, "Will 'The Hottie and the Nottie' be the worst film released this year?"


According to a new study, the penis has evolved so that it not only deposits new semen in the vagina but also pulls out the old.

And everybody wonders why dudes are so tired after sex.


Designer creates dress from juice packets.

Inspiring the world's worst pick-up line: "Hey, how about if I get us a couple drinks?"


A five-year-old girl took her pet hamster to see "Alvin and the Chipmunks," but midway through the movie the hamster bolted.

The exact same thing happened to me!

At first I thought it was gas.

Mid-Week Musings

Wouldn't it be weird to get really sick in vast, open space, millions of miles from another living soul?

I'm not talking about that German astronaut: I started feeling a little queasy watching "The Hottie and the Nottie."



Playing in a thousand theaters, the Paris Hilton film grossed exactly $79,000 on opening day.

Is that crazy? Forget paying for rent or food -- that won't even cover her replacement chihuahuas.


Gary Coleman, the star of "Diff'rent Strokes," recently told "Inside Edition" that he was secretly married. Right after he told them that he was also secretly alive.


Scientists have come up with a drug that prevents muscle fatigue in mice. They say this is an amazing breakthrough that may eventually lead to the complete eradication of Rodent Ben Gay.


Rock band the Who are planning a new record and a reunion tour.

Now in their sixties, they had a big hit with a song called "Who Are You?" Which, coincidentally, is what they often ask each other while they're standing on stage.


The Latin pop sensation Shakira had a charity auction, and she sold one of her bras for $3,000.

Jeez. And I feel guilty when I ruin a kleenex.

Introducing 1000 Fifth Avenue

Well, I apologize in advance, but you know, I don't make any money off this blog. If some real estate development company wants to fork over cold hard cash to advertise their new condos here, I'm going to jump at the chance.

Introducing 1000 Fifth Avenue, the new address of pure, unbridled sophistication, home of the most sumptuous city living that New York has ever seen. Located across from the historic Dakota apartments, just 14 hedonistic abodes are available to a discriminating clientele in a breathtaking 19-story tower designed by renowned Italian architect Herman Armani. Featuring solid walnut floors, Carrera marble baths, and kitchen appliances from Sub Zero, Miele and Wolf.

Peruse the standard floor plan below, then contact your estate agent to experience the extravagant opulence necessary for your inner peace of mind.

Monday's Meanderings

Thank God the State Department kept Amy Winehouse out of the country. Now if I see somebody wandering around my neighborhood in a bra and black beehive I'll know it's just the guy next door.


LOS ANGELES -- Accepting the Grammy award for best rap album, Kanye West had just started talking about his late mother when background music began to usher him off the stage.

''It would be in good taste to stop the music,'' he said, and immediately they did.

Too bad he didn't try that during Kid Rock and Keely Smith's duet.


WASHINGTON -- President Bush broke his silence on the 2008 presidential race on Sunday, giving his endorsement to Senator John McCain of Arizona as a "true conservative."

And on an unrelated note, William Hung thinks Sanjaya has an amazing voice.


Subway needs to invent a sandwich that will make Jared lose annoying.




Did you hear about the PBS genealogy program that traces the roots of prominent African Americans? They researched Oprah's family tree, and when they told her about it she broke down in tears.

Turns out she and Gayle are first cousins.

I'm So Tired of Peeing Green

It's not my fault. The local markets have asparagus on sale for a buck a pound. A buck a pound! In New York you can't buy wet dirt for that. I'm cheap, I'm pretentious, and I like to eat my veggies, which means I just can't stop myself.

Besides, it's not like there's any competition. Carrots? Too crunchy raw, remind me of baby food cooked. Spinach? Yeah, I love washing a bathtub full of leaves and ending up with a tablespoon of food. Broccoli? Like I want something that both tastes lousy and leaves me puttering like a lawnmower. I can barely force potatoes down unless I've got an equal-sized pile of bacon bits.

ODing on asparagus is a ritual I do this time every year. I haul home ten or twelve bags full of spears and spend entire days cooking them. I steam some, I boil some, I roast some. I make salad and pastas and compotes and terrines, and eat the things until I'm blue in the face. Then a couple hours later, stuffed to the gills, I cluelessly saunter into the bathroom. And all hell breaks loose.

If I'm lucky, I won't be in a public restroom. Because there's nothing worse than having a witness who hears me scream, "Holy shit! What the hell is that?" while I'm looking downstairs.

I'll stand there staring open-mouthed, wondering exactly what is up. For a split second I think there's a tiny Linda Blair being possessed in my pants. It occurs to me this is something out of the ordinary, so I turn frantic, wondering who I should call. I make a mental list of the symptoms just to save the 911 operator some time. It doesn't burn, it's not painful, it's not plugged up. It's just that, for some odd reason, Gatorade is shooting out of my dick.

Should I call a regular GP, I wonder, or would I need a sports doctor for that?

Before I can even reach for my cellphone, though, the pieces fall into place. I remember that vegetable I've been eating eighteen hours a day. I sigh with relief, but unfortunately, lacking short-term memory, I won't remember this the next time I go. Or the next. Or the time after that. It'll happen a hundred times and still catch me offguard. Every time I drop my pants it's like Groundhog's Day, where I'm startled anew by the neon fountain spritzing out of me, a scenic backdrop fit for a tiny Celine Dion show.

As my heart palpitations slow to a flutter, I try to convince myself it's worth it. Asparagus must be really good for me, I think. It puts so much leafy-green goodness in my body, there's a gallon left that it's got to shoot out. Still, every year I swear it'll be my last, even if they paid me to haul the asparagus away. Because I hate the accusing eyes at the local laundromat, wondering what a guy has to do to get green spots on his underwear. I hate taking a piss in blue toilet water and changing it to teal.

But last night was the last straw. I was standing at a urinal in the bathroom of a fancy restaurant when a handsome, well-dressed man sidled up next to me. He smiled at me, I smiled at him, and sparks flew. Then he sniffed the air and asked "What's that smell?"

I had to offer him a choice.

Random Thought Thursday

What the hell is happening in France? They've got a crazy new President whose spouse has declared that monogamy is boring and gets naked at the drop of a hat. I didn't think we'd see anything like that unless Hillary won.


Scientists have created a mouse that can catch a cold. I hear forty of them have already called in sick to Taco Bell.


The New York Post claims there's a video of Pedro Martinez and Juan Marichal enjoying a cockfight in the Dominican Republic. What's with these sports stars? If they want to see pea-brained creatures battling, they should tune into Survivor like the rest of us.


A 21-year-old German man has been convicted of sending a photograph of his penis to an unknown woman via mobile phone, authorities said Wednesday.

Dammit! He called me too, but I hung up when he started talking about rollover minutes.


Get ready for the Fourth Annual World Naked Gardening Day! People across the globe are encouraged, on Saturday, May 3, 2008 to tend their portion of the world's garden clothed as nature intended.

Wow, get a load of those tulips!

Oops. My apologies, ma'am.

Just Say 'Pepsi, Please!'

Coke has always loved warm and fuzzy commercials. They want the world to sing. They want everybody to gather together on mountaintops in flowing satin robes and sing choral songs while guzzling their caramel-colored beverage. Polar bears and penguins bond over Coke. It's the drink that brings the world together.

In their newest ad, which premiered during the Super Bowl, they try to mend America's political rift. The abrasive, annoying Democrat James Carville is debating with ex-Senate Majority Leader Bill Frist when suddenly they decide they've had enough arguing and they take the afternoon off. They ride Segways, go to a basketball game, get caricatures done in the park. The commercial is a uniter, not a divider, a romantic-movie montage set to a warm and fuzzy song:

Why don't we step outside
and change our view?
We don't see eye to eye
sometimes it's true.

But good times will come around
when we follow through.
Just want to share a smile
with a friend like you.
A friend like you.

We have our differences, the commercial seems to say. But let's just ignore them, celebrate our similarities and everything will be okay.

This is absolute bullshit.

Bill Frist's point of view isn't just different. He doesn't just think Congress should ignore the Constitution and fund the Boy Scouts, a group that discriminates against gays. He doesn't just think we need to change the Constitution to specifically prohibit gay marriage. He doesn't just think gays don't make fit parents.

He thinks police should break into the homes of gay men and arrest them if they're having sex.

He said this before Congress. He compared gay sex to prostitution and drug use, and said it shouldn't be protected by the privacy of the home. Which means police should break down your door if they suspect you of having consensual gay sex.

And that's where he crosses the line between average Republican idiot and extremist nutjob.

I am absolutely mystified that Coke thought they could make a warm and fuzzy commercial with this guy. I'm pissed off that they think we should tolerate, if not embrace, an avowed bigot who thinks gays are evil. I mean, would they suggest that Spike Lee go out for a burger with Ku Klux Klan head David Duke? Should Woody Allen just shrug his shoulders and share a popcorn and a movie with Mel Gibson's dad?

That'd be ridiculous, right? We wouldn't think of legitimatizing and enriching these nutjobs until they did some apologizing -- as in groveling, on their hands and knees. It'd take some serious backpedalling before we'd think about "sharing a smile."

So, sorry, Coke -- I'm not going to agree to disagree. I'm not going to step outside and change my view. And I suggest if you want gay people to continue buying your products, you need to apologize too.

This Just In

Bigoted heteros have used the same two tired arguments for hundreds of years about why gay sex is wrong. One, God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve. Two, the parts don't fit.

The latter is particularly stupid. I mean, if we were forced to have sex with whatever best fit us, I'd need a separate datebook for my hand. Guys don't care if their dicks fit in something or not. We're resourceful; we can shove. Plants, animals, minerals, you name it and some dude's done it. Nobody freaked out when that kid did a pie in some movie, and somebody else did a chicken his family was going to eat for dinner. I don't recall red-faced preachers on "Meet the Press" discussing whether those parts would fit.

Besides, it's not like male and female genitals fit any better. Think about it for a second. Back door, then front door. Yeah, I can't get my suitcase in this long, long hallway -- better move it to the broom closet instead. Tell us we'll misplace our stuff in there, fine. Tell us somebody wandering by might trip over it, sure. But don't try to tell us it won't fit.

Luckily, though, an article in a recent magazine may make this line ancient history. Men's Journal has always been a strange publication, with articles about meditation and personal growth followed by twenty pages of ads for penis enlargement. Recently, though, they scampered to the end of the weirdness limb by proudly announcing a "stunning" new development:

You've got an erogenous zone up in your ass, they say, and you damn well ought to use it. "The implications for the bedroom are enormous," they say. "Foreplay will never be the same."

Yeah, I'll say. All those whispered phrases we've heard coming from the back rows of movie theaters are going to be dramatically different now. Instead of "Damn it, how do I unhook this thing?" and "C'mon, just let me touch ‘em," now we'll hear stuff like "Just give that Red Vine a healthy shove!" and "Shit, I just lost my Three Musketeers!"

This news won't come as a surprise for gay men, or anybody who's dated a doctor, or, well, anybody who knows anything at all. Apparently the Journalists spent all their time exploring foreign lands and ignored their own backyards. But their surprise, and their smugness, is positively irritating. It reminds me of Columbus landing in America. "I've discovered a New World!" he exclaims, as Indians wander around wondering who the new guy is.

For the clueless, Men's Journal gives directions. You approach it slowly, feeling around for an "unripe peach," and then you "flick gently" at it.

That's not hot sex: that's what Raoul did the first time he saw a piñata.

Men's Journal refuses to talk about parts fitting, but it's pretty obvious to the reader that they do. The prostate is three inches in, and the average male sex organ is five inches long. If God designed everything for a reason, it's pretty clear he wants us to get stuffed.

Instead, the magazine meekly suggests that heteros spelunk the cave with a finger. For the first time in recent memory, we've got a mainstream publication telling chicks to trim their fingernails and take their rings off. Then lubricate really, really well, and slowly insert your finger into the man's --

Wait. Wait a second. Isn't this what my homophobic high-school classmates called . . . packing fudge? We've had to deal with this slur our entire lives, and now the hets are opening up candy stores? It's like finding Osama Bin Laden at Disneyland. "Death to the infidels!" he says, nibbling on a corndog. "But first I'm going to hug the giant mouse."

Sorry, dudes -- we're not cutting you any slack. We're getting an apology before we let you in the Prostate Club for Men, and until then we're disputing the comforting disclaimer that ends the article: "Under no circumstances are you to start worrying that enjoying this means you're gay." Maybe Men's Journal will let you off the hook, but I'm sure as hell not going to.

Get this straight, buddy. If your legs are up in the air and there's something sliding in and out of your bum, you're gay. You're gay as My Little Pony's rhinestone saddle. Take it from somebody who had a finger up his ass before you were born. And now you're trying to take it away, like Elvis stole soul from the black man. If anything goes up your ass, you're gay. In fact, you're about twelve minutes away from buying short-shorts and a turquoise tanktop, and begging my biker pal Rooster to plow you like the dirty little pig you are. Because one small scavenger hunt today means a shelf full of Gordon Merrick books and beauty school tomorrow. Break out the disco fans, Brenda, ‘cause there's a new queen in town!

Okay? Okay. Glad that's sorted.

Now if I could just find a fossil of Steve.

Collection Agency Uses Four-Letter Word

BUFFALO, NY -- A collection agency tried to collect a $16.96 debt with an letter that addressed its recipient with a four-letter word for excrement. "Dear S---," began the letter, seeking payment for an old record club membership. The word was spelled out in the letter, which arrived in an envelope addressed to "S--- Face."

I can't wait to see this on "Law and Order." Sam Waterston, looking all stern and businesslike in his dark blue suit, will be quizzing the plaintiff. "The outside of the envelope was marked 'To be opened by addressee only," he'll solemnly declare. "So either you are guilty of mail fraud, or you, my dear sir, are Shit Face!"

Collection Agency Uses Four-Letter Word

Random Notes from a Hungover Blogger

A "stunner"? The Giants won, so yesterday's game was a "stunner"? They were one of the two teams playing, so it wasn't all that impossible for them to win. Now, if thirty-seven million people had suddenly decided they had better things to do than watch millionaires play a meaningless sport, that would have been a stunner.

Somebody put a quiz online to test one's knowledge of Ikea products. Is Splexnvog a chair, a vase, or silverware? Is Plyxnoogen a bookcase or carpeting? I do quite a bit of shopping there, so I only got two wrong. I thought Jerker and Fartfull were the guys Raoul brought to my Super Bowl party.

Ikea Quiz

I'm pissed about all the Michael Jackson Super Bowl hype. "It's confirmed!" his spokesmen said. "It's on! A super-special surprise that'll air during the Super Bowl!"

And it turns out to be Naomi Campbell dancing to "Thriller" with a bunch of Geico lizards.

Here's my own little quiz. A desperate, over-the-hill model cavorting with reptiles: the Gloved One's "comeback," or your average Saturday night at any New York club?

Naked Straight Boys Singing!

I just watched the "Naked Boys Singing!" on DVD, and was startled by how effeminate it is. I mean, one mincing little queen, fine. Two, okay. Three and we start making "Sex and the City" look butch.

Obviously diversity was an important part of the casting, since the cast makes "It's a Small World" look Aryan. So why no manly dudes? Why's everybody clean-shaven? How come nobody weighs over ninety pounds? It got me to wondering:

How would "Naked Boys Singing!" be different if the "boys" were straight?

10. Show doesn't start until all the performers are drunk.

9. Opening number is entitled, "What The Hell Are You All Looking At?"

8. "Dance" consists of pointing at the ground, then at the sky, and repeating five hundred times.

7. More back hair; fewer butterfly tattoos.

6. "Ode to Robert Mitchum" wouldn't need a rhyme for "dreamy."

5. Pubes aren't groomed like Elton John's zen garden.

4. Only two or three dance numbers end with the splits.

3. Song about the Packers might actually be about sports.

2. After five minutes the lights come up and the performers declare, "Is that the best you've ever had, baby?"

1. When they come back for their encore, half the performers don't have red knees.