Somebody needs to tell that bitch Madonna to mind her own business. Why's she always poking her skinny nose into places where it doesn't belong?

Naturally I'm talking about the way she buys foreign children in Malawi. You wonder why the world hates America? You got a prime example right here. Why does this woman think she can blithely plow her way into a government building and randomly grab a kid, like she's shopping for free-range beef at Whole Foods? She thinks that just because she has enough money to support it she can take it home with her. Is that unbelievable? What kind of egomaniacal hubris makes her think these kids don't already have parents that they love?

My God, sometimes she doesn't even wait until after they've had their daily teaspoon of rice.

Well, you say, so far she's just been pulling kids out of orphanages. What difference does that make? See, Malawi has a different sort of child-care system. In Malawi, all the kids in orphanages have families. Orphanages are really more like day-care centers, or even summer camps, where you can park a kid while you're, say, redecorating your hut, or fattening up the rat for Thanksgiving dinner. They're a convenient way to get the kids out of your hair for a year or two while you're trying to earn enough to buy a cup of flour.

It's different, but it's quite an efficient system. See, with these types of orphanages, the Malawians do away with the tyranny of parenthood, because having a child doesn't have to be a life-long sentence. Any time you want you can drop your kid off at a state-supported center, and every morning you can decide whether or not you want him back. Parents can spend many wonderful years in peace and quiet without ever giving up the right to say, "Hey, I want David back now that that rich old white woman wants him!"

Okay, so the orphanages aren't particularly easy on the children. I mean, they know they've got relatives on the outside, and it's not particularly reassuring to them to know that they're in this strange environment because Grandma doesn't want them until they're six. But with all the activities in these orphanages, they soon forget. They play Swat the Dung Beetle and Who's Eating Dirt and pretty soon they're oblivious to the world -- and prime targets for every white woman who happens to have a spare room and a sandwich or two.

Really, it's the most unimaginable hubris. I mean, how would Madonna feel if a rich African man burst into an American orphanage and pulled out three or four children just because he wanted to give them a better life? Doesn't sound quite so altruistic now, right?

Obviously life in Malawi isn't perfect. There is hunger and disease. But the biggest problem by far is keeping meddlesome rock stars out of orphanages, and stopping rich people from buying these children. They are not commodities. They are not possessions. They're living, breathing beings who may be wanted by their parents one day soon.

Public Art in Barcelona

Barcelona is an important cultural centre and a major tourist destination with a rich cultural heritage. The city is perhaps unrivaled in the world with its vast treasures of public art.


One can't mention Barcelona without talking about Antoni Gaudi. Gaudi was an architect famous for his unique and highly individualistic designs. Many of the city's buildings bear his modernist stamp. This photo shows details of his work in Park Guell.


Joan Miro was also a Barcelona native. Various examples of his work can be found around the city, and his Foundation is one of the city's most exciting showcases of contemporary art. This piece is titled Woman and Bird.

And then there's this untitled work on La Rambla, by an unknown sculptor.


This piece breaks from Barcelona's art nouveau history with its implacable realism. In stark contrast to the layered nuance of the Mona Lisa, this man's face just says he wants to take a crap.

In this masterpiece of stone masonry, the toilet has the pure lustre of porcelain, the toilet brush bears the dull matte of plastic, and the lowered khakis are a symphony of tight wrinkles. The toilet tissue looks like at any moment it might unspool and fly away.

If you're lucky, you'll wander by when the piece makes a farting sound and then waves at its butt with the newspaper.

Clearly Barcelona is the throne of Europe's contemporary art scene, where tomorrow's movements start today. If you've ever thought about visiting, it's time to shit or get off the pot. Barcelona is waiting: isn't it time you dropped in?

I have decided to pursue my goal to become a Russian gymnast.

No longer will I stumble through life with no direction or self-control. No longer will self-indulgence and excess rule my life. No, steely concentration will be my mantra as I focus single-mindedly on this pursuit.

Together with my brother Dmitri, we will become a team that will turn the gymnastics world upside-down. We will perform routines the likes of which no one has ever seen, blithely contorting ourselves into death-defying positions that make ordinary gymnasts run screaming to their mommies.

Of course, it won't be easy. Our typical day will consist of four hours of weight training, three hours of flexibility lessons, and six hours of gymnastics. After all that grueling work, when our bulging muscles are exhausted to the point of collapse, we will retire to a local bar where we will knock back vodka like it's water and girls will blush in our testosterone-drenched presence. They'll search for every excuse to touch our rock-hard biceps, but we'll push them away. There's no place for females in the rough-and-tumble gymnastics world.

Audiences will gasp in disbelief as we strip off our warm-up suits and show off bodies that look like anatomical charts. Women will swoon with desire and men will sob with jealousy. My arms will be like steel cables: flexible, yet strong. My shoulders will be broad and muscular. My abdomen will look like it's sculpted from marble. My legs will be like tree trunks, unyielding sinew that will support my brother in our signature Chinese Pagoda move. Every fiber of our beings will burn with fury as we take positions no other duo has even dreamed of and, indeed, do things that God Himself never meant the human body to do.

We will work relentlessly to perfect each new position, and there will be no place for either shame or privacy to distract us from our goals. My trembling fingers may rest mere centimeters from my brother Dmitri's groin, but with our cold-hearted focus neither of us will care. With ropy veins bulging I will support Dmitri solely by the buttocks as he attempts the death-defying Iron Cross. Audiences might chuckle uneasily, unaccustomed to the blasé way we macho men handle each other's rock-hard bodies, but the titters will die in their throats when through sheer force of will and muscular power we contort our bodies into positions that'd make Michelangelo weep with joy.

And pretty soon we'll be rich and famous and our names will be on everyone's lips.

So c'mon, Dmitri -- just put on the tights, okay?

Yes, I realize it's ancient history. I realize fifty years have passed since World War II, but I defy anybody traveling from Prague to Berlin not to want to fling themselves out of the train window when they hear this heavily-accented message over the intercom:

"We have arrived now at the German border station. Thank you for riding with us. Goodbye."

I was perfectly willing to forgive Germany. They said they're sorry a million times, and at some point you have to let it go. But then I got to the actual country, the place where it all happened, and a thought hit my brain and just would not let go:

So, this is where Hitler killed six million people in his attempt to take over the world.

Um, why is this place still here?

See, there are certain things you can't recover from. If your wife catches you naked in a hot tub with a troop of Boy Scouts, you can't just say, "Okay, I've made a serious mistake, but let's just say I'm sorry and start over from square one." No, there's a price to pay, and even on this magnitude that price includes things like jail, divorce, or gunplay.

Every once in a while I realize I've made a fatal error. "Well, it was a good try 'til now," I tell myself as I pack up my stuff and hit the road, ditching my old name and saying farewell to my old life. And that's just prompted by stuff like farting in bed.

In Germany, they didn't even change their name.

Now, I know they're sorry. They've said so more than once, and the city is liberally dotted with monuments to their mistakes. Unfortunately, to see the monuments is to recognize that this isn't nearly enough. A thousand cement coffins to commemorate six million people killed? That's the stupidest thing I ever heard. It's too small, too cheap, too easy. It's like totalling your boyfriend's Jaguar and then offering him a Kit Kat bar in recompense.

Not enough? Okay, I'll toss in some Almond Roca too.

The Germans recognize their failure to address the scale of the matter, so the monuments keep going up. "Do you get what we did?" a government minister asks. "I mean really, really get what we did?"

His coworker sighs. "It's beyond comprehension, really." Pause. "Why don't we express our remorse to the world with a pointy cement obelisk?"

"Brilliant!" the minister says. "We can use that big empty space by the Reichstag where Hitler used to parade the troops."

It's sad. It's fruitless. And now, ironically, every new monument just seems to confirm the impossibility. The air has been tainted; the ground has been spoiled. The crime was just too big. This is a past that demands that the country be relegated to history in the same way its victims were.

So, Germany, I know you're sorry. I know you're a beautiful land full of terrific people. But as long there's shame and nuclear weapons in the world, you should not exist.

A nation of lawyers has turned us into a nation of liars. Instead of being honest and keeping dangerous products off the market, corporations just change the way they market them.

Take Q-Tips, for instance. Go to any gym in the world and you'll see how dudes use them. Propped in front of the mirror with towels wrapped around their waists there'll be five guys with Q-Tips buried two inches deep in their ears, hacking away at the water and the wax.

But, you know, Q-Tips aren't intended for this purpose. There's even a printed notice on the side of the box. "WARNING: Do not insert swab into ear canal. Entering the ear canal could cause injury. If used to clean ears, stroke swab gently around the outer surface of the ear only."

So, should something unfortunate happen to these Q-Tippers -- they puncture an eardrum, or push the earwax further in rather than pull it out -- you know what Q-Tip's lawyers will say. "They put them in their EARS? Ohmigod! They're not supposed to go in people's ears, and frankly we're horrified to hear people are doing that!"

Then, there's a bizarre little product called Locker Room. It's marketed as a deodorizer for locker rooms, and in fact it has an intense odor that could easily overpower any kind of musty smell. Unlike Glade or Airwick, though, Locker Room is only available at gay bookstores, like all us homosexuals also manage football teams part time. Like George Steinbrenner and Mark Cuban drop by on a regular basis and pick up a bottle along with the latest copy of Straight to Hell and a tube of strawberry-kiwi Lube.

No, the reality is, Locker Room is a sex drug. You stick it under your nose while you're screwing and it makes your heart beat like a hummingbird's. Which is exciting for everybody who doesn't know hummingbirds only live twenty-four hours.

The sad thing is, these legal dodges work like a charm. Nobody's suing Q-Tip. Nobody's suing Locker Room. Because they've got us over a barrel. They know if we hurt ourselves with their products we're not going to call their bluff. No freedom-fighting Erin Brockovich is going to battle to the death for a dude who sticks Q-Tips in his ears. No altruistic Jimmy Stewart character is going to take his case all the way to the Supreme Court, telling the world he snorted room deodorizer while a Latino sucked him off.

Still, I am confident that justice will eventually prevail, and that one day some dude will find the courage to take up this fight. Whoever he is, I'd like to reassure him that there are millions of Americans on his side. When the time comes for his day in court, we'll fill the audience with his supporters. We'll boo his setbacks and cheer his triumphs. Indeed, we'll sit there proudly knowing that though it's just one man fighting, it's the American way of life he's fighting for when he bravely stands up to questions like, "Tell the court why you thought it'd be okay to stick a facial massager up your ass."

I try to spare the details from my friends. I'm sick, which basically means none of my bodily functions are working correctly. And when they're not working correctly, they get pretty gross. I mean, nobody ends up shooting flowers out of their ass.

So I say I'm feeling weak, getting hot and cold chills, have a stuffy nose and horrible sore throat. I venture out onto a limb and say, "Well, and I'm coughing up phlegm."

You'd think I announced I found a Mazda Miata in front of my house with a big red bow on its hood. "What color is it?" Mark gasps excitedly.

I'm reluctant to overshare. The fact is, though, I barely remember. I can't swish the stuff down the drain fast enough. It's pure, hard evidence that something is seriously wrong -- plus, well, it's disgusting. I'm hardly going to examine it like a tiny Monet. "It's canary yellow," I announce, "with a bold streak of lime green to draw the eye around."

He ignores my sarcasm. "That means it's bacterial," Mark says. "With a course of antibiotics it'll be gone in a few days."

When I hang up I can hardly believe I've had this conversation. Do I really have a friend who's memorized the meanings of every possible color of phlegm? I mean sure, I've always wanted to learn the various breeds of cows, but they're fun and frolicsome, and they don't live up my nose.

Minutes later Charles calls up, and literally eight seconds into the conversation he's quizzing me on color. Now I realize this isn't just Mark's personal weirdness: it's a trend that I've missed. We're all so ridiculously body-conscious that now we're even learning how to read hidden meanings into our excretions.

I feel my face redden. It's like I've missed an entire season at Armani Home. When did this happen? When did I fall behind? I repeat the details and with an insufferable smugness he confirms Mark's diagnosis. When I hang up I'm wondering if he's going to send me a bill.

And then Steve calls, and it's the straw that broke the camel's back. I refuse to look like an idiot again. I refuse to let every one of my friends prove they're smarter than me. Raoul sent me a bunch of flowers, so I describe a peony. Lots of red, a little purple, spots and streaks and whorls.

I can hear Steve's befuddlement over the phone line. I win! I think. I'm not an idiot! "Stick yourself in a vase and call me in the morning," he snaps before hanging up.

Roman's Helpful Tourist Guide

All of Amsterdam:


The bad part:

Adjective the Museum of Modern Art's Film Department Uses to Describe "The Pope's Toilet"

bittersweet

Thursday News Round-Up

Crazy welfare queen Nadya Suleman brought home two more of her octogang the other day.

On Tuesday Kaiser Permanente Bellflower Medical Center released Maliyah and Nariyah to join Noah and Isaiah at their new $564,900, four-bedroom home in La Habra, California.

Maliyah and Nariyah.

Maliyah and Nariyah.

Is there something subliminal going on here, or is it just me? Isn't this like Charlie Sheen naming his twins Mussyhound and Nussyhound?


Fannypack? That ain't no fannypack.



The pope visited Africa the other day to deliver a stern message to the residents. Give up your superstitious ways! Forget all about your voodoo and witchcraft and sorcery and and come back to reality!

Then he sprinkled them all with Holy Water and turned a glass of wine into Jesus' blood.

Springtime in Paris means the trees are budding, the grass is sprouting, and the plucky con man is shaking off his winter doldrums to once again fleece piles of euros from clueless American tourists.

Me, I have other fish to fry. After checking into my hotel, I head straight to Ladurée on rue Royale and pick up a grocery bag full of macarons. From there I march straight to the Tuilleries, where it'll take me six hours to get to the bottom of the bag.

I bask in the presence of this culinary marvel. Two pastel-colored cookies surrounding a dark, creamy filling. Bite through the crisp cookies -- like breaking into a creme brulee -- and the most intense flavor in the universe explodes on your tongue.

Lime basil. Raspberry. Bittersweet chocolate. Each more pure and intense than the last. It doesn't take the pigeons long to catch on. Yeah, we're not big fan of museums either, they're thinking. What have you got in that bag?

A cheaply-dressed young man strolls by feigning casualness while simultaneously scratching away at a lotto ticket. "OHMIGOD!" he shouts suddenly. "I've won a MILLION EUROS! Unfortunately I am here illegally, so I cannot claim this fortune. If only there were a legal visitor here who would buy this ticket from me for, say, two or three hundred euros! That way we'd both be winners and everyone would live happily ever after!"

I dig into my bag and pull out a Salted Caramel flavor. "Congrats!" I tell the guy. "Good luck with that!"

His face falls, and suddenly a pregnant woman appears who starts hitting him with a baguette. "You idiot!" she screams as he tries to dodge the blows. "This year, why don't you just get a fuckin' job?"

Ten minutes later a young woman throws herself in front of me to retrieve something she's spotted on the ground. "OHMIGOD!" she gasps. "I have found an incredibly expensive man's ring, made of pure 24-carat gold. Surely this ring is worth many thousands of dollars, but as I am a woman I have no use for it. If only there were a man around who'd like such a fantastic demonstration of the jeweller's art for a mere pennies on the dollar."

In my sugar high I barely register what's happening. Hey, this ain't Union Square. What's with the big tower? "Maybe they've got a lost-and-found department here," I say.

Springtime in Paris. Yup, that's why they write the songs. The sun slowly lowers as I pull more macarons from the bag. Paradise. The trees. The birds. The young woman who tosses an oversized ring in front of every dude she passes, and the man who circles the park scratching away at a lottery ticket while the pregnant woman trails behind holding bread.

In Defense of Redheads

I am absolutely horrified by these Verizon FIOS commercials, and I can't just sit by silently any more.

In this commercial, the loser cable guy discovers that everyone who cancelled his service has subsequently signed up with Verizon FIOS. In another commercial, the loser cable guy visits an ex-customer to lure him back. Naturally, the Verizon guy is there. FIOS offers a hundred channels and a $150 rebate, he says. What can the loser cable guy offer? A stick of gum and a bus pass.

Verizon has only sixty seconds to get their message across, so every detail is important. Their representative is smart but not smug, young and hip, with the tousled brown hair of the guy next door.

The competitor? Oversized, bumbling, and redhaired.

Now, in a perfect world we wouldn't have to worry about what our good guys and bad guys looked like. We'd have good guys who wore lederhosen, and good guys who wore fezes, and good guys who wore sassy caftans. But the fact is, TV doesn't cast blindly. Advertisers think we'll identify with people who look like us, which means the protagonists are usually dark-haired and Caucasian. And so we'll take an instant dislike to their competitors, they won't look quite like us.

Have we learned anything at all in a hundred years of fighting for equality? Barely, it seems. Sure, this company wouldn't think of putting a black man or a Hispanic man in the same position. They wouldn't think of slapping a yarmulke on the loser cable guy. Then why is it okay to portray a dude as an idiot just because his parents had sex during a forest fire, and his sweat smells like pumpkin pie?

So, I'd like to take this opportunity to tell Verizon that this looks-based discrimination is unacceptable. Shame! I say. Shame for perpetuating the myth that different means bad. Shame for saying that a man is a loser just because his pubic hair glows in the dark. And I long for the day when we won't be able to distinguish TV's heroes from villains, and even God's oddest children are accepted into one loving fold of humanity, whether or not they fart Cheetos.

The Only Thing I Remember From Three Days Spent Watching TV While Slipping In and Out of Nyquil-Induced Unconsciousness

MALE ANNOUNCER: At Lowe's garden store, we have flowers especially selected for your area.

EXCITED FEMALE SHOPPER: Oooh! Geraniums!

Amsterdam is what Venice would be like if all the tourists smoked crack. If the most ambitious restaurant served waffles. If the souvenir shops pushed marijuana blunts instead of pastel-colored carnival masks.

Oh, who am I kidding? It's not even close. It's hard for a city to have any kind of grandeur when everybody's staggering around like Otis from the Andy Griffith Show. I stop in a bar around nine one night and there's not one person who can complete a sentence. Sure, it looks fun as hell, but I require a little more in my drinking companions than conversations that consist of "How?"

On the plus side, it's the least intimidating European city I've ever visited. When the clientele are crashing into the walls, the bartender's not going to look down his nose at some dude who mispronounces Grolsch.

There's not a lot to do here, so I figure it's time to tackle my cold. Five days of rain in Prague started it, and now it's kicked in hard. I head to a pharmacy to see what they've got. I'm expecting walls full of fabulous chemical wonders but instead all I find is one shelf bearing nose spray and aspirin.

"I have a cold," I tell the pharmacist. "In fact, I don't inhale or exhale so much as purr. What should I take?"

"Something with ephedrine," he says. "To dry you up. Like Contac or Dristan."

"Oh, okay," I say, pulling a wad of colorful bills from my pocket. "Give me some of those."

"They're illegal in Amsterdam. People use them to make speed."

I look at him, expecting him to break into giggles and then announce I've been punked. Nope, he's serious. "Wait," I say. "So you've got hookers in pasties dancing in all the windows, squirting themselves with hand lotion and making sucky sounds at the dudes walking by, and you've got stores on every block advertising magic herbs, magic leaves, magic mushrooms and everything short of Magic Ponys, but you don't have Actifed?"

He shrugs his shoulders and I realize that's all I need to know about Amsterdam. Good try. Nice thought. Doesn't work.

I leave the city the next day, and I'm not particularly sad. I've learned something new about myself, I realize, which is part of the reason I travel. I'm maturing. I'm . . . dare I say? . . . growing up. Because I'd never have guessed it a month ago, but there are days when I'd rather have a time-release Coricidin caplet than a bag of Red Lebanese or a hand job.

A body that makes grown men reach for their wallets and angry wives reach for their guns. And his girlfriend's not bad either.
Harlan Flueharty is a redneck auto detailer who's spent his entire life keeping other people out of trouble. He gets in over his head, though, when he takes the blame for the sexist catcalls his brother hurls at the buxom Rosie. Rosie's not satisfied with his apology: she wants to teach him a lesson. And what better way to learn how hard it is to be a woman than walk a mile in her . . . well, bra?

Rosie offers Harlan fifty thousand dollars to get traffic-stopping breast implants for thirty days. So what if she doesn't have that kind of cash? She's an angry Latina, not Mother Teresa.

Dirt poor and desperate, Harlan agrees to the deal, soon discovering the surgery is more than just cosmetic. He finds himself the hottest tranny in the city, a sex object even to himself, but with Gomer Pyle's brain and Carmen Electra's cleavage something's got to give. Old-fashioned values like honor and loyalty can't compete with champagne and Tiffany swag.

Harlan's bank account and ego explode as he gleefully exploits his voluptuous new figure, shaking down his fans for every penny he can get. But enemies also pile up left and right until he finally plummets back to earth for writing checks with his mouth that even that hot body can't cash.

Packed with jealousy, sugar daddies and catfights, bOObs is about implants like Moby Dick is about whales. It's an outrageous exploration of sex roles -- Myra Breckinridge for a new generation -- and the perfect summer beach read.

I'll be posting a couple pages every day, Monday through Friday, until I'm back from vacation on March 23. Enjoy.

bOObs
http://boobsbook.blogspot.com

Oh, God. Want to know where my vacation is going to take me? Just follow the plane crashes in the Times.

Long story short? He wants to bang out a litter with Octomom.

The Christian film website MovieGuide has proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that America wants to see "movies with very strong Christians and redemptive, biblical or moral worldviews," not "unbiblical, anti-Christian or immoral" crap.

Their evidence? The family-friendly Indiana Jones film grossed far more than Zombie Strippers.

My favorite part of their report is the rating system. Films with some homosexual content are rated Ho; films with moderate homosexual content are HoHo, and really, really homosexual films get a HoHoHo.

Which seems to tie gay sex in with opening presents under the Christmas tree, but Christians have never made sense to me.

Also making their list of HoHoHo films are Kiss the Bride and The Love Guru. Got that? We not only caused Hurricane Katrina and Israeli earthquakes, we're responsible for Tori Spelling and Mike Myers too.

A former editor of the New York Times' Op-Ed page has a new book out where she spills some of the newspaper's secrets. She even includes some political artwork the newspaper killed, with the reasons they didn't make print.


This is a drawing of Henry Kissinger, with tattoos illustrating his various war crimes. This drawing was killed because in reality Kissinger's ass is nowhere near that toned.



This drawing is supposed to be about intellectual copyright, but even I see boobie here.



This drawing supposedly looks like a dude ejaculating. Hah! I don't have half that many lines on my dick.



I have nearly a degree in political science, so as a public service I'll decode the meanings of this cartoon. See, the cow represents the U. S., which is standing in a field and mooing. The man, representing American business, sucks all the hard-earned milk out of the teat of Florida.

Why was this killed? I didn't read that far into the article, but I'm thinking maybe because the horns mean this thing is a bull.

(Via Gawker)

Highlight of the Guardian's Interview with British Designer Paul Smith

"Friends sometimes pop in for a sandwich - Daniel Day-Lewis, Michael Palin, the Kaiser Chiefs."

In the case of the latter, the sandwich pieces are cut really, really small.

According to the Guinness Book of World Records, Elaine Davidson of Scotland has over six thousand studs, bars and rings pierced through and protruding from her body.


And she still can't find her keys.

Ursula and Agnetha never really blended into a community until they moved to South Beach.

Illiterate Hoodlums Run Pediatrician Out of Town

Online networking sites like Facebook are stunting the social development of today's youth, according to a British professor.

Lady Greenfield, professor of synaptic pharmacology at Lincoln college, Oxford, and director of the Royal Institution, told the House of Lords that children's experiences on social networking sites "are devoid of cohesive narrative and long-term significance. As a consequence, the mid-21st century mind might almost be infantilised, characterised by short attention spans, sensationalism, inability to empathise and a shaky sense of identity".

WTF? Part of me is like WAJ! and the other part is like YYSSW.

Like all the world's great problems, it started on a whim. Rite Aid had a promotion where they'd rebate a percentage of the purchases you made during an entire month. Spend $25 and get a $5 gift certificate. Spend $50, get $10, etc. Save the receipts, type in the info online, and presto! A happy surprise in your mailbox.

Now, obviously they wanted people to buy stuff, but that was the last thing on my mind. Half their stock was overpriced toiletries, and the other half useless crap. I had eight bucks to get me through the month, so needless to say I wasn't going to blow it on a stick of Mitchum or a bunny rabbit windsock.

No, my plan was to cash in on other peoples' receipts. New Yorkers never took them: what, like they'll need proof they spent forty bucks on a bottle of Tide? I knew if I looked around the checkout counter there'd be hundreds of discarded receipts just waiting to be claimed.

I threw on a coat and ran to the nearest Rite Aid. Nothing. There wasn't a single scrap of paper on the ground. I pretended I was interested in the candy bars as I watched the people check out. I couldn't believe it. Every single person took their receipt.

Two hours later, with my back aching, my feet swollen and my stomach growling, I conceded defeat. I grabbed a Fast Break bar and the checker rang it up. "That'll be thirty-three cents, please."

Huh? I thought. That's crazy. That's almost a meal, with no dirty dishes. I got eight bucks worth and ran all the way home clutching the receipt in my hand.

I'm typing in all the information when the devious part of my brain fires up. Most people spend more than eight bucks at Rite Aid, it says. And it's not like this promotion requires proof or anything. Who's to say I didn't "accidentally" transpose a couple digits? Why, that'd be awful. I'd cash in, and nobody would ever know.

The next day I get an email from Rite Aid telling me to go to their website and check out the status of my rebate. I'm shaking like a leaf when I log in. CONGRATULATIONS! it says in big red letters. YOU QUALIFIED FOR A ONE-HUNDRED DOLLAR GIFT CERTIFICATE!

Now, an infinitesmally small part of my brain does a happy dance while the rest of me turns white. I click to see details and a list of my purchases comes up. There's adult diapers, duct tape, vienna sausages, and women's pantyhose. There's hair dye, a girdle, and a case of Chef Boyardee ravioli. There's a Clapper and a Chia Pet.

My total is five hundred and twelve bucks.

Holy shit, I think. I am so fuckin' dead.

I mean, if I'd stumbled upon a $25 receipt, I could have assumed the real buyer would have tossed it. One thing I love about New Yorkers is they're nowhere near as bored or cheap as me. But when somebody's got a five hundred dollar receipt, you can be pretty sure they're going to squeeze every freakin' cent out of it, and probably file it away for tax deductions.

Somewhere at Rite Aid Central, somebody's computer is beeping. And it's saying, "Hey, two people submitted a five-hundred-dollar receipt! Get security on this STAT!"

So now I'm sitting here, waiting for that knock on the door. I'm thinking it'll be guys in suits and dark sunglasses. "Mr. Hans," they'll say, their shoulders blocking out all daylight, "we've got a question about some purchases you made."

I'll hem and haw but eventually I'll blurt out the truth: I'm a cross-dresser with a bladder problem, and a yen for bad food and cheap gifts. They'll shake their heads, thinking nobody would stoop that low for a lousy gift certificate.

On their way out I'll offer them each a Fast Break bar, and when they drive off the real celebrating will begin.

Highlights from Fashion Week

Michael Kors found a witty new use for Mattel's Fistfuck Me Elmo.



Children, come in from the rain.

Walter, those are not earmuffs.

The owner of a cafe in Vienna has redecorated to make male customers feel more comfortable.

He's installed toilets around the walls of the dining room.

"The lavatory is one of the last places in the world where men can sit and relax without women or other distractions," says owner Stefan Holz. "We just want our customers to feel at home."


Really, the only awkward part is when you enter and the maitre d' approaches with menus asking, "Will that be number one or number two?"

I don't know how it happened. I saw the ads, I watched the commercials, I heard people say, "Hey, Quiznos ain't as bad as Subway!" and somehow I decided Quiznos must be good. Why am I always the last to know? Well, second to last, in this case, as their photographer is still coming up with shots of attractive food.

One busy afternoon I picked up a Quiznos sandwich and was startled by the vast chasm between reality and my mental picture (and, in fact, the picture in the window). Naturally I emailed to ask what was up. Basically I wanted to know why they hadn't been shut down by the fraud squad because, you know, you can't exactly advertise gorgeous sandwiches and then serve up stuff that looks like dog vomit.


I knew I had to be tactful if I wanted a reply, so I just asked why my sandwich didn't resemble the photo. Here's the reply I got:

Dear Mr. RomanHans,

I'm sorry to see your complaint about the T-B-G. [Ed. note: Turkey Bacon Guacamole.] You know, nobody can guarantee the real thing looks as same [sic] as the picture in advertisement. But I would like to honor you as our customer. I prepared a coupon of a free small toasty combo for you. Next time when you come to this store, you can get it from the cashier.

Sorry for your inconvience [sic] again!

Jasmine
Manager

Now, I appreciate the reply. Jasmine seems friendly and sweet and perky, and not at all like the rode-hard-and-put-away-wet chick who makes her food. But this wasn't anywhere close to a logical reply. "[N]obody can guarantee the real thing looks as same [sic] as the picture. . . ."? Really? So, can I advertise sensuous massage with a photo of a busty young blonde but then send a sweaty forty-year-old computer nerd on all my calls?

As for the offer, well, it took half the afternoon to get the tautology straight in my head. Yes, Jasmine is actually offering me free disgusting food to make up for serving me disgusting food.

Wish me luck. Oh, and email if you want a massage.

RomanHans' European Tour 2009 commences next Thursday, with stops in Paris, Barcelona, Prague, Berlin and Amsterdam. (Amsterdam is last? Yeah, that makes sense. Who needs weed to get through the rest of the trip?) Needless to say I've been scouring the literature for travel tips, and while all these countries are very gay-friendly, France goes above and beyond. From the France Guide for the Gay Traveler, published by the French Government Tourist Office:

While in Evian, don't miss the nearby medieval village of Yvoire, noted as one of France's prettiest. If you want a beautiful lake, breathtaking snowcapped peaks, and an active gay community, Annecy is the place to be. The water of Lake Annecy is among Europe's clearest. To test your luck of a different sort, stroll through the Jardins de l'Europe, a popular spot for local gay men who just want to linger for a spell.

What? There's a half-naked hunk hidden over in those bushes? Thanks very much, French government!

Nostradamus? Bah! In the Year of Our Lord Nineteen and Seventy-Four a prophet came forth with two quatrains that predict all of our current financial woes.

Good times, any time you meet a payment.
Good times, any time you need a friend.
Good times, any time you’re out from under.
Not getting hassled, not getting hustled.
Keepin’ your head above water,
Making a wave when you can.

Temporary lay offs -- good times!
Easy credit rip offs -- good times!
Scratchin’ and surviving -- good times!
Hangin in a chow line -- good times!
Ain’t we lucky we got ‘em?
Good times.

And that's what separates Michael Jackson from your average, ordinary, lawn-mowing dad.

Average dads are happy with corduroy capes.

Art. High-class, museum-quality art.

And, coincidentally, what my dentist looks like when he's getting ready for a night on the town.

Thought of the Day

Women who say men who are strong are called assertive but women who are strong are called bitches always turn out to be bitches.

I'm in a good mood these days, and I know exactly why. It's not because the weather is good. It's not because I've got a thoughtful new boyfriend. It's not because I have money in the bank.

Nope, the whole entire reason is this: I had an appointment at the dentist, but I called and cancelled it.

When you stop and think about it, it's obvious why this gives me such a high. Life smells sweeter when you're consciously dodging the dentist. I didn't realize this until I was thirty-something, then decided to milk it for all it was worth. Now I've always got a pending dentist appointment, and for months I live with the dread of it approaching. It's going to be awful, I think. He's going to take x-rays. He's going to find something horrible, and he's going to pull out all my teeth.

Mere hours before I'm due in that chair, when cold sweat has become a way of life, I call and cancel. "Would you like to reschedule for next week?" the receptionist asks. Not a chance, chick! I tell her. I'm gonna ride this high 'til it dies.

When my friends see me they realize something is different. Years ago they might have asked, "Roman, what's with the glow? Are you seeing somebody? Are you in love?" But now they know better. They see me floating on air, whistling as I tapdance down New York's sidewalks. They ask, "Cancel another tooth cleaning, dude?"

I just coyly smile and once again toss my beret into the air.

Actually, I'm surprised more people don't do this. We can't all afford weekends at Disney World. I don't know anybody getting promotions, or gorgeous apartments, or hot boyfriends. I don't know the last time I heard good news. Cancelling is cheaper than hillbilly heroin and just as effective.

Make an appointment with a dental professional. It'll just be a dark little blot on the horizon, slowly enlarging as it gets closer, but when you cancel it hits just like smack.

As for my breath, well, that's the best of it. Every time I exhale and see another person wince, I remember the best things in life are free.

When my one-hundredth boyfriend came and went, I realized I might be doing something wrong. Was I too insensitive? I wondered. Was I too controlling? A couple of short-termers had alluded in that direction whenever I'd let them speak.

When Raymond turned up, then, I decided I'd make an effort to be sensitive to his needs. I hated Woody Allen, but when I saw that he had a new movie out I figured I'd ask what Raymond thought. "Do you want to see the new Woody Allen movie?" I asked.

"Oh, absolutely," he replied. Well, no accounting for taste, I thought. Bored to death in the dark theater I congratulated myself on my generosity in between wondering if this was the worst movie ever made.

My sensitivity seemed to work, though, because the next time I called Raymond he jumped at the chance to go out. "Do you like karaoke bars?" I asked, just out of the blue, determined to find out everything about him. This was new territory for me: I had two ex-husbands at this point and didn't even know where they lived.

"Oh, absolutely," Raymond said, so that Friday night we went to one. It was by far the stupidest thing I'd ever sat through: I mean, if I wanted to see untalented people sing old Journey songs, I'd go to a Journey concert, thanks.

When we reached our six-month anniversary, though, I had to concede that maybe I'd been doing something right. Sensitivity! Sharing! Being interested in his interests! I figured we should mark the milestone in some major way, and the newspaper's travel section suggested a destination I'd never have considered in my life. "Do you want to go to the Bahamas?" I asked Raymond, just barely suppressing a shudder.

His eyes lit up. "The Bahamas!" he repeated. "Oh, absolutely!"

And so came three of the worst days I've ever spent on planet Earth. We gummed rubbery conch for dinner, got drunk beneath the mirror balls at hetero discos, and spent our days touring a poverty-stricken country where we tried to pretend the poor black people who catered to our whims weren't exactly like slaves.

Wandering a market full of suitcases woven from palm fronds I caught a bored look on Raymond's face. "Hey, you're the one who wanted to come here," I snapped. "It's pretty much the way I pictured it."

"I wanted to come here?" he repeated. "This is the last place in the world I wanted to come. You're the one who suggested it, and I just agreed to be nice."

And in an instant our entire relationship flashed before my eyes. While I was being polite, was he being politer? While I was asking about things I never wanted to do, was he agreeing just to be nice?

"So, you don't like Woody Allen, or karaoke bars, or the Bahamas?"

"Hate Woody Allen, think karaoke bars are hell, and if I wanted subservient minorities to wait on me, I'd go get my car washed."

I stared at him in disbelief, and then we both started to laugh. We'd spent so many nights trying to be supportive, when just being ourselves would have been the smartest move of all. It was incredible how much we had in common, including the part about feigning civility to get along.

All the barriers came down as Raymond and I reached an honesty I'd never found before. That night as we gummed our last rubber dinner and then headed for Señor Wally's Dancing Clam Shack it was almost like I could read his mind.

And when I asked "Do you want to break up?" I knew exactly what he was going to say.

President Obama's administration today confirmed what many analysts had long suspected. "We're no longer going to arrest or prosecute rich people for crime," spokesman Roger Fielding announced.

"In the last few years, the government suffered too many setbacks, and we paid too high a price. Now with this fiscal crisis, we simply can't afford to fight the high-powered attorneys of the fabulously wealthy and maintain the standard of living we're accustomed to. We spent thirty million dollars trying to put Robert Blake in jail, and now we can't afford to collect trash in East L. A. We spent a hundred-eighty million on O. J. and had to close three senior centers in Wichita. We've only got so much money, and now we have to pick and choose what we can afford. Which would you rather see: P. Diddy jailed for firing a gun in a nightclub, or after-school basketball in Phoenix?"

Mr. Fielding confirmed that this was an egregious double standard. "Unfortunately, we can put a poor man in prison for peanuts these days. Any competent prosecutor can talk circles around a court-appointed defense attorney any day of the week -- and that's assuming the defense attorney shows up. Then, after they're found guilty, we throw them in a cell with eighty other guys and feed them Oscar Meyer bologna three times a day. How expensive is that? Chicken feed. We get a big return for very little cost.

"The rich, though, hire competent attorneys. They drag out their trials for years, if not decades, and burn through what little revenue the government has. Then, on the off chance they're actually found guilty of something, their lawyers demand that we put them in special jails. The costs are exorbitant, and that's assuming we just give them a part-time butler and a golf outing once a week."

When this journalist asked if this meant the rich would get a free ride, Mr. Fielding vehemently disagreed. "We'll still accuse rich people of crime: we just won't back it up with any action. But this, we maintain, is enough. See, when a poor man is arrested, his reputation actually improves. He gains 'street cred' and the approval of his peers. We have to actually, physically punish him to prove to him that breaking the law is a negative thing.

"With a rich man, though, his reputation is destroyed, and that's punishment enough. Because what brain-dead idiot would hire Barry Bonds, Mark McGwire, or Alex Rodriguez now? How stupid would you have to be to invest with Bernie Madoff? What kind of suicidal nut would date Phil Spector? We'll accuse them of a crime, sensible people will shun them, and we can all sleep easy knowing we've done the right thing."

Reporting from Washington, this has been special correspondent Rod Blagojevich for Fox News.

I don't believe this. My nephew Shaikin was sent home from school yesterday with this note:

Dear Ms. Hans,

We regret to inform you that your son Shaikin has been permanently expelled from our school.

This morning in Shaikin's first-period history class his teacher, Ms. Markie, noticed that he was intently drawing when he should have been paying attention. Curious, Ms. Markie approached his desk. When Shaikin spotted her he hurriedly tried to hide his work, but Ms. Markey intercepted it and was horrified by what she saw.

The paper contained nothing short of a premeditated plan to assassinate Ms. Markie. It included a detailed drawing of the weapon to be used as well as a graphic depiction of Ms. Markie's lifeless body after this heinous crime had taken place.

Following school district policy, the police were immediately notified and Shaikin was questioned at length. After many hours with police psychologists, he was released. While the police contend that your son is harmless, we vehemently disagree. For this reason your son is no longer welcome at Woodrow Wilson Elementary School. In fact, if he comes within one thousand yards of school grounds, the police will be called.

We wish your son well in furthering his education. We state unequivocally, though, that it will not be at our school.

Sincerely,
Arthur S. Cleniss
Principal

Muzak Files for Creative Bankruptcy

(Business Insider via The Daily Blague)

Well, in their defense, I'm thinking things have been pretty quiet there since Dracula left.

The makers of Roombas, those adorable little robot vacuums, have received a $7.8 million dollar contract from the federal government to make robots that will help soldiers on the battlefield.

The PackBot 510 will be used in reconnaissance missions, and also to identify roadside bombs, improvised explosive devices (IEDs), and other unexploded ordnance.

Then after the robots have done their work, they bump into the walls until they find their way out.


(Great video from The Daily Show here)

Bernie Madoff's victims plotted on a map.

New York is under there somewhere.

Somebody should do a map of bored computer geeks. I'm thinking we wouldn't see ground.

Here's another difference between Republicans and Democrats.

When Bush decided America had to go to war, the Republicans were behind him all the way. "We need to support the president!" they screamed. "We need this war! It'd be treason not to support him!" The Democrats were wary but figured the guy must have known something and decided to go along.

Now, with a Democrat in office, everything's changed. "We need this stimulus package!" Obama says. "It has to be passed immediately or our entire economic system could collapse!"

How'd the vote go? Three Republicans voted for it. "Aw, fuck him," they said en masse.

Somebody sure went to a lot of work just to say to people, "Hey, wanna see my nut sack?"

Reason #276 Why I'm Glad to be Gay

From Soulcast:

Last night, Natalie and I were having a nice romantic conversation together. And at one point, she told me that she was going to quote the movie "Jerry Maguire." She told me, "you had me at hello. . . . " That was really sweet and it made me smile. And since we were on a "Jerry Maguire" theme, I tell her, "show me the money!" She was really disappointed in me. She said that my first thought should have been, "you complete me. . . . "

Oh God, that's demeaning. I'm literally sitting here cringing for this guy. "Let's talk about our love using lines from "Jerry Maguire"!" the woman says. And then he picks the wrong line and suffers the wrath of her disappointment. Yeah, that'll be rough. She won't offer him a forkful of her cranberry chicken salad come dinnertime or call him her Hunky Wunky Cookiepuss in the sack. I think we all know who's gonna be pushing the stroller when little Heather and Henry come along.

And you know, I'm all for Theme Night. If she wants to reenact scenes from "Bad Santa," I'm cool. She wants to swap dialog from "Showgirls," I'll bite. But noooo. Chicks fixate on romantic movies and turn healthy, strapping dudes into wimps.

Reason #287 I'm glad to be gay: Gay men don't get pussy whipped.

You Can Take the Girl Out of the Idiotic Talk Show, But . . . .

Major props to Captain Sully for landing safely after a moron attack.

KATIE COURIE: Did you at any point pray?

CAPTAIN SULLY: I would imagine somebody in back was taking care of that for me while I was flying the airplane.

Meanwhile, I'm personally not offended by the whole "It was God who saved that airplane!" declaration, except it leads us ineluctably to the conclusion that Satan controls geese.

I was almost in love with Dane. He was smart, funny, handsome. You could tell he was an ex-hippie just by looking at him, with the thick beard and friendly demeanor. But I'd never dated anybody who had kids before, and wasn't sure I could handle it. Sure, it gave Dane an air of responsibility and masculinity, but also a kindly-dad attitude that wasn't quite as easy to take.

After five months of dating, he invited me to his house for a Friday night. This was definitely a smart move. I drove from seedy brown North Hollywood to beautiful green Sierra Madre and it was like Dorothy entering Oz. The streets were clean and narrow, and lined with restored old Victorian homes. Dane's was the nicest, all filigree and gingerbread, and as we walked up the cobblestone path he pointed out the chickens roosting high up in the orange trees.

And that, as they say, was that.

That night the four of us had dinner like the family in a 50s sitcom, except with dad cooking vegetarian food. The kids were sweet but had clearly inherited Dad's boring. Thirteen-year-old Darren and ten-year-old Suzi talked about nothing but the environment. The planet was heating! The ice caps were melting! Animals were going to go extinct! Still, I was startled by the ease with which I was being integrated into their lives. Ordinarily when I went home with somebody I'd feel like I was just there for the sex and shouldn't intrude on real life. Here I was pulled in with open arms. There was no "Who is this dude?", no "Does he have to be here?" When the four of us cleaned up after dinner it seemed like the most natural thing in the world.

Since they didn't own a television set, bedtime came early. By ten the kids were in their rooms, and Dane and I were naked atop a wrought-iron bed. For a while we wrestled under the comforter, but pretty quickly decided we didn't need the extra heat. We'd just taken what I assumed would be our final position when I heard Dane say something other than "Oh, yeah!"

"Darren," he said quietly, "do you want something?"

I followed his eyes and saw Darren standing three feet away. "I'm worried about the great white whale," he said.

I froze, unsure what to do. Uncouple? That'd be awkward. Sure, we'd look a little more comfortable, but we'd also expose more flesh. Throw a blanket over us? We were laying on them. Scream? Whistle? I decided to follow Dane's lead, which was pretend that nothing was wrong.

"They'll be okay," Dane said. "A lot of governments are taking steps to protect them. We'll talk about it tomorrow." Then, almost as an afterthought: "And remember, when our door is closed it means we want privacy. Okay?"

Darren murmured his assent and wandered out. Dane and I resumed what we were doing, though it was hard to get back into the mood. I'd never had a kid walk in on me before, but assumed it was a one-shot deal.

The following Friday the same thing happened. This time Darren was upset about the African elephant. Dane told him scientists were saving their DNA so they wouldn't go extinct, then reminded him of the closed-door policy. I figured it wasn't my place to interrupt so I didn't say a word. Besides, my mouth was full.

The third time it happened I knew I had to do something. The kid was destroying our sex life. At the ripe old age of twenty-five I was having problems getting an erection, intricably linking my tumescence with the appearance of a tow-headed thirteen-year-old. "Can't we put a lock on the door?" I asked after Darren had gone off assured by dad that polar bears could swim to safety.

"I don't like having locks in the house," Dane said. "I don't like saying there's somebody I don't trust."

"It's not trust, it's privacy," I replied. "I don't like knowing that a kid can name fourteen positions his dad takes in bed."

"He's a kid," Dane repeated. "He doesn't care what we're doing. He's used to being the center of attention, and now he's upset that he's not."

"He knows exactly what we're doing. In fact, I don't think he gives a damn about the environment: I think he wants to watch."

Dane didn't get mad: he went quiet and the lights went off. The next morning he was cordial at breakfast, then I remembered non-existent things I had to do. We didn't speak again until Thursday, when Dane called and asked if I'd be over on Friday night. Judging from the patriarchal tone in his voice I knew we were skating on thin ice. On the way over, I came up with a plan that'd settle things once and for all.

Usually after dinner we'd tear off our clothes the second the bedroom door closed. This time, I decided, it'd be different. "I'm not especially tired," I told Dane, laying out flat and fully-clothed on the bed. "I think I'll read a magazine." I shuffled through the stack on the night stand: Vegetarian Cooking. Victorian Homes. Mother Jones. I grabbed the latter and flipped through, desperate for anything interesting. "Look at this!" I said, randomly pointing at a picture. And then, in a louder voice: "Wow! That's amazing! Wow! That's FANTASTIC!"

Dane looked at me before looking at the picture. "Composting? You're interested in composting?"

"I've always wanted to do that!" I confirmed at the top of my lungs. "It looks fantastic. C'mon, let's do it! Let's do it!"

"We don't have a garden, so we don't need to."

"But I want to!" I all but screamed. "LET'S DO IT! Yeah, baby! That's what I want! That's what I really, REALLY want!"

"Okay, okay. I'll look into it."

I peeked over toward the door. Nothing. Dane was already eyeing me like I was going to lunge at him with a sharpened zucchini, but I knew this had to work. The kid was probably standing at the door. One more bizarre outburst and he'd come barreling in.

I jabbed a finger at the article. "THAT'S SOOOO GOOD! OOOOH OOOOH! THAT'S REALLY, REALLY GOOD! OMIGOD! Oh. My. GODDDDD!!!"

I looked at the door expectantly, and this time Dane caught my look. "I don't believe this," he said.

"ME NEITHER!" I replied. "I'VE NEVER FELT ANYTHING LIKE THIS BEFO -- "

"Maybe you should go."

I glanced over at him just to make sure, then grabbed my overnight bag. I said goodbye quieter than anything I'd said in the previous five minutes. Sadly exiting that gorgeous house I passed Darren on the porch with a cigarette in his hand. "Well," I snapped, "you certainly got a good education."

He nodded, exhaling smoke through his nose. "I learned all about faking it from mom."

I'm old enough to remember the Beatles breaking up. The world was quite literally a miserable place for years afterward, with our one shining musical light extinguishing itself. It's the sun itself disappeared, and while we learned to live with it, we never really accepted it. This didn't have to be a permanent thing, right? This didn't have to be the end.

Then John died. We took it like a death in our own families, but it still didn't have to mean the death of our dream. And then George passed away.

Okay, we thought, that's another setback, but it's still not the end. There's still a ghost of a chance that we'll get to recall those magical times before history closes the books forever. And then when I heard that Paul McCartney was going to appear on the Grammys to play Beatles tunes, my heart leapt in my chest.

Could this be it? Could this be the night that all our dreams are finally realized? I sat there in front of the TV, hands clutched in prayer against my chest, and I know I was just one of a hundred million fans thinking the same desperate thought:

Please, please, let Dave Grohl play some part.

Thank God the Grammy producers had the same idea, and our wildest dream is coming true. Paul and Dave, together. I know every Beatles fan in the world is shaking with anticipation as they read this. Paul McCartney: the singer and co-writer of all those Beatles hits. And Dave Grohl: some guy who, I think, used to be in the Foo Fighters. Somebody pinch me already! I mean, ever since the Beatles broke up I've been imagining my own fantasy reunions: Paul with somebody from Bananarama. Paul with either Wilson or Phillips. Not once did I dare imagine Paul playing with like either the drummer or bass player from the Foo Fighters! Man, that's gonna be one for the history books. It's like bringing back the old Mary Tyler Moore Show with Ed Begley as Lou Grant.

So, music lovers, enjoy Sunday night. I know it'll be one of those nights engraved on our memories forever, like Elvis Costello's first performance with the Kronos Quartet, or when David Bowie met Burl Ives. And something tells me, God willing and the clouds part, John and George will be looking down from heaven and saying, "You go, Paul, old mate. You sing those great old tunes with whoever that dude is." In fact, I'll bet that other living Beatle, whatever his name is, will be cheering with us on Sunday night, along with occasionally calling the operator to make sure his phone still works.

I hate people who have children. I mean, there are just so many intelligent people in the world, and to lose them forever to some passing sexual impulse just frustrates the hell out of me.

Honestly, it makes me question our whole system of government. Why is it illegal to ride a motorcycle without a helmet but fucking without a condom is fine? Because personally I'd rather be a dead biker than an ex-hipster with a baby named Douglas. I'd rather my friends remember what a godforsaken hellraiser I was than watch them avert their eyes when they see me pushing a big purple stroller at the mall. "Hey, Roman," they'd say, trying to pretend they're not horrified. "How's it going?"

"Good!" I'd reply. "This morning we read a story about Betsy Badger, and then -- who's gotta take a tinkle? Who's gotta take a tinkle?"

Because really, what is parenthood if not brain death? Even scientists agree on that score. Why do you think they kept Terri Schiavo alive for so long? Even in a coma her brainwaves were barely distinguishable from those of a soccer mom. Before children, people have ambitions, and dreams. They have goals they aim for, and schedules to follow to reach those goals.

Then a snotty little brat shows up and it all goes flying out the window. Now instead of cooking up multicourse Indian dinners, they're pushing boiled carrots through a sieve. Now instead of taking a taxi to DKNY to look at business attire, they're bulk-buying sweats at kmart.com. Now instead of trying to stay interesting to a demanding audience of friends, they're entertaining something that squeals with delight every time you flush the toilet.

And, making it even more ridiculous, they act like their lives have taken such a wonderful turn. They're found meaning! They're fulfilled! Well, duh. I'll bet it's a relief never having to strive for anything again. But me, I'm going to stay strong while my weaker friends fall by the wayside. I'm going to stubbornly cling to my dream, knowing that it'll require a lot of work, and determination, and focus, and when it's finally in my grasp it'll be all that much sweeter with the knowledge that Alec Baldwin rarely lets anybody jerk off on his ass.

In response to a subpoena from the Connecticut attorney general, MySpace released the names of nearly ninety thousand of their members who are registered sex offenders.

Is that unbelievable? That means there's like a hundred dudes who haven't asked me for naked pictures yet.

Do not cut up the subway advertisements and rearrange them into something cool. We will arrest you.

Just look at them and buy what they say.

Thank you.
The City of New York

(Via Gawker)

Yo baby. You're looking hot. You want some of my vaccine?

(From Joe.My.God)

Ohmigod, the recession is absolutely destroying New York. Every day Eater posts another story about another restaurant's desperate bid to stay afloat, with this sad missive appearing the other day:


Can you believe that? A Manhattan restaurant, barely making ends meet on $60 steaks and $40 plates of pasta, is now forfeiting its right to charge $60 to bring you a corkscrew and two glasses. Now they'll do it for free. Is there no end to this madness? Next busboys will start renting out their vacation homes.

Upper East Side. Carrots in the maid's room.

The guy who sold potato peelers at the greenmarket had a nicer apartment than me.

Instead of doing my taxes correctly this year, I'm writing up an explanation for why I made so many mistakes. It seems like that's more important, and that way if Obama ever appoints me to a prominent position in government I'll have something to release to the press. I tell you, it's not easy simultaneously conveying innocence and patriotism with just a soupçon of stupidity, but here's what I've got so far:

President Obama, members of the press, God-fearing Americans:

I am a law-abiding citizen of these great United States. As such, I have always gone out of my way to give our government every cent they deserve. I believe there is no one lower than a tax cheat, for he takes money from government programs that aid the elderly, the infirm, the impoverished. Unfortunately, as I have discovered, even the noblest of intentions can be derailed by the smallest of details.

Now, I'm not seeking to dodge responsibility myself. I will shoulder the blame, if that's where the blame belongs. But in this particular instance, I am quite certain the full and total blame lies with TurboTax Deluxe 8.1 for Windows Vista.

See, I had all the paperwork. I was chomping at the bit to input all the facts. But it seemed like this dangblasted program -- if I weren't a Christian man I'd use stronger language -- intentionally tried to keep our government from getting the money it deserves.

I mean, the program barely asked me anything. How much did I make. Did I have any deductions. And that was pretty much that! It boggles my mind to think that most of this whole nightmare could have been avoided by one simple question: Did you give a business associate a whole pile of money to start up a shadow corporation in the Virgin Islands?

As for the rest, well, I've got two words for you: Windows Vista.

After much thought and prayer, I'm certain reason will prevail, and average Americans will decide that I'm an honest man victimized by a rogue computer program. What other explanation can there be for somebody who checks boxes saying they're a blind senior citizen with forty-two kids and they'd like to donate a dollar to the World Wildlife Fund?

In Jesus' name,
RomanHans

When I get to Barcelona I'm going straight to this place. I just love me some fatty, smoky meat.

Tits, vagina, tits, vagina. Why are women-specific things always so gyno-centric? You don't see Boy Scouts giving out merit badges for First Boner.

(Via Alex Balk)

Punxsutawney Phil poked his head out of his hole this morning and saw his shadow, meaning we can expect eight more babies from that crazy unemployed California woman.

Steve Martin owns $600,000 worth of banjos.

And no, that's not every banjo in the world.

Well, I guess it's an investment. Though if he put that money into, like, rubber chickens or funny hats, at least he could use them to entertain folks.

I'm planning a vacation, and like everything else in my life it's got to be on a budget. In desperation I turned to Priceline.

Priceline has always annoyed me. Obviously there's William Shatner. We're supposed to trust this man? He can't act. His toupee looks like a furry Roomba. He thought the world wanted to hear him sing Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.

Even more questionable is their business model, where you bid X amount of dollars for any X-star hotel in the neighborhood you choose. See, they get to draw up the maps -- and their maps that cover nice neighborhoods also cover quite a bit of slum. Who says the Latin Quarter doesn't extend halfway to Mexico? Where's it written that the Eiffel Tower district doesn't include Romania? And they get to decide which hotels are two-star, three-star, four-star. Who says four-star hotels always have fitness centers, or concierge service, or roofs?

On closer examination, we realize this odd little system sounds familiar. It's like those gumball machines with cool stuff on top and crap on the bottom. It's like those postcards from timeshare companies: YOU'VE WON A MERCEDES BENZ! they shout. Or a BEACHFRONT CONDO IN CANCUN!

Then, down at the bottom: Or a rub-on tattoo of a monkey.

Priceline proudly advertises all the wonderful establishments they offer: YOU COULD GET THE RITZ! OR THE PLAZA! OR THE FOUR SEASONS!

Or the Stansted Airport Travelodge.

And, in fact, you probably will.

Judging from all the online complaints, Priceline makes absolutely no apologies. Whereas Travelocity and Expedia have mottos like, "We won't rest until you're happy," Priceline's is something like, "Hey, we never promised anything." They set the rules, and you roll the dice. You wait for their decision with trembling hands, like your computer's a slot machine.

"Congratulations!" comes the announcement. "You're staying at the New Delhi Dayz Inn!"

So, I'm a gambler. I'm cheap, and I'm desperate. The good news is, yes, I'm going to Paris.

Now if I can just find a rickshaw into town I'll be set.