New Years Uh-Oh

Say it ain't so, Dick Clark. Say it ain't so. Dick's not 100% sure he'll be in Times Square when the ball drops! And if Dick's not sure, how can we be sure that we're not stuck with just Ryan Seacrest and Hillary Duff? The answer is we can't be sure. So, hold on to your seats because you may fall off from sheer boredom!

But, Happy New Years nonetheless! Here's to a new year and to drunkenly waking up in a ditch with your closest friends! Cheers!

Assaulted

On my way home from the airport yesterday I was assaulted, but not in the physical sense. It did involve a sense, though, specifically the sense of smell.

I hopped on the Orange Line to head home from Midway. I had the train mostly to myself, which was nice, until a family of four came on board at the 35th and Archer stop. There was this smell, this unmistakable smell, of children who had recently shat themselves.

I had to physically cover my nose, and was kind of grossed out that their parents didn't notice. I got off a stop early and waited for the next train to come because I simply couldn't bear it anymore.

I had to take elevators at the Roosevelt transfer station because I was carrying about 100 lbs of Christmas Goodies in my suitcases. The first elevator I got on had it's own scent- that of urine. There was an empty bottle of Corona on the floor, and what appeared to be a puddle of urine next to it. Again, I was grossed out.

The Red Line had the classic smell of humans all over it. Most of the people standing near me had not deodorized that morning, and made this leg of my trip the most unbearable.

Finally, I took the elevator at my Red Line stop. I got in expecting a rotting corpse or a skunk orgy or something, but got a little Christmas present from CTA: it smelled like my Pap-Pap's house. Cigar smoke and Coca-Cola. I stayed in the elevator a moment or two longer than I needed to, just so the CTA would know that I appreciated it.

When I got home, my house smelled like Gingerbread, which was nice and comforting. Then it smelled like stale beer, because I had left a bottle of Rolling Rock half finished on my dresser for the past week.

Finally, at long last, it smelled like sleep.

Corporate America Can Deliver, If She So Desires

My office has free sushi in the lunchroom today. Not that one day of free sushi makes up for a year of miserable computer work, but I'll be damned if it doesn't come close. Woo hoo!

Conditions of Surrender

Members of the Liberal Secular Army:
Gentlepeople, we've fought a valiant battle. I would gladly have died along side each and every one of you. However, it is clear now that we can not attain victory, and we must acquiesce to our opponent. Christmas has won.

Many of us felt that this was our year, the year Christmas would finally succumb. Fate, it seems, was not with us. In light of our massive casualties, and our continued inability to gain traction against this wily adversary, it is in our best interest, and indeed the best interest of everyone in the world, that we lay down our arms and accept Christmas' terms unequivocally.

In Agreement on Cessation of Hostilities Between the LSA and Christmas, We Agree to the Following:

• Article One: The term "Happy Holidays" has been outlawed, and replaced by "Merry Christmas".
• Subarticle: Ramadan, Hanukkah, Yule and Kwanzaa have been moved to their lunar calendar equivalent in June/July to avoid conflict with Article One.
• Subarticle: New Year's Day is now March 4th, to avoid conflict with Article One.
• Article Two: The period between Thanksgiving and Christmas shall henceforth be known as "The Christmas Season"
• Article Three: Belief in Jesus Christ is to remain optional during the Christmas Season to allow non-Christians to celebrate Christmas.
• Article Four: All references to holidays aside from Christmas contained in "Christmas Songs" (complete list forthcoming) shall be removed or replaced with syllabically coherent Christmas references. Example:
We Wish You A Merry Christmas
We Wish You A Merry Christmas
We Wish You A Merry Christmas
And A Happy Christmas
• Article Five: Christmas' shall henecforth be numbered like Super Bowls, making Christmas 2005 Christmas I, 2006 Christmas II, and so on, reflecting on and celebrating the year of Christmas' Official Victory.
• Subarticle: Once the roman numeral system becomes too complicated (Christmas XLIV, or the 2049), we revert to standard numerals (ie: Christmas 44)

Given the roundedness of our defeat, we feel that these conditions are fair and just. Though it breaks our hearts to admit it, our War On Christmas was in effect, futile, and we can only pray (in a figurative sense) that our children and their children don't make the same mistake.

That said, I thank you all for your service, and am legally required to wish you a very Merry Christmas.

Signed,
The Secularist Media and Collected Atheists of America, commanding Office of the Army of Liberal Secularists.

Best Of

Ah, the end of the year. That time of year when we're bombarded with a million and one countdowns and best of lists. And what with VH1's I Love the 80's, 90's, and The Best Week Ever, it's actually been going on all this year. So as to keep up with the Benjamins and their neighbors, I figured I might as well shit one out myself. So, here it is:

The Best Moments Of The Beginning Of My Day
(Or I Love My Morning) (Or That Was The Best Morning Ever)

The Alarm Goes Off

Hal Sparks
"So, Shane wakes up and he hits his snooze button. He'd just been dreaming soundly...like an angel...a pigeon-toed angel dreaming of walking a straight line. And, he's like...quasi-up even though he wants to sleep. That's the trouble with this guy and his snooze button. He never gets fully back to sleep for that ten minute grace period and, in fact, is awake enough that he could just turn the alarm off all together and control his own destiny-you know give himself ten minutes and then, get up without having to hear the bookend of a ten minute NPR interview."

Eating Raisin Bran

Michael Ian Black
"Shane likes his Raisin Bran generic and in a bag. Simple. Easy. Awesome. Also, since there's been no shopping since before the Christmas break, he found the milk to be expired. Not expired enough to not drink it, though. Spoiled. Easy. Awesome."

A Phone Call At Work

Patrice O'Neal
"Shane answers the phone at work. It's a gentleman. A gentleman caller who wants to know the temperature of the pool. 82 degrees. Outrageous!"

Moment of Multi-Tasking

Rachael Harris
"Shane is swiping a member's card and-what ho-the phone rings. So, now Shane's swiping a card and answering the phone. And what's this? Now the person with the card wants their parking validated! Wha! What a conundrum! And here comes another member readying their card for a swipe-in. The madness! The new arrival says, "What's up?" and Shane answers with, "Good." Oh man!! And, suddenly, in one foul symantical error, Shane goes from a multi-tasking genius to a first class idiot-which he will most-assuredly be remembered as for the rest of his life."

Another Phone Call At Work

Patrice O'Neal
"Shane picks up and nobody answers. Nary a sound. Not even a perverted deep breath. Whew! What a morning!"


Rachael Harris
"What a-"


Michael Ian Black
"What a-"


Hal Sparks
"What a morning?"


Patrice O'Neal
"Whew!"

A Little Late But Nevertheless From EB...

E.B. White's Christmas Greeting -- 1952

From this high midtown hall, undecked with boughs, unfortified with
mistletoe, we send forth our tinselled greetings as of old, to friends,
to readers, to strangers of many conditions in many places.

Merry Christmas to uncertified accountants, to tellers who have made a
mistake in addition, to girls who have made a mistake in judgment, to
grounded airline passengers, and to all those who can't eat clams! We
greet with particular warmth people who wake and smell smoke. To
captains of river boats on snowy mornings we send an answering toot at
this holiday time.

Merry Christmas to intellectuals and other despised minorities!

Merry Christmas to the musicians of Muzak and men whose shoes don't fit!
Greetings of the season to unemployed actors and the blacklisted
everywhere who suffer for sins uncommitted; a holly thorn in the thumb
of compilers of lists!

Greetings to wives who can't find their glasses and to poets who can't
find their rhymes!

Merry Christmas to the unloved, the misunderstood, the overweight. Joy
to the authors of books whose titles begin with the word "How" (as
though they knew!). Greetings to people with a ringing in their ears;
greetings to growers of gourds, to shearers of sheep, and to makers of
change in the lonely underground booths!

Merry Christmas to old men asleep in libraries! Merry Christmas to
people who can't stay in the same room with a cat! We greet, too, the
boarders in boarding houses on 25 December, the duennas in Central Park
in fair weather and foul, and young lovers who got nothing in the mail.

Merry Christmas to people who plant trees in city streets; Merry
Christmas to people who save prairie chickens from extinction!
Greetings of a purely mechanical sort to machines that think-- plus a
sprig of artificial holly. Joyous Yule to Cadillac owners whose conduct
is unworthy of their car!

Merry Christmas to the defeated, the forgotten, the inept; Joy to all
dandiprats and bunglers! We send, most particularly and most hopefully,
our greetings and our prayers to soldiers and guardsmen on land and sea
and in the air-- the young men doing the hardest things at the hardest
time of life. To all such, Merry Christmas, blessings, and good luck!
We greet the Secretaries-designate, the President-elect; Merry Christmas
to our new leaders, peace on earth, good will, and good management!

Merry Christmas to couples unhappy in doorways! Merry Christmas to all
who think they are in love but aren't sure!

Greetings to people waiting for trains that will take them in the wrong
direction, to people doing up a bundle and the string is too short, to
children with sleds and no snow! We greet ministers who can't think of
a moral, gagmen who can't think of a joke.

Greetings, too, to the inhabitants of other planets; see you soon!

And last, we greet all skaters on small natural ponds at the edge of
woods toward the end of afternoon. Merry Christmas, skaters! Ring,
steel! Grow red, sky! Die down, wind!

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good morrow!

-E.B. White-

My Christmas Wish

Greetings from depressed insomniac Pittsburgh, where I just spent the past two hours crying my eyes out while watching Forrest Gump. I hear you snickering. Whatever. It's a great movie. The shrimp restaurant chain is somewhat lacking, though.

Irrespective of any incredibly pathetic emotional crisis I may be having, I wanted to share with you my Christmas wish:

I wish my church would just hang a basketball hoop at the top of it's arch already.

See, I go to one of the old-world Catholic churches in Pittsburgh that was built in the early 1900's (aka: when the Catholic Church had money), and the altar is underneath a GIANT arch (I'm guessing around 75 feet tall). Since I was old enough to know what a basketball hoop was, I've fantisized about there being a basketball hoop at the peak of this arch, and that I, clad in a basketball uniform, would dribble down the aisle and play basketball right there. In church. On a 75 foot tall basketball hoop.

In some of my fantasies, it's part of an organized sports event, in others it's just me shooting some hoops. I don't think I ever missed in my fantasies, but I can't back that up. I knew this would be hard to convey in words, so I drew a diagram of what this would look like on a church bulletin. Unfortunately I don't have a scanner at my parent's house, so it wasn't that helpful. Also, I drew this diagram during mass, during Christmas mass, no less. Then I showed it to my sisters, and made them laugh in the middle of Christmas mass. I was sure this was the worst thing any of the Balzer children did during church, until later when Marissa told me she said "Fuck" and "Jesus Christ" during the service.

The fact that I've yet to burst into flame at church is proof positive that God both exists and is merciful. On that note, to my Christian friends, have a very Merry Christmas. To Jewish friends a happy Chanukkah. To my non-denominational friends, a Happy Holiday season, and to my one black friend who actually celebrates Kwaanza, I'm sorry your holiday is the butt of so many jokes, but come on.

NOTE: Again to all my Jewish friends: I don't really know how to spell Chanukkah, but I'm pretty sure I got it right. Still, the Firefox spell checker suggested "Chauncey", so if I'm off, I'm also sorry.

Can I Have That?

There's an idea I've been dwelling on for a while now, and I think it's time has come. I'm going to write letters to various companies, asking if I can have one of their products, "just 'cause". I think it will be in the visage of a form letter, and be phrased like this:

Hey,

I was wondering, can I have one of your __________? I think they might be cool. If you have one that's kinda broken and you can't sell, could you give it to me? Or if you want to give me a new one, that's fine, too.

Thanks,
Mike

The idea came about when I was thinking about buying a new computer. Both of my machines are getting long in the tooth, and it's time for an upgrade. But being an Apple user, upgrading two machines is not cheap. So I figured, maybe I'll just ask for one. Maybe I'll take the letters and responses and make a book out of it, kind of like Ted Nancy's great book, Letters From A Nut. And if no one responds, and it's just a collection of form letters to companies, so much the better.

Basically, my idea is that someone in each company will think this request is so funny, unique, or harmless that I'd get a few free things out of it. Obviously, I'd like for those companies to be Apple, Canon, and Ferrari, but even if it's Pepsi, Hanes, and Snickers I'm still saving myself a trip to the Walgreens.

I think the ultimate letter will be the one I write to the United States Postal Service:

Hey,

I was wondering, can I have one of your stamps? I think they might be cool. If you have one that's kinda broken and you can't sell, could you give it to me? Or if you want to give me a new one, that's fine, too.

Thanks,
Mike

Relative Temperature

Today's Outfit:

Small short sleeve tee shirt
Light suede sports jacket
Jeans ripped at the knee
One pair of socks
Running Shoes

Why? Because it's a balmy ˚34 in Chicago today, and to a Chicagoan, ˚34 in December is practically Indian Summer. Who's up for hitting the beach later?

ughhh...met rx...ughhh

Ughhhhhh....I had to skip breakfast this morning to get to work reasonably late, so I thought I'd run into the gas station mini mart, grab a frappuchino and a Met Rx bar, and make a meal out of it. Do Met Rx bars expand in your stomach? Because it feels like I ate six breakfasts.

Ugghh..super condensed cookie dough laced with pure protein. I don't ever want to eat again. Ugghhhhhhhh.

Christmas Forever

We have this friend, whom we shall call Paul (because that's his name), who is a Christmasaholic. I do not know if this is a diagnosable affliction or if there is anyone else out there who lives with it. I can only, after knowing Paul, vouch that he will pull out It's A Wonderful Life on any given day regardless of it's place in the year. I don't think this is a bad thing. And really, not all afflictions are bad. Are they?

af·flic·tion
n. A condition of pain, suffering, or distress. See Synonyms at trial.

Okay, so maybe most afflictions are bad. In fact, all of them are except Christmasaholicism. I know that there were more than a few dreary days in June that were rescued by George Bailey's, "YEEE-AAAH!! Merry Christmas, movie house! Merry Christmas, emporium! Merry Christmas, you wonderful old Building and Loan!" And that's all because of my afflicted friend. And let me tell you, you can watch It's A Wonderful Life a million times and you'll still find yourself crying in at least ten completely new places, falling in love with Donna Reed, and believing "It really is a wonderful life" at the end. The lesson? I know in today's crazy, hectic world we don't have enough room for Christmas in our heart year-round, but if we've got a DVD player we can at least keep It's A Wonderful Life and playing forever in our TV (if we have a TV).

What is it with the Yankees

and showing how awkward looking their free agent acquisitions are when they shave and cut their hair? Most people know Johnny Damon as "Caveman Jesus", with his übermanly chin, strong beard, long, flowing, carpenter-turned-messiah hair, basically a hot number all around:

Now he's..well...look at him:

That's a step in the right direction?

Who but Rumor...

Has there ever been a movie poster less informative than the one for Rumor Has It? Every morning for the past two weeks, I've driven past at least six billboards on my way to work, the same six on the way back, and have seen at least one bus with the poster on it's side. That comes to about 182 viewings. I have no idea what this movie is about. I do know that Jennifer Aniston is in it, and that Kevin Costner still somehow gets billing over Marc Rufalo. But as for the movie itself? Not a clue.

The tag line is "Based on a true rumor". That doesn't help. The pictures of each character are impossibly non-descriptive, although the Jennifer Aniston shot does say that she still looks great in jeans and a V-neck. The only other thing I can confirm via this poster is that Shirley MacLaine was alive when they took her picture.

I'm assuming that it's a formulaic romantic comedy that shoots Ms. Aniston from a lot of flattering angles. I can't help but presume that Kevin Costner's role is much smaller than the marquee would have you believe. Based purely on the poster, I've created a speculative plot summary:

Mary Franklin-Pierce (Aniston) is a hot, sexy lady living with a droll, past-his-prime actor named Ted (Costner). There's a rumor going around that he's gay, and Mary's psychic mother Biddy (MacLaine) predicts that hot, vaguely ethnic Spiro (Rufalo) is Ted's boyfriend. There's some prancing, some dancing, definitely some romancing, and it all ends up hilariously. "It's "In and Out" meets "When Harry Met Sally" meets "You've Got Mail!", said Roger Ebert. Whoops. Forgot to mention that emailing plays a vital part. Did I say it's hilarious?

Anyway, I guess I'm curious as to what it's about, but definitely not curious enough to drop nine bucks on it at the theatre, or 4 bucks on it at Blockbuster, or to waste a spot on my Netflix cue, or to order it on OnDemand, or to stop when I'm flicking through the channels and see that it's on TBS again, or to choose it over death when held captive by a crazy person. So I'll spend the next couple of seconds getting comfortable with the notion that I'll just never know what this movie is actually about.

There. That was easy.

addendum: OK, a little bit of curiosity and a lot of boredom at work got to me and I watched the trailer on the "Rumor Has It" website. I have to say it looks...better than awful, but how much better I can't say. It's a Rob Reiner film, so it has that going for it. It's got something to do with "The Graduate", and Kevin Coster's part does look to be smaller than you'd think. So I think I'm comfortable saying I would choose this film over death, were I held captive by a crazy person, and maybe, just maybe, I'll watch it when it's on TBS.

Jackass Penguin (Literally) Makes Shitty Gift (Figuratively)

So says CNN.

from the article (paraphrased):
"There's some freak dumbass out there who stole a freaking penguin and is probably planning on giving it away as a present. What the hell? Are you retarded? Oh, wait. What if they actually turned out to be retarded? That would be really insensitive of me. Jeez. I'd better rephrase that. What are you? Some kind of dumbass? No, I already said dumbass. That's redundant. What are you a dumbass, you freak dumbass? Man, I am not coming off very smart here. How about, "Are you an idiot?" That's not to close to "retarded" is it? Oh, that sounded insensitive, too. Um, let's see, uh...ok...What are you, a fucking retard? Yeah. That's it. Go with that one. And you can quote me on that!"

pictured to the right: The Jackass Penguin ((Spheniscus demersus)

Who Would Win In A Race?

A 1971 Ford Pinto


OR



World Renowned Physicist Enrico Fermi

Ah, not so fast. I didn't say what kind of a race.
A shuttle run. Now Go!
Pinto or Fermi?

A confession

That chastity post I made yesterday? Well, about the title...the first thing i thought when i saw it was an article about rivers cuomo was the title of the film A River Runs Through It. There is no way on God's green earth you could know that was what i was going for when i titled the post "No Rivers Will Do It". No way. But I thought I'd let you in on my thought process, which apparently was wrong.

I thought "A River Runs Through It" was that movie with Merryl Streep where she's white water rafting and Kevin Bacon hijacks her raft. Not so. That was "The River Wild". Maybe?

The point of this post is that I had all kinds of sex last night.

Teen Badness Study Out

cigarette smoking is down, but pain killer use is up. well, duh. painkillers are like a hundred times better than cigarettes.

Tis The Season For Anarchy

In New Zealand, a gang of Santas frolicked, looted, nipple tweaked, and carried on like madmen to fight the commercialism of Christmas. What an event! This is what Christmas is all about-Exploiting the beard and fat red suit of Chris Kringle and getting some free shit!!

G-dub is a bully

Bush sticks thumb in nations eye, says it's there for 'your own good'"

no rivers will do it

so weezer front"man" rivers cuomo has been celibate for two and a half years now. congrats and all, but you're still a year and a half shy of my still continuing record. so where's my cnn article? does the fact that my celibacy is entirely externally-imposed have something to do with it? i get it now; a guy choses not to get laid and it's news. a guy can't get laid and it's not.

come to think of it, a cnn article about my inability to get laid would be pretty embarrassing.

also come to think of it, this pretty much is an article about my inability to get laid and it is embarrassing, and most of the people i know read this, so...

i had all kinds of sex last night.

ho hum holidays

with the holidays upon us, i'd like to put a request out there to anyone who was thinking of buying me something:

save your money.

the gesture of gift giving is nice and everything, but i don't have room for any more stuff. my closet is bursting at the seams, my CD and DVD racks are completely full, my ipod is loaded, my car...well...i don't have a car stereo anymore, and i'm soon to not have a car, as my '96 saturn SL is clearly on it's last legs.

so i'll amend my original request. to anyone out there who was thinking of buying me something:

pool your money. buy me a car.

happy holidays,
baz

Making This One Up As I Go Along

I had a fun, albeit brief conversation with Rachael Mason over at iO yesterday on the benefits of blogging. She's approaching blogging from the perspective of a seasoned improviser, going ten good years without letting something sit longer than her scene partner agrees to. I'm coming at it from pretty much the exact opposite angle, a hermitic sketch writer who prefers to not even be in the scenes he writes, and is morbidly afraid of improv.

So blogging, we decided, is great because it's the long-sought inbetween. It's not as finite as lit or sketch writing, it's not as immediate as improv, but it's both and neither at the same time. It's the lone writing format where spontaneity trumps revision, and that's a comforting bridge to exploring other aspects of creation.

That in mind, I'm going to do one of my classic stream-of-conciousness blogs. These were actually my primary writing tool in my old zine days, and some of my favorite pieces that were on "in the margin" came out of this exercise. (note: i deleted all my stuff from "in the margin" when i got depressed. someday i'll put them back up, but i'm not quite that healed yet.) Enough intro...let's get lost.


Rapid Assumptions and Torrid Affairs of the Heart
by Arturo Sanchez, Ripley Smith and A Cast of Thousands

"Who the hell invited Stanley Tucci?", Rico asked, the cigarette smoke resting comfortably on his football-sized shoulder pads.

"The most likely suspect is the one you never suspect right at first, but she's also the one who probably never does it."

"Tina, away with your ideas. They don't mix. They're like oil and water, which don't mix."

"Last time I try to help you, schmuck"

What a long, long story this relationship is. It started at the 1987 Track and Field City Championships, spanned three decades and twice as many continents, and left a trail of death and devastation as far as the eye could see. Such is life. Such is love.

Rico's faded alabaster jacket stood out like a recently-hammered thumb against the paisley earth-toned wallpaper, and his demeanor wasn't helping. He shook violently from the elbows down, a lifetime of wrong turns fueling his already nervous posture. The cigarette pressed against his Mick Jagger-esque lips further narrowed his gangly frame, making him the butt of jokes, the scorn of the Social Club.

Tina made her way to the raw bar, and dove into a plate of oysters. "For twenty nine years I've hid behind a mask, like a halloween mask, one that conceals your identity, but I don't get any treats. Only tricks."

*Slurp*

Four oysters and a Jåger later, she tracked Rico down. He was where he always was this time of night- awash in a sea of introspective rambling.

"I feel certain that I'm too tall for this room"

Tina bit her tongue, knowing her wisdom would bring only a harsh reply.

"I used to think, from this height, I might be able to see my house. The things I used to think."

*slurp*

"Do you have to do that in front of me? Do you have to do that so...loudly?"

"I suppose not."

"Be a doll. Reach for the fire extinguisher, but don't grab it. Instead, hesitate for a moment, rethink your original decision, then, with a look of defeat, turn back and say 'I'm sorry'."

Tina extended her freckled arm near it's breaking point. Her fingers trembled three inches shy of the handle. Her eyes darted about the room, then collapsed under the weight of her brow. She turned to Rico, "Is that what you wanted?"

"Perfect."

Fly Me to the Moon played softly in the background, and the hall's overturned seats took the visage of stick figures. For a moment, Tina thought of taking Rico's hand, wrangling him from the wall with equal parts courage and charm, and dancing, dancing, dancing, until one of their hearts gave out. Which one would I rather be, she thought? The survivor, grieving more for show than out of loss, cupping his heavy head in her lap, stroking his Mediterranean hair, caught up in the bad memories but using the good ones to put on a convincing performance? Or the dead, her last sight being the shocked face of her lover, he pulling the same charade that she would, were the situation reversed. Or maybe, they would both die in an appropriately Shakespearean conclusion to the narrative of their shared life.

Still, it was only a moment, and she realized that she didn't like Fly Me to the Moon anymore than she liked Rico or herself.

"The oysters are pretty good. You should try them, if you think you'd like an oyster, because they're really pretty good."

Rico stared blankly at the empty dance floor. His hand found hers, and he looked deep into her eyes.

"No thank you. I don't care much for oysters."

The song finished as the two shared silence, save only the occasional slurp of an oyster.

Spamalot

I'm putting a long night in, here, and one of the songs from Spamalot came on my iTunes which means...I apparently have the Spamalot soundtrack. And no, I'm not terribly inclined to listen to it now that I know it's there.

Voting For the First Time

It's been a banner couple of days in Iraq's first democratic election. And, with it being the first, every day is a banner day regardless of what happens. We're talking records galore, folks! No matter what, we're going to see the shattering of previous records in categories like:

Most Candidates Running
(Previous Record- 0)

Largest Number of Ballots Cast
(Previous Record- 0)

Largest Number of Male Voters Between the Ages of 18 and 34 and 62 and over
(Previous Record- 0)

Largest Number of Female Voters Between the Ages of 18 and 34 and 62 and over
(Previous Record- 0)

Largest Sunni Turnout
(Previous Record- 0)

Largest Shiite Turnout
(Previous Record- 0)

Largest Ratio of Sunnis to Shiites
(Previous Record- 0:0)

Most Votes for Communist Party
(Previous Record- 0)

Tallest Voter
(Previous Record- 0' 0'')

Shortest Voter
(Previous Record- 0' 0'')

BREAKING NEWS!!

Apparently, Tom Jones is British and has been his whole life! Who knew? Certainly not I and honestly I'm not sure I'm buying it!

Oh, Ashlee

Actual singing is really taking a toll on Ashlee Simpson, leaving her hospitalized in Japan in what might turn out to be a quirky reality-show remake of Lost In Translation for the tween set.

I'm picturing quiet scenes of Ashlee trying to explain her penicillin allergy to the Japanese doctors, befriending the 15-year old son of a businessman who spends most of his time in Tokyo. I'm seeing him help her escape the hospital for a while, taking her on a soda-pop and XBox 360 binge, staying out well past bedtime. Hopefully they'll bring the rape-victim-prostitute back from the original, because I think it would be hilarious to see that exact same scene played out in Ashlee's hospital room.

You know what's really lost in all this? That some sixteen year old is working herself to the point of exhaustion, desperately trying to prove she's just as talented as her sister. That's actually pretty sad. But not sad enough for me to stop mocking her. I am going to stop, but it's only because I can't think of anything funny to say about this.

Mona Lisa Smile

Scientists have at long last decoded Mona Lisa's famous smile. Thanks to emotion-recognition software, we now know that Debbie Hancock (the model who played Mona Lisa) was:

83% happy
9% disgusted
6% fearful
2% angry

Using my brain's worthlessness-recognition software, I discovered that this project was a 100% waste of time.

Related: Same computer found the movie Mona Lisa Smile was:
44% Dead Poets Society
43% Lean On Me
10% Julia Roberts' Teeth
3% Star Wars

Powder In A Bottle

Sorry for foaming at the mouth there. My bad. Got a little worked up while reading the news, I guess. I just need to sit back and chill out a little. Hey, you know what I like to do to chill? I like to sip on an ice cold refreshing bottle of Coca Sek. Bottled in Columbia, Coca Sek is made from coca leaf extract. It looks like apple cider, tastes a little like 7-Up, and smells like carbonated cocaine.

Just because your nose gets tired, doesn't mean you have to.

Thanks for the sentiment

After three years, our president finally took some responsibility yesterday. Wonderful. He has finally moved past the mentality of a seven year old who won't fess up to breaking a vase.

"It is true that much of the intelligence turned out to be wrong. As president, I am responsible for the decision to go into Iraq. And I'm also responsible for fixing what went wrong by reforming our intelligence capabilities. And we're doing just that...My decision to remove Saddam Hussein was the right decision. Saddam was a threat to the American people-"

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold on a second. Did I miss something, or did the President skip over the apology? You know the part where you say, "I'm sorry." Most humans would have fit this in somewhere. It could have just been thrown in impromptu-like in front of just about any sentence and could have been used carefree throughout along with a steady rotation of "I'm an idiot/asshole", "Sometimes I forget about people who are not me", and "I'm a robot".

Everyone knows the first step in helping a robot is getting the robot to admit that he is one. Only then, can someone attempt to give him a heart and the balls to properly take responsibilty and apologize instead of immediately jumping into defending why he was right when he chose wrong.

A Furnace

What a banner day for news! Apparently crazy asses are running many high-profile positions! Let's look at Iran, for instance:

President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad called the Holocaust "a myth". Now, in Mahmoud's defense, this remark was made in the middle of some Middle Eastern unrest with Palestine and Israel. And also in his defense, it's easy to misinterpret what happened in Europe in the 1930's and 40's. If you've never talked to or believed a Jewish person who lived
through it all, it's easy to assume that crudely tattooed numbers on your arm was just a fad and so was living behind barbed wire and barely eating while working your ass off day in and day out. Oh, those black and white pin suit outfits? Tres fab in Auschwitz. And what of those furnaces? Well, it was awfully cold even for people so fashionably conscious. And all those that seemed to just disappear? That's probably just what happened. They just disappeared.

It's like something you probably read in a book-a non fiction book called WORLD HISTORY and sadly if you don't believe the words and the numbers, than there are pictures and even films that document it and even more sad is that there are people who have been living their lives with the scars, both physical and mental, and must hear some inconsiderate world leader discredit all the horrors and losses they've had to live with. It is both ignorant, arrogant, and cold to refuse to believe the horrid truths laid out before you. These people didn't ask for what happened to them and their loved ones and to discredit it is to keep those furnaces lit.

Black Book Gone Digital

There's a dating service that allows you to download profiles of prospective dates onto your IPod. So, we've finally hit that mystical period in human history where you can stare at a pretty girl's number, listen to The Thompson Twins' Hold Me Now, and contemplate if you have the balls to call her in the privacy of your bedroom or in the public of your local Pizza Hut.

200 Friends on MySpace...

...and #200 is the sweetest one of all. The Steelers.

I'm really looking forward to sleep overs at Alan Fanaca's house, coffeeshop conversation with "Fast" Willie Parker, and Bible Study with Ben Roethlisberger. Good times ahoy! Full speed ahead! What's that? A reality iceburg? It's scraped our hull, and our waterproof compartments are filling? Is there anything we can do? NO! I WILL NOT ABANDON THIS DREAM/SHIP! I'm going down with it. Get the band on deck, tell them to play "Here We Go!" and "The Steelers Polka" until we drown. Maybe they'll do an overrated melodrama about this moment, starring an overrated actor and by an overrated director, and it'll get twelve oscar nominations, and inspire the second in the next series of Star Wars sequels to fold a phony love story into it's "plot" to try to woo the female audience.

Face + Hair = FaceHair

Last night, we were heading out to the IO Christmas Party Spectacular. So, I decided to shave. And as I ran the razor down my face, I reflected on my life as a shaver and realized I had no idea when I first started shaving. I can remember a time when I wasn't shaving (elementary school). I even have pictures to prove it. Likewise, I can clearly recall periods of my
life where I have needed to shave (yesterday and today, for instance). But, the Mason Dixon line between baby face and stubble face is hazy to say the very least.

I can't even remember anyone really teaching me. I'm sure my dad would have if I had asked him, but I don't remember ever asking him or, for that matter, ever having the feeling of needing to ask him. Did he teach me and I just forgot? I don't know. All I know is day in and day out, for years, I just woke up in the morning and brushed my teeth and now for years, day in and day out, I've been waking up in the morning and brushing my teeth and shaving my face. Apparently, it was a seamless transition. I have no apparent scars to remind me of doing it wrong. It's as if one day I just woke up hairy and magically knew how to pull a razor along my face without leaving divets or hacking through veins and vital arteries.

I'd like to know when my face got so coarse. Then, when they finally make a time machine, I will know exactly where to flash back to stop it! It's not that I don't like facial hair. In fact, the exact opposite is sometimes true. I just don't always like facial hair. The perfect solution would be to somehow absorb the mutant power to control my facial hair. That way I could wake up and instantly decide whether I wanted a smooth face or a fu man chu.

Note To All Bandits

Dubbed the Cell Phone Bandit, 19 year old Candice Rodriguez plead guilty on Tuesday to conspiracy to rob four banks in Virginia with her boyfriend. What I want to know is are our youth today so lazy that they can't even take two seconds out of their busy schedule to put on a ski mask?

Daniel Johnston

For those of you who don't know, Daniel Johnston has been putting out low-fi pop songs for twenty-odd years. He had a hit of sorts when his version of "Casper the Friendly Ghost" was included on the "Kids" soundtrack, and last year, a two-disc tribute compilation featuring TV on the Radio, Tom Waits, and Calvin Johnson among others was released. He's sick with lithium poisoning, and it still hospitalized. If you feel like drawing a get well/christmas card, there's an address to send them here.

Get well, Daniel.

reprive?

We couldn't save tookie, but we might be able to save arrested development.

Meds

Pick out the criminal from this lineup:


CHUCK THE RIPPER



LITTLE OLD ESTELLE WEISENGERNER



TOBY "BOUND 'EM GAG 'EM AND BATHE IN THEIR ENTRAILS" ROBINSON

Trick question-all of them have criminal records. Chuck and Toby have obvious charges (Chuck for illegal ripping and Toby illegal bounding, gagging, and bathing in entrails), but in Appalachia, Little Old Estelle belongs to a crew of gray hairs heading into the burgeoning world of senior citizen drug peddling. Their game-reselling their prescription pain medication to junkies looking for an elderly high. I knew kids in college who were doing the same thing with their pain medication. So, here's the question:

Little Old Estelle Weisenhertz-Arch Nemesis of Justice or a Revolutionary Hero in the closing of our nation's generational gap?

Only time will tell. And, yes Virginia, both could be true.

breaking news

skydiver breaks face when chute doesn't open, finds out she's pregnant

get it? breaking? ha ha!

from the article:
"four months and two surgeries later, she and the fetus are doing fine."

makes me wonder if the reporter asked, "so, how's the fetus doing?"

Logos!

Oh boy. I'm overloading here. Nostalgia + Sports + Graphics Design + Bad Teams + Bad Sports + Bad Leagues =

Logo Server!

check out some of these gems:
The Pittsburgh Gladiators, Arena Football League 1980's

The Iowa Blizzard Professional Volleyball Team

The Cincinnati Suds Professional Softball Team


I've been lost in this website all morning. Be warned- if you go in, you may not come back out. But it's worth it.

Related: Gas Station Signs

A Funny Man

"I'd like to make you laugh for about ten minutes. Though I'm gonna be on for an hour."



"I had some great things and I had some bad things. The best and the worst... In other words, I had a life."

Time Capsules

Military specialists in Hawaii unearthed a time capsule buried 100 years ago by a Hawaiian king.

It makes me think of the time capsule we left for the future in Pittsburgh. It was stashed in our ceiling by removing one of the tiles and buried by replacing that tile. Our treasure consisted of a plastic monkey mask, a CVS sales flyer, an empty package of Pemmican teriyaki flavored beef jerky, and Trivial Pursuit-the Millenium Edition. Here's some questions I asked myself recently.

Why did we do it?
I suppose the same reason as anyone makes a timecapsule. So people will know who we were and how we lived. For posterity.

What do the contents of our capsule symbolize?
Uh...life, man. Life the way it was in college in Pittsburgh during the years 1998-2002.

Don't we worry that future military specialists will misjudge our findings and assume that our lives consisted of eating Pemmican and playing Trivial Pursuit-the Millenium Edition in monkey masks?
No.

Isn't it naive to think that a building as structurally piss-poor as ours would survive even ten more years, let alone a hundred?
Probably.

Did you put the contents in a container?
No.

Supposing someone actually does find these things one hundred years down the road, how will they know this was a time capsule deliberately left behind and not just a bunch of junk tossed up into the the ceiling for shits and giggles? Trivial Pursuit-the Millenium Edition is not junk.

Fair enough.

So, if anyone happens to be living in 3114 Joe Hammer Sq. Apt. 3 in Pittsburgh, PA, remove some tiles and take a look. You may have read this, but you'll never really know what it was like to go to college at the turn of the century until you put on those masks and play some Trivial Pursuit. But, afterwards, please think of the future. Put the contents back. Maybe add something yourself. Make sure to put remove another ceiling tile when stashing your time capsule. We don't want to confuse military specialists by mixing time capsules.

The Line, Crossed

The 24-hour news media has officially crossed the point of no return with this in depth coverage of an old TV commercial which is about to be redone.

The article actually goes so far as to explain the subtle differences between this and the original. It took me 45 seconds to read the article about the 30 second spot.

I'm speechless.

inshomnya

frequent readers know that sleep and i are like frazier and ali. we're going into round 15 tonight. i've tried sleeping pills, warm milk, physical activity, you name it. maybe it just wasn't meant to be. i'm not to be counted among those who can enjoy a good night's sleep, i guess.

but as i've said before, insomnia is not without it's upsides. take tonight for example, when i was treated to a pleasure known only to insomniacs: flipping back and forth between "starship troopers" and the A&E Biography® of St Peter.

one second i'm watching slightly censored scenes of giant bugs ripping limbs off of extremely attractive female soldiers, the next i'm learning that St. Peter is a metaphor for human fallibility. at one point, i watched Doogie Howser put his hand on a throbbing, 300 ton mess of jiggling CGI bugness, pressed the "last" button on my comcast remote, and heard the end of the part of the bible where Peter wants to set up booths for Jesus, Moses, and Elijah. does life get much sweeter than this? probably.

Quicktime Couplet

just a couple of quicktime vids i thought you'd like:

david cross says what we all think
jon stewart eeks out bill o'reilly in funny sarcasm contest

happy friday!

Multi-Tasking

Sometimes managers are funny people. They have these days where they just think you should be doing more work-no matter how much you're currently doing. It's just something built into a manager's body structure, I suppose.

Like today, for instance. There were two of us at the front desk. Our front desk responsibilities include: answering phones, swiping member cards, answering member questions, taking care of any transactions, and directing possible new members to the sales office. I suppose because there were two of us at the front desk it seems like the work should be doubled. So, next thing we know, on top of answering phones and swiping cards and taking transactions, etc., etc., we're given 400 envelopes to be stuffed and sent out by the end of the day. Wha? We only have so many appendages. And of the four we do have, we are limited at to what we can do with our feet. Nevertheless, we stuffed all 400 envelopes. It becomes mindless after a while and you're multi-tasking times twenty. Answering phones/stuffing envelopes. Swiping cards/stuffing envelopes. Taking transactions/stuffing envelopes/wiping the counter/fixing the register tape/stuffing the envelopes.

And, by the end of the day, the task is done, but so is the damage. It's ingrained in your mind. You take it home with you. So, you're sitting at a table folding papers. Your eyes bugged out and bloodshot. Sweat collecting on your brow. And your girlfriend sets her hand gently on your shoulder and says, "Honey, It's okay. You don't need to fold the pages of the newspaper." And all you can mumble is, "Won't fit envelope. Must tri-fold." There's nothing you can do. Perhaps you'll sleep it off, but one day maybe you won't. Who's to say where it starts and where it ends?

Ah, work.

Sometimes I wish all my job entailed was waking up, reaching for a block of cheese, peeing in a cup, and sleeping again. But, what kind job offers that kind of stability? Oh yeah, a lab rat.

Riches and Riches

Ever wonder which cartoon character is the richest? Or who's richer, Jed Clampett or the millionaire from Gilligan's Island? Well, stop wondering! Forbes knows!!

A Heisman Candidate In Heigh School (Ba Dum Ching)

The New York Times online has a highlight reel of USC's Heisman hopeful, tailback Reggie Bush, when he play high school ball at Helix High in San Diego. It's amazing! Almost eight minutes of spins, jukes, and incredibly breathtaking acrobatic football ballet! The first play of the reel, he's lost in a sea of defenders and just reappears and then, I swear challenged each and every defender on their own again and beat them all for the touchdown.

You need to subscribe online, but it's free and well worth it. After you register, paste this ( nytimes.com/2005/11/30/sports/ncaafootball/30reggie.html?fta=y ) at the top and you'll be viewing magic. Sorry. I wasn't able to link there.

Hey Kid! I'm a Consumer!

Every Christmas, I get my gloves for that year. I lose one by March (invariably the left one, leaving me with no mix and match options), and go the rest of the Chicago winter (through May) with cold hands. The first winter storm of the season is upon us, and with seven right hand gloves to my name, I've been using an extra winter hat as a left-hand glove substitute. That won't cut it tomorrow morning, when I'm shoveling six inches of snow out from under my wheel wells.

I've gotten by with combs for most of my life. Every time I'm hospitalized (on average, twice a year) I get another "unbreakable" comb, which I add to the pile in my Junk Drawer. Unfortunately, my hair has grown to high-school lengths, and combs are extremely painful to use. Usually when my hair gets this long I just shave it off, but it's like six degrees outside, and I'm rail thin as it is.

Why is this monumental? Well, I somehow I've gone through life having never purchased either of these items. I've always made it through life relying on Christmas or Hospitals to supply me with these items, and being in a position of necessity felt strange- like there was nothing I could do about it.

"My hands are cold. Damn. Christmas isn't for another four weeks."

I guess it's a sign of my passage into self-reliance, that I have to purchase these items on my own. Should I be proud of myself for these purchases? Should I pat myself on the back? Or is this just further proof that I'm either a) generally sheltered in life, or b) have fairly lackluster personal hygiene? Either way, it'll bring about a shift in my perception of self.

Coke's New Slogan

"Welcome to the Coke Side of Life"

I don't know about you, but the first thing I thought of was Yasmine Bleeth's trip to the coke side of life:


*loosening collar around neck*

Lewis Black recently asked, "Why do these companies advertise?", and he has a point. He went on to say there's little chance a coke drinker would be watching TV, see a Pepsi commerical and suddenly say, "Son of a bitch. I've got it all wrong." Coke's dominance/omni-presence is pretty well documented by comedians throughout the years. So I've got nothing to say on the subject, save this: I don't think their new slogan is very good.

But, such is their grip on the consumer that I'm off to get a Coke for lunch. Right now. Can't wait. Must. Get. Coke.

Silliest Trial of the Millenium?

The Saddam trial is getting off to a comically-inane start. But is it the silliest trial of all time? You be the judge. Get it? Judge? Ha Ha.

• Michael Jackson Molests Kids (2005)
In this trial, the King of Pop is accused of doing something the general public has assumed he's been doing for dozens of years. Highlights included learning that Michael Jackson refers to white wine as "Jesus Juice", MJ hiring the Nation of Islam as his bodyguards, and moonwalking on top of his SUV after his preliminary hearing.
Silliness Factor: 5 single studded gloves
Verdict: Not Guilty

• OJ Simpson Kills his Wife, Other Guy (1995?)
The Juice was loose with his knife, carving big holes into the vital areas of ex-wife Nicole and ex-wife-boyfriend Ron Goldman. Highlights included Johnny Cochran's rhyming couplets ("If it does not fit, you must acquit") and his inspiration for Jackie Childs character on Seinfeld, Ron Goldman's Dad's Moustache, and watching District Attorney Marcia Clark turn from a school marm into a school marm with a professional stylist.
Silliness Factor: 4.4 yards per murder
Verdict: Not Guilty

• Berretta Losing His Cool (2002?)
Robert Blake played a cop or vigalante or something on a show called "Berretta" in the 70's or 80's. After eating at a resturaunt he probably couldn't afford anymore, he "forgot his gun", went back into the food place to recover it, and came back to find his wife shot in the face or head. The lone highlight of this trial was the amount of media coverage it earned; Counting Court TV coverage, Blake's camera time for the trial was double the combined length of "Berretta".
Silliness Factor: 1 Pet Cockatoo
Verdict: Not Guilty

What lessons can we cull from this retrospective? Well, Saddam would have been better off if he had worked in the entertainment field. Chosing to be a professional genocidal maniac will probably work against him; juries are much less likely to overlook his faults than if he was, say, a famous jazz guitarist. He knows this, so he's overcompensating by laying the silliness on thick and creamy. Will this strategy pay off? Only time will tell. But probably not.

Word of the Year

"Podcast" is the word of the year. What does that have to do with the Animal Club and/or sketch comedy? Not much.

Scent?

It has come to my attention all too recently that I am lacking in my sense of smell. This knocks two of my senses flat. My vision falls in the far-from-perfect category as well. But, unlike my sense of smell, I have been aware of my visual shortcomings for quite some time. Chalkboards in first grade alerted myself, my parents, and anyone else who might accidentally make me read from afar that I was indeed near-sighted. I could adapt, though. And what with eye glasses being around at least long enough for Ben Franklin to make bifocals out of them, I could even improve my vision.

But, here I am at twenty-five and I'm just realizing that as poor as my vision is, I have the smell to match. My poor vision is easy to diagnose, though. Things far away are hazy. I am scent-impaired and there are no hazy smells. There's really no way to discover this except by sudden realization. It's like that flashback scene at the end of The Sixth Sense (Warning: Six Year Old Spoiler Alert Ahead) where Bruce Willis recounts all these strange coincidences fitted into a montage that suddenly add up to the realization that he's been dead throughout the entire movie! That's like my nose! Except only half-dead!

My sudden realization montage would go something like this:


Shot of me in a room where someone has farted something horrible out there ass. Everyone is cowering and covering their nostrils with whatever they can readily find. I stand complete still and calmly read a book of happy poems until the smell has undetectedly leaked far enough into me to create a stabbing pain in my head.

Cut to-


Shot of me taking the train to work. The car that I'm riding in is completely empty. Each time the door opens at a new stop, the incoming passengers are forced back out by the stench of rotting urine. I again am sitting content with my book of happy poems until that stabbing pain strikes.

Cut to-


Shot of me in a floral shop. Same book, same stab. The only difference is that now everyone else is happy. Yes, even pleasantly potent smells hurt me.

Basically, every shot ends with a stabbing headache. And I realize that I can barely even smell my own farts. A tear falls. I drop my book of happy poems, stand and say,
"My name is Shane Portman and, yes, I am near-sighted and near-scented. I can neither see nor hear from afar!"
I, then, cry some more.

Maybe this is more of a bad infomercial for late late late night television.

Saddam-Crazy?

Like a fox.



While a woman known only as Witness A spoke from behind a screen, her voice digitally altered, about being tortured by Saddam's agents, Saddam sat blankly. Throughout the testimony, his face remained frozen while his hands feverishly jotted notes and when he finally got a chance to speak at the end of the session, he rose and eloquently spoke the speech he had
apparently been putting together throughout the entire testimony.

"I will not return. I will not come to an unjust court! Go to Hell!"

Poetic and blunt. But, I wonder, Mr. Hussein, if it really takes all fifteen-twenty minutes (and that's a low estimate) of testimony to compile fifteen words. Seems to me, you could really benefit from a little time management and a dab of multi-tasking. Like, perhaps, while writing this crazy rhetoric, you could at the same time dig deep and see if there's even a single sane cell with a sane notion buried inside you. Sure, after a minute or two, you'd most likely come up empty-handed. But, that'd still give you another ten minutes to write some more crazy.

500

we've done in seven months what the Pittsburgh Pirates have failed to do in thirteen years; something related to our particular endevours using the number 500!

This, see, is the 500th post the Animal Club Group Blog, while the Pirates haven't played .500 baseball since 1992. The Pirates are valued at around $275,000,000.00. We'll start the bidding for this blog at an even $300,000,000.00.

Actual Animal Club Updates

Three quick things to pass along from the Sketch Comedy front:

1. Welcome to the team, Bart Harvey!
Bart Harvey, former technical and tour directors for Second City and Boom! Chicago, has joined the Animal Club as our tour manager. That means he slaves away day-in, day-out for us, booking shows and planning trips and stuff. What a swell thing to do! Wish Bart luck as we try to squeeze as many dates as possible into the spring academic calendar.

2. Sketchingham!
We're happy as hell to announce we'll be going back to the lovely state of Washington this April to do a weekend of shows for what is known as "Sketchingham". Animal Club pals The Cody Rivers Show are bringing five groups in over three weeks for some Pac NW-on-Nationwide sketch action. We're teaming up with Tom's sketch crush du jour, Champagne. We'll announce more details as the date approaches.

3. Running!
We can't go into specifics until the ink is dry, but after a year of waiting, we'll be coming back with a SICKENING amount of new material, a PLETHORA of special guests, at an ESTABLISHED theatre, in a VERY GOOD time slot, starting in late February. Keep your eyes to the ground and your ears peeled for the big announcement. And yes, it will be big.

There's more news brewing- we weren't just taking time off for our health, though we probably should have been- and as it becomes more pertinent and/or important, we'll pass it along.

Cool? Cool.

The Simultaneous Occurrence of Cuteness and Danger

bear hibernates under lady's porch

That Stings

The DVD burner in my powerbook just died. My AppleCare warranty expired six days ago. Boo.

Sitcom Generator

Ever wanted to pitch a prime time sitcom to a network? Had a hard time coming up with ideas? Just use this handy generator to develop your sitcom for you! All you have to do is answer a few simple questions and a Golden Globe for Best Comedy Series is on it's way. Try it out:

___a___ is the owner of a ___b___ in ___c___ ___d___. His ___e___ wife and two college-age daughters struggle to make ends meet and make sense of their new surroundings, highlighted by the goofy regulars, ___f___, a man with ___g___, ___h___ as the wacky neighbor, and Officer ___i___, who's always threatening to shut down the ___b___.

Special guest stars include ___j___ as ___k___, and Woody Harelson as ___l___.

Key:

A= Stand Up Comedian
B= Small business establishment
C= a) inner city, b) suburban, c) rural
D= City
E= Ethnicity
F= African American Man's name
G= Disability
H= a) John Larroquette, b) Robert Downey, Jr., c) Dennis Farina
I= Ethnic Name
J= a) Sean Hays, b) Ted Danson, c) Jane Curtain
K= a) The Mayor, b) The newspaper Reviewer of local businesses matching answer B, c) A's best friend from college
L= himself

Finger Tips

So, a taxi driver in Denmark bit off the tip of a man's finger after an argument over how many people he could fit in the cab. The driver claims it was accident that occured during all the commotion.



Say what you will, but I believe the driver. Let he who hasn't bitten off someone's finger cast the first stone. That's almost in the Bible even. And if you're like me, you've accidentally bitten off more than one finger in your life. And I'm not just talking about conflicts-of course you're going to accidentally bite off tips of fingers in times of trouble. But there are situations like building a Pinewood Derby car with your Dad (to use one from my personal life) where it naturally occurs. One minute you're painting a crooked "7" on the hood of your pinewood car, the next minute you've ripped off half your father's pinky with your teeth.

These things happen. It's life playing that silly game with us (you know, the game where life bites off one of your digits). And frankly speaking, if you're not going into an argument and/or cab with the knowledge that you might lose a finger than, take the bus my because you, my friend, are not ready to argue.

Broken

Either the scale in the gym is broken or I just lost five pounds over the weekend on a strict diet of spaghetti, tortilla chips, pizza, and malt liquor. I'll have to get back to everyone on this. If the scale's up to par, I may have stumbled on a phenomenal new weight loss program.

bait and switch

i just experienced the lunch equivalent of stubbing my toe: a diet coke masquerading as a regular coke.

maybe it's just my natural tendency to exaggerate, but i think getting a diet coke when you want a regular coke is among the worst things that can ever happen to you. regular coke has a tangy, zingy, sharp flavor that your tongue anxiously awaits, so when the overly sweet, plastic-y, calorieless diet coke hits it, your tongue kind of freaks out and you throw up a little bit. at least i do.

but diet coke's not done ruining your lunch there. no, it's got the gift of aftertaste, the enviable ability to linger in your mouth minutes upon minutes after you threw the whole damn drink away. the artificial sweetener leaves a residue of anti-taste on your tongue that wreaks havoc with the sandwich you're trying desperately to enjoy, turning regular onions into sweet onions and doing much, much worse things to lunch meat.

there's a reason the word "saccharine" is used as a negative adjective when referring to smooth jazz music. arrgh. i breifly entertained the notion of eating a whole container of sweet and sour sauce to kill the diet coke taste in my mouth, but since i'd already kind of thrown up, i decided against it.

so i chugged a bag of sawdust instead.

seriously. fuck diet coke.

quickly retracted front page

cnn is the best.


(the line about the underwear was removed four minutes after i grabbed this screen shot.)