Friday, July 30, 2004

Thumbs Up for Balloons

Mikey da Roommate had the excellent foreskin, er, um, foresight to TiVo the Kerry acceptance speech, so that when I got home after it was over I could catch up with Sweaty Lurch and company...

First of all, I only watched the second half of Kerry's speech, but I was fairly impressed. He seemed energetic and lively, so much so that his face was glistening with sweat, his chin covered in drool. He gave a pretty rousing speech, much more so than any other speech he's given on the stump so far this year. It's like Nigel Tufnel turned him up to 11 for this occasion only. Look, this guy might not be the best candidate out there, and he might be a career politician who has taken both sides of every issue (the only truth Bush hath ever told whilst in office), but just stand him next to our current president and tell me you're going to re-elect this fucker. Just listen to them speak, listen to them articulate their ideas...tell me that you want to pull that trigger on sending this guy back to Washington for four more years. OK, I'm preaching to the choir I'm sure. Onto the balloons mishap...

So Kerry finishes the speech of his life, right, and instead of instant political analysis from the supposed "Most Trusted Name in News," CNN decides to patch the convention's director into an open microphone for a check on the fucking balloons -- the next five minutes can only be described as surreal. Directorman wanted the thousands of balloons to drop from the ceiling, but nothing was happening. "Go balloons, go balloons!" was repeatedly heard. Yet only a handful were falling, and the director began to lose his temper. I cannot do what followed justice, so just click on this link and read the text, or play the mp3 audio. Actually, yes, play the mp3 audio. Then Wolf Blitzer and company half-heartedly apologized and continued to discuss the balloon situation. CNN, C-N-fuckin'-N, decided not to comment on the biggest speech of the last four years, and all they're talking about is balloons. Unless those puppers are filled with nitrous oxide, do yourself a favor and go Cheney yourself, Wolf.

But the highlight of the convention for me was finding out that John Edwards was all about the thumbs up. I love the thumbs up, I love it. I love it, I love it, I love it I love it I love it (Blueberry Johnson, 1996). I'm a thumbs up guy, if I see ya and I'm feelin' it, I'll fuckin' throw you the thumbs up like you wouldn't believe. But I'm more of a last note of A Day in the Life thumbs up guy, I'll throw it out there and leave it up like a good three-point shooter. Edwards, on the other hand, is a rapid fire guy, and usually he's a double-fisted, long wingspan kind of thumbs up guy. I watched him last night give five straight rapid fire thumbs ups, one right after the next, with force and vitality, five straight cocked fists with the thumb pointed straight up like Bob Dole on Viagra. Wait, what?

Anyway, I must caution everyone's favorite boytoy VP candidate -- I've seen this happen before. If this guy throws too many thumbs up out in too short a window, he could land himself straight on the 60-day disabled list. And with less than 100 days until the November election, the Democratic ticket can't afford that at this time. Gotta conserve some of those puppers until October when it counts. Otherwise, a trip to Dr. James Andrews and rotator cuff surgery is just a heartbeat away, John.

Go balloons.

Thursday, July 29, 2004

Line of the Morning

CNN's Bill Hemmer just interviewed Jon Stewart at the DNC for American Morning, leading to the line of the morning...

Hemmer: Are you here for the satire and the irony, I mean the headlines so far have been that the Democrats are unified?

Stewart: Of course they're unified, this is their sales convention, this is their product launch. They're here to introduce "John Kerry, now with lemon."

Good times, great oldies.

Wednesday, July 28, 2004

Some Quick Notes

Four quick hits while I'm finishing up my day at work:

1. I threw up this morning. Yes, it's weird, my frayed nerves and high anxiety towards doing my job competently caused me to get out of bed at 6:30 AM and vomit up that clear, bile-esque substance that your body regurgitates on an empty stomach. That's not exactly how you want to start the day, right? You maybe wanna start the day with a good mattress hump, but you definitely don't want to do the ol' reverse peristalsis first thing in the morning.

2. I was downstairs outside my office for a second earlier today, basking in the weirdness of this summer weather. An elderly woman passed me going west on 58th Street, a woman so old and caked in so much make-up that I nearly stopped her to ask her if I could take a picture of her. I'm not kidding. This woman was walking around alone and unsupervised, and apparently she wasn't dead. The asshole part of me just wanted to march right up to her and say, "Excuse me, Miss, but can I take a picture of you? Why? Because you either look like you're dead or you're the oldest goth poser in Manhattan, ya old bag." Instead I just took her around back and slipped her the bone. Then I vomited for the second time today. It was hot.

3. In the past week, we've had at least 15 people come to our site through Google or Yahoo looking for the Sprint: Business is Beautiful commercial that I referenced on July 16th (and for some weird reason nearly 10 people have come to Slack looking for the Ameriquest blimp, which I referenced two days earlier). The Sprint mersh is a thing of sheer beauty, really one of those mershes that makes you smile every single time you see it. It's like watching Gary Sheffield with a full count -- no matter how many times you see it, you know it's not gonna strike out.

4. Ricin in baby food? Let's just go with the obligatory: It tastes just like it smells...delicious (or should I just paraphrase the Super Troopers line, "It's powdered's delicious").

A Plea

Let's get serious here folks.  My father is 51 years old.  He's old and feeble, confined to a hyperbaric oxygen chamber 23 hours a day.  Once an all-state linebacker who lined up next to sometime Giant great Gary Reasons, my father is now a shell of his former self.  Gray-haired, liver marked, gaunt, frail,, wait, not's a sad state of affairs for this once proud warrior.  His once robust business selling Italian Ices to poor kids, for free, in downtown Newark, is floundering.  Once capable of walking up and down stairs, he's now unable to whip the large Samoan man we've hired to piggy-back him up to his bedroom.  And last week, he broke his wrist while turning a page in the newspaper.

Last Christmas, my Uncle Bob thrilled us yet again with his finger trick, where he can bend his repeatedly broken pinky finger at an obscene 90-degree angle in any direction.  This was always the epitome of Fiedler familial body tricks...until my dad, stricken with gout and Giambi-esque parasites, revealed a far greater talent: He was so weakened by years of lupus and scabies that he was able to actually remove his right arm just below his shoulder, stick it up to his face just below his nose and pretend it was a moustache.  We all had a laugh til we realized his nose was bleeding all over his arm and, well, with that hemophilia...

Anyway, this decrepid old man is going to help me move my furniture into my apartment in Brooklyn this weekend.  I've asked my "friends" for help but, well, they're worthless.  More useless than tits on a bull.  So my dad, whose spine was replaced by balsa wood and fishing line a few years back...after 'Nam..., is going to be there for his boy.  What a shame!

So here's the proposal:  Let's make this happen, good readers.  To those hale and hearty, I ask for you to look deep within yourself and ask, "Should Don's dad really be forced to die just because Don found a sweet deal on a kickass block just steps from the Promenade?"  I think you'll find your answer is no. 

Sunday, whenever, be there or be at my dad's funeral.  It's your call.

And I'm serious, I need help.

Tuesday, July 27, 2004

Dishes are Done, Man

Here's the story of the day, by far

The Las Vegas Review-Journal reported that Red Wings defenseman Chris Chelios was kicked out of a popular restaurant Saturday.

The paper said Chelios was escorted out of FIX after a plate-smashing binge while dining with Hollywood producer Jerry Bruckheimer, tennis star Jennifer Capriati, actors Cuba Gooding Jr. and Alan Thicke and NHL players Sergei Fedorov, Luc Robitaille and Marty McSorley.

A FIX publicist said Chelios "explained to management that it was OK because he was Greek, but it didn't fly." Chelios was referring to a Greek tradition of plate breaking. After cooler heads prevailed, Chelios was allowed to rejoin his pals, who were in town for Bruckheimer's annual Bad Boys of Hockey weekend outing.
Wait, let me get this straight...Jerry Bruckheimer hosts a "Bad Boys of Hockey" weekend outing? That's pretty funny hilarious in itself, but check out Bruckheimer's dinner guests. What in the wide world of sports are Cuba Gooding Jr. and Alan Thicke doing at this thing? Did I miss something, did Jennifer Capriati ever crack a hockey stick over the head of Donald Brashear or drive Steve Moore's head into the ice? Come to think of it, what the fuck are Luc Robitaille and Sergei Federov doing at this table? Robitaille, that fuckin' pussy, averaged about 50 penalty minutes a season over his long career - hardly a bad boy. Capriati's got more balls than Federov and Robitaille combined.

Besides Chelios, Marty McSorley's the only guy with any bad boy street cred at this table. Although, I'd love to see honorable father Jason Seaver take a swing at Rod Tidwell. There are hockey bad boys and then there are fuckin' pussies -- Joey Kocur, Tie Domi, Darcy Tucker, Sandy McCarthy, Bob Probert, these are hockey bad boys.

And while hockey's not really an official sport anymore, it still is the most fun to watch when it counts. I'm a baseball freak (I'm more in love with baseball than any human on Earth), I love football and I grew up playing and watching hockey. Playoff baseball and football are amazing, but I still consider the 1993-94 New York Rangers Stanley Cup run the best two months I've ever had in my life. Too bad that's all behind us and the sport is Roberto Garbaggio.

As an aside, here's my all-time consonant blend hockey team:

D Kjell Samuelsson
D Per Djoos (what's better, the 'dj' blend or the fact that his name is pronounced Pear Juice?)
F Keith Tkachuk
F Juha Ylnoen
F Shjon Podein (a clever combo of Shaun and Jon)
Coach Robbie Ftorek

Convention Busing

I know I just referenced the Fung Wah in my last post, but I really must comment on my experience on this bus on the way back from Boston. 

I was talking to former President Bill Clinton on Saturday morning and said he needed someone to trudge down to the Fung Wah bus depot on Beech St. in Boston on the rainiest morning Boston has ever seen.  Rain coming down in sheets so that, even if you have an umbrella, every once in a while the rain comes in twice as hard and sideways as if to say, "Nice try, prick.  That'll teach you for wearing Yankees gear at Fenway."  Bill also said that this someone couldn't have an umbrella for this maelstrom so that he would have to be soaked from head to toe for the whole ride.

I said, "Send me."

Clinton then said he needed someone to sit wedged into a window seat next to a 250-lb woman from Haiti talking (nay, clicking) to her family across the aisle the entire time while eating a food that looked like a cross between banana and corn during the duration of the trip.

I said, "Send me."

Clinton then said he needed someone to sit near the bathroom so that everytime someone used the facilities, a pungent shit-smell would emanate from the back of the bus.  Seriously, it's gonna feel like there's more poop than oxygen in the air.  At least, 50/50. 

I said, "Send me."

Clinton then said, that just when the bus reached city limits and the Manhattan skyline was well within view, that the bus would be stuck in the most horrific traffic jam in NYC history: the closure of the Grand Central Parkway forcing a 2.5 hour backup on the Triborough.  With people in need of relief, the bathroom would be in constant use and the Haitian woman would fall asleep snoring with her head on your shoulder and corn/banana crums would fall onto your still wet shirt.

I said, "Send me."

So if you want to continue with the way things are going in America and the world right now, go ahead and cast your vote for the Republicans.  But if you're tired of the way things are now, if you want to support someone who can ride a Chinese mafia bus from Boston to New York on minimal sleep, soaking wet, covered in cornana crumbs from a Haitian whalewoman, in a Bombay-style, shit-stinking haze then you have another choice:


Fung Wah to Fenway

Here's your man in the field again, a couple days late but chock full of good nuggets to share.  I was up in Boston last weekend, a weekend where everything seemed to go wrong and the odds were stacked against me in a real "Old Testament" fashion.  And still, my maiden trip to Fenway to watch the Yanks and Sox was as good as it could of been.  More on that later...

En route to Boston on the Fung Wah, aka the "no, seriously, who's dead body is in the luggage hold?" express, I get a call from Handstand telling me that my buddy Witzy, who is scheduled to go to the game with me Friday night, is in the hospital...with a Giambi-esque leg infection.  And how did he get this infection?  Sliding into third in a beer league softball game between sets of accountants...on an infield so notoriously unkempt that LandRover commercials are filmed between innings.  Could the stakes have been any lower?  No.  For chissakes, Handstand, the Round Mound of Rebate, was on Witzy's team.  Was he safe at third?  Yes.  Would he trade that triple for a stand-up double and a chance to see Yanks/Sox at Fenway for the first time?  I'd have to think so.

So with one friend layed-up in the raspberry ward, I turn my attention and very valuable second ticket to others.  Handstand?  Nope, his mom and the captain are in town.  Zebra?  Chick back from Europe today.  Anyone else?  No takers.  With the DNC moving into Boston the next week, it appeared that my friends' testicles decided to head off to the Cape for the weekend.  So I had to go to Fenway, wearing my Matt Nokes #38 jersey and my Yankees cap, BY MYSELF!

And really, it was awesome.  I traded my two tickets in the bleachers, where Boston fans rub out Yanks fans sitting by themselves like David Cone on a long day in the bullpen, and moved up to about even with first base.  There were reasonably nice people around me who, I'm sure, secretly hated me.  And that's ok.  Cause I secretly hated them too.  I read a story in the Times Magazine recently about a guy who works as a civilian contractor in Iraq who jogs through Baghdad.  Sure, he's obviously a masochistic idiot (plus isn't it really fuckin hot there?  shell out for the treadmill, buddy), but I could sympathize with him on Friday night.  Going to get a beer meant having eyes all around my head.  Was that shoulder bump on purpose?  Are they fixing to pull my pants down while I'm using Fenway's better than expected bathrooms?  Is that brown man going to shout Islamic platitudes while lopping off my head on the Internet?  It was unsettling.

But at my seat, all was OK, except for when Flash struck out Poppy and I stood up, fist-pumped, and got a wad of soggy paper thrown at my head.  Other than that, I was fine.  I even stood and cheered from Gary's 1st inning shot over the Monster to A-Rod's GWRBI double off the monster in the 9th.  The Fenway Faithful were shocked and dismayed, saying things to me like, "You're just better" and "We suck".  Seriously, I've never seen such a disheartened bunch of pansies.  Please, as things stand right now, the Sox would run over the Yanks in the playoffs cause of pitching.  I mean, you could chew the air on Friday.  It was hard to see the lights on the other side of the field.  Schilling didn't have it and he melted.  That won't happen in October.  Yet these fans were so defeatist about that whole thing that I felt obligated to say things like, "See you in the playoffs."  I'm sure everything was different the next day when pansy-ass Varitek lunged at A-Rod while still wearing his mask.  I'm sure I would have been torn limb from limb.  But when you beat one of the top starters and closers in the same night and weather 3 dongs from Lame-Ass Millar, you get to see the true nature of Sox fans: Neurotic.

So my Fenway recap: The seats are tiny.  They face the wrong way.  From my seat 30 rows back of 1st base I was staring straight ahead at the luxury boxes down the right field line.  No roving beer vendors...this sucks cause you have to get up every 20 minutes and make everyone stand up and turn sideways so you can get a beer from downstairs.  But everything else was great: bathrooms were good, Fenway Franks were delicious, beers were much cheaper than at Yankee, and the area around the park seemed pretty cool too, lots of bars I didn't go to cause my friends have no nuts and did not come to the game with me. 

So there's Fenway, a great place to see...and sit with...a bunch of losers by yourself.


The "Thumbs Up" was in full effect last night at the Democratic National Convention, and it wasn't because Mike Utley had just been paralyzed. Former President Bill Clinton was in the house, bringing the standing room only crowd to its feet and kicking off the DNC the way it oughta be started.

I miss our talks, Bill and me. I miss when he gets up there and makes me feel like things are right in the world. I miss when he says things that are bad now are surely going to get better. There's never been a greater salesman in the Oval Office...Clinton can not only sell a ketchup popsicle to a woman in white gloves, but he can probably sell a family of slaves to a staunch abolitionist. Ah, the good old days -- I'll take a couple, I'm swamped over here.

But seriously, I do miss our 42nd president. He knows what he wants to say and he articulates it better than 99 percent of his constituents. Such a contrast with our current boss, who needs to be spoon-fed even the simplest ideas and policies and then stumbles through his poor attempt at rote memorization and regurgitation. Is is that much to ask for a leader who knows how to speak? For Chrissakes, Jackie Chan could probably do a better job of selling the GOP platform. Clinton is the man, plain and simple. I mean, I'm convinced that if this guy doesn't get a little slobknobbity in the Oval, he goes down as the greatest President of all time. The greatest of all time...

One more debate topic from my roommate and I: When do you think the last time Bill and Hillary danced the horizontal polka? a) 1979 b) 1987 c) 1991 d) 1997 e) post-millenium. My vote's for answer "b", but I'd definitely be interested in hearing what other people think.

And lastly, everyone thinks the quote of the night was Jimmy Carter's: "And finally, in the world at large we cannot lead if our leaders mislead." But I thought it was even better when Jimmy got up there and said, "Should we be here today? Yessss." Obscurely weird Jack Buck reference for no reason? Absolutely, go fuck yourself.

Monday, July 26, 2004

Sports-Related Nonsense

Sorry for the lack of posting today...I honestly expected to click on Slack and see a wonderfully written, Pulitzer-winning post from Donnie about his trip to Fenway on Friday. But alas, it's not to be. Guess you'll have to settle for the pointless drivel that lurks below. "Alas" is just a fuckin' awesome word.

It's amazing, I haven't missed watching a Yankums/Sawx game in three seasons. And yet the one day I'm away and cannot get to a television, the two teams brawl like Youngblood and Racki. Speaking of the Yanks, the disappointing Jason Giambi is currently being tested for a potentially fatal disease caused by intestinal parasites. It's not funny, and I wish for the healthiest and speediest recovery known to man. But what the fuck man, what does this mean for my fantasy team? It's not like Giambi was any good of late, but you knew he'd come around eventually. Now it appears he might sit out the whole season, and I was counting on that fat fuck to re-emerge as the All-Star slugger he should be.

This reminds me of my first fantasy baseball draft ever. About three days to a week after our first ever draft, Steve Olin and two other drunk Injun relievers took to a fishing boat at their Spring Training site. Night fishing turned into headless speedboat rides, as Olin was decapitated by the dock (the other two, no-luck Bobby Ojeda and Tim Crews, no relation to Tom, suffered serious injuries but at least kept their heads). My first reaction as a human was to gasp horribly and grieve a little for a man's lost life. But as the Commissioner of our inaugural foray into fantasy baseball, I immediately knew I had to grant an "special draft pick" to the team with Olin's rights. Basically what I'm saying here is, I should get a special draft pick if Giambi dies. If he dies, he dies. But gimme an extra pick-up, willya?

One final sports note...I was also away for the Ricky Williams fiasco, this guy just up and deciding to quit football. I'm happy for the guy, he seems happy and now he can suffer from serious anxiety disorder in peace. But I'm not so sure this isn't just a Michael Jordan conspiracy theory in the making. To refresh your memory, many people claimed that MJ retired because his serious gambling problem and subsequent debts were about to be made public. Or something like that. I think the same case can be made for Ricky Williams and his drug problems. Rickey allegedly failed a drug test a few months ago, and he was going to be re-tested. My theory goes that RW failed a second test, and rather than have his little problem exposed, he decided to retire and leave that problem unpublished. Not saying it's what happened, but I wouldn't be surprised. Look for a return from Ricky for the 2006 season, if not next season. Just a thought...

A great, refreshing weekend in the books, and I feel pretty darn good. Let's do it, folks.

Friday, July 23, 2004

Re: Crazy People

So my no-good Boston buddy "The Firekid" sent me a great link in response to the post about Crazy People. I don't really know what the purpose of this thing is, but it's pretty funny hilarious. Check it out, especially since it stars none other than Who's Line is it Anyway? star Colin Mochrie.

Truth in Advertising.

So Spread Sunshine

So Bart Stabux is right...I'm a positive person, enough of this goddamn negativity. And I know just the person to break us out of this little dry spell: Matthew Lesko.

On Halloween, some genius, I forget who, maybe my roommate, suggested that I dress up like Mr. Lesko. I thought it a brilliant idea at the time, and I still do. So I went to the Sal-A store and got some old threads, I bought some oak tag and some velcro and proceded to paste question marks all over my brightly colored suit. It turned out better than I had even hoped, the suit was perfect. I was ready, and I looked a lot like my target.

So I started walking down to Donnie and Irene's place to meet them for a party. I can't tell you how many times I got "Hey, Riddler, nice outfit, aren't you supposed to be green?" and "Question Mark Guy, who the hell is Question Mark Guy?" I was kind of embarrassed at this point, and began to question my question mark costume.

But the people who knew who I was made me feel warm inside, these people made me smile downstairs. One guy in a freakish, ghoulish outfit who was literally scaring children walked past me and whispered, "Hey, I've got all that guy's books, great costume man." I posed for some pictures with admiring fans, and I even got a high five from a guy in a skirt so short you could see the bottom of his scrotal cavity. Now I was flyin' high, the costume made my Halloween. And of course, that guy's scrotum was cool too.

Fast forward to this party, where a friend of mine walked in and said, "Hey, I live down the street from that guy." He wasn't lying either, he knew Lesko's wife's name was Wendy and that he drove a big car with question marks all over it. Oh, I should probably disclose that I did a lot of research on this guy to get into character. Yeah, that's how lame I am. 

So I took a picture of myself and told him to pass it along. I got no response. Until now. Yesterday I received the following e-mail from Matthew Lesko himself:

"Slade…Our friend Manu says you are a great guy.. If that is true, send me your address and I’ll send you some free books and how to get FREE MONEY…I’ve attached my latest commercial for you to get a sneak preview."

And yes, he did attach the free commercial, and yes, it was awesome. Free fuckin' money, dude.

Lesko picked me right out of this funk. Lesko and The Faces's song Bad n' Ruin, which Donnie introduced me to a few months ago. That tune rocks. Lesko rocks. Cleveland rocks. Ohio.

Thursday, July 22, 2004

Sorry, Folks

Not that Donnie ever apologizes for his extended absences, but I'd like to pass along a quick "Sorry, Charlie" for my lack of posting today. If it makes you feel any better, I still haven't even eaten lunch yet, and I don't plan on taking one for an hour or so. I'm about to soak myself in lamp oil and burn myself in front of the crowd. Happy now? I bet you are, you silly little freaks.

So let's just pretend that I'm Nomahhh Garciaparra, which will allow me to sit out for a day for no legitimate reason whatsoever.

Wednesday, July 21, 2004

Grab Ovaries By the Horns

I love the movie Crazy People. If you've never seen it, here's a quick synopsis: A stressed out ad exec played by Dudley Moore goes one part-Jerry MaGuire, one part-Falling Down after his wife leaves him. Moore's character then does what you all think he's gonna do, which is just flip out, and in the process he inadvertantly creates a whole "truth in advertising" campaign that takes off to rave reviews. Since he has been committed to a mental institution before the ads run, the agency has re-hire Moore while's he's in the asylum. But the other inmates, who are...wait for it...crazy people, become great at this style of advertising, and they join the firm from the satellite office of this sanitarium. Oh, and there's other shit goin' on, too. It really is fantastic, see it if you haven't already.

I always thought the best slogan he came up with was for a fictional movie called The Freak. The tagline for the movie advertisement that ran in the New York Times Magazine read "This movie won't just scare you. It will fuck you up for life."

Some of the others are flat out hilarious as well, but I thought the car slogans especially are fantastic... 

Volvo: Boxy, but good.

Porsche: It's a little too small to get laid in it, but you get laid the minute you get out of it.

Jaguar: For men who want hand jobs from women they barely know.

Or something like that, give or take a word. But that's close enough, dicks. Anyway, let me finally get to the point of the post (that's called burying the story, folks). After clicking on the following link, you can probably add Dodge to the list of car companies waiting for a funny slogan...But I can't think of anything funny, so sound off in the comments with your own Dodge/Reproductive System slogan. Best I can do is "Dodge: You're welcome for that once a month blow job from your wife." (I'm not sure, are period references still hip?) 

In any case, go see Crazy People if you haven't already. Sure, there were mediocre performances from Dudley Moore, Paul Reiser and Daryl Hannah. But you also get a typical great bad guy performance from the late J.T. Walsh and an absolutely awesome Got-Screwed-for-Best-Supporting-Actor performance from David Paymer (a true "That Guy"). Man oh man, there's some funny fuckin' shit in that flick. Yes, that's my one-sentence review of the movie, "There's some funny fuckin' shit in that flick." And I stand by that review. Samson Simpson, I stick by my story.

Big Puss

So I just went downstairs to get an early lunch and caught a hilarious scene outside my building. A tinted Cadillac pulled up and Vincent Pastore, aka Big Pussy, hopped out of the backseat in a wife-beater and open short-sleeve button down. As he got out, two smokin' hot chicks exited the building to hail a cab (and I mean smokin', both of these girls had asses you could suck M&M's out of).

Pussy yelled to the two girls, "Yo, you guys want a ride? This is my car." The girls seemed hesitant, not sure of what the hell was happening here. Pussy's driver, in a similar outfit, hopped out and popped the trunk for the girls, and they put their bags inside. Pussy smiled and made some jokes to the girls, then used the revolving door to get into my building. As the back door slammed, Pussy popped out of the revolving door and yelled to his driver, "Hey, do me a favor, get those girls numbers for me, willya?"

Classic case of Pussy begetting pussy.

Freakin' Hilarious

They just showed this animated cartoon on CNN, so the link may be slow from people clicking on it. But trust me, this is some of the funniest political commentary/cartoon I've ever seen.

Click here.

I Suck, You Suck, Everybody Dance

Another day, another 6 AM wake-up call. My life has officially turned into one giant pile of dog doo, nothin' but work lately. The summer used to be the absolute highlight of my year - chillin' out, maxin', relaxin' all cool up at the camp I worked at, where the toughest part of about my summer job was deciding whether I really wanted that ice cream sandwich for snack. I used to be outdoors for 16 hours a day and at a country bar with $1.50 beers for three hours at night; the only time I see the sun now is when I'm walking to and from work, and I haven't gone to a bar on a weeknight in a month. I don't want to sound like a whiner, but this is shaping up to be one miserable fuckin' summer. Is this life from now on? Yikes.

Can't I just be, like, I don't know, a freshman in college again? Worry-free and without stress, nothing but smooth sailing, missed classes and bong resin. If you have problems when you're that age, you need to be weeded out of society and thrown down a deep well. Plus, had I decided to enroll at Duke, I'd have a free iPod right now. That's just cool as shit. I'd do just about anything to either turn back the clock and be younger again or just trade it all in to sit on my ass an collect a kickass salary. Maybe Cher and I will find a way to actually turn back time instead of just lamenting our problems. I'd even settle for a cross-country trip in the PantsOnFire Mobile, rather than wake up at 6 AM every morning. Actually, that mobile sounds pretty sweet. Go Ben.

Ho-right, it's time to get my ass in gear and head to la oficina. What a yoke. If things get too bad, I may be forced to make this gesture at my boss. Enjoy your days, and much apologies for the lack of quality Slack shiite of late. We got Donnie on the lam down on the Joisey Shore and I just feel like Randall MacMurphy, post-lobotomy. Where's the Chief when you need him?

"Avoid the clap." --Jimmy Dugan

Tuesday, July 20, 2004


Here's a PSA for those of you in the military who are reading this:
So the New Yorker has a story running (or about to run) about how the U.S. Army provides free cosmetic surgery for its enlistees and their families. Obviously a necessary part of the Army, these cosmetic surgeries are coming at the expense of the taxpayer; at the same time, the government continues to inform veterans they have no money for them, cutting back benefits and hospital services. Makes sense. There's a joke in there somewhere, but I'm too busy getting a password for
From 2000-2003, Army surgeons performed nearly 500 breast enlargements and more than 1,300 liposuctions. That's right, either the soldiers' wives or the soldiers themselves are running around with bigger breasts and slimmer hips for free, and at our expense. The only catch: The Army does not provide the implants, the operatees had to bring those themselves. Small price to pay and carry to look like Sgt. Callahan from Police Academy.
Anyone else wake up nauseous this morning? Just me. OK, that's fine, at least it's not anthrax or something. 
Unrelated quote of the day, which comes from Charlotte Bobcats owner and BET founder Robert L. Johnson. Johnson said the following in a press release, after announcing that Nelly had joined the ownership group of the expansion franchise: "This is a great opportunity for both the Bobcats and Nelly." Sure is. Business is beautiful.

Monday, July 19, 2004

Sliced Bread, By Width

Quick post time:
So Saturday I went down to Iggy's Keltic Lounge for Internet quasi-celebrity Jason Mulgrew's 25th birthday Celeganza, or whatever the devil it may have been called. Good times had by all, although it was so hot in there that by the end of the night the front of my knees were sweating. Seriously, has anyone ever had sweating kneecaps? The backs of the knees, sure. But the patellas? I think I made history, and I'm not even a sweater. It's a sweater! That bar was so hot, in fact, it completely warrants the obligatory Southern-accented adage: "That bar was hotter than a half-fucked fox in a forest fire." Well, nothing too fun and exciting happened on my end, just a solid night for me, but I'm sure Mr. Mulgrew will recap the event in fine form. Stay tuned for that...
I'm still pretty pissed off about this Apple debacle. Who upgrades their products less than a month after I buy a new (old) one? To quote Mr. Belding, "That's wrong and ridiculous." I always seem to get hurt by these corporate decisions; they just leave me here shaking my head like Michael J. Fox crossing the street. Too soon? Yeah, even I think so, but my delete button happens to be broken. But back to the topic at hand, Apple needs to make good by me, and of course they won't. So I'm stuck with my overpriced, under-batteried iPod, which is still one of the coolest inventions known to man, much better than sliced bread.
The "sliced bread invention" cliche happened to lead to one of the greatest e-mail conversations I've had over the past few years. I just dug through my Yahoo archives and found this from December of 2002. Shortly after hooking up TiVo, I sent this e-mail to Slack Loyalists PB and TJ:
"Seriously, is there a better invention than TiVo?  I think in historical significance, it goes:
1. Sliced bread
2. TiVo
3. Electricity
PB responded first:
"Honestly - in terms of technology I've experienced, here's my ranking:
1. (3 way tie) High speed internet, Tivo, recordable CDs.
Technology I'd like to experience: XM Radio.
Technology that is unnecessary: color cell phones thatinclude games and cameras. Give me a break.
Were people just FREAKING OUT when sliced bread came out? How did that go. Was there a big press release? Was it in the papers. Was it available just in timefor Christmas?"
And the always hilarious and insightful TJ retorted:
"Sliced bread as we know it took some time to develop. Early models featured the bread sliced lengthwise, which was impractical for its most popular application: the sandwich. Even though it was sliced, the bread-consuming public just didn't give a damn. So when people say 'the greatest thing since sliced bread,' they should really say 'the greatest thing since bread sliced by width.' It's simply more accurate." 

Now, that's what I call a hilarious rebuttal to the sliced bread argument.
Three quick band names for ya: Programs for the Survivors of Torture, Punching Judy, and Burning Earnhardt. Will Sweating Kneecaps make the cut? Not likely.

Music; Bad Music; Music to My Ears

A good weekend in the books, we'll have more on that later...
Right now, I'm pretty pissed. I woke up to find out that Apple is coming out with a new generation of iPods. And while they're not that different from the old ones, they've got more battery life and the prices have been knocked down by about $100 each model. Why does this upset me? I just fuckin' bought a new one about a month ago. Figures. Totally fuckin' figures. I just bought this thing and I'm already out of space -- I need Bruce Dickinson to come to my house and tell me to exlore the space.
I coulda put like 50 more Dave Matthews Band shows onto my iPod. Um, nah, I probably wouldn't put any sort of DMB on there unless I contracted, say, vertigo and the only cure was continuous DMB in the earphones. But that nonsensical statement does provide me with a nice, smooth segue to this story, a riot at the DMB show this weekend. A riot at the DMB show? Wait, what? According to the article, "Eyewitnesses say people were throwing bottles and rocks at each other...People fought, threw objects and burned cars at that Dave Matthews concert." Wow, who knew that 14-year-old girls and the local high school's JV soccer team had so much inner anger and hatred...
To the four women that read this site, here's a story that I hope you read and digest: "A drunken Filipino farmer nailed his wife's mouth shut and beat her to death in front of their children, then prepared breakfast for her the next day without realising he had killed her, police said on Monday." Let this be a lesson. Or something.
More to follow this afternoon...

Friday, July 16, 2004

Keith LIVE at the Emmys

...and thanks, Gene, for that wonderful report .  Ok, let's see if the audio problems have been cleared up.  Keith Jackson, can you hear me now?
---Oh, indeed I can Don.  The guys in the truck have done a marvellous job rectifying our audio and I'm ready to give my presentation on the Emmy Nominations here in the Big Apple. 
Great, Keith Jackson at the Emmy Nominations in New York everyone.  Keith, what are some of the major surprises so far this year?
---Well, Don, it has really been a shocking year as we get ready for television's biggest night.  First off, the most comical dead man alive, John Ritter, has been postumously tabbed for a Best Actor in a Comedy Series.  It was a full-blown shocker here and there wasn't a dry eye in the room as Mrs. Jean Carnahan came forward to accept the nomination.  I'm telling you, it was sadder than a beat up whore in a Florida drainage ditch.

Fascinating Keith, what else have you got?

---I'm singularly pleased to announce that my esteemed colleague Dick Enberg has been nominated for Best Supporting Actor in a Drama Series.  I'm sure I'm not alone when I say it's been a pleasure watching Dick these past few years on Steven Bochco's NYPD Blue.  Throwing out tough guy lines like a young Woody Hayes, Dick has thrilled audiences with his short shirt sleeves and deft dialogue delivery.  
Keith, Enberg isn't in NYPD Blue.  

---Oh, well it seems you've been out of touch with reality for some time Don.  Dick has been nothing short of incredible since being paired with that lovable young reprobate, Zack Morris.  Oh, how I've admired watching his rascally schemes at the Max with 4-time All-Stater AC Slater.  It speaks to the indescribable talent of Dick Enberg that he can overshadow two acting giants and steal away a nomination.  I say tonight: Here's to you Dick Enberg.  No more licking boots for you down in the trenches.  A job very well-done. 
Keith, seriously, Dick Enberg isn't an-
---Oh, it's pandemonium here at the Emmy Nominations as Ian MacShane, star of HBO's acclaimed Deadwood has rushed the podium shouting, "Cocksuckers, all of you."  Ha, I must chuckle as his blue language brings to the mind former Orioles manager Earl Weaver.  If anyone was deserving of an Emmy nod, it's got to be the man who has turned Al Swearengen into the best character ever to appear on television outside of Housekeeper Pearl from Diff'rent Strokes.  Oh, and here comes the security.  Looks like Ian just got too hot under the collar and they're taking him down with blackjacks and a taser.  Oh my, just a horrible scene.

Amazing Keith, now how about-

---Sorry again Don, gotta step in here to say I just saw that girl from Joan of Arcadia.  She may have the hips of a young Gale Sayers but I would love to peak into those jeans.

---Don, it's the truth.  Just like my Aunt Sally's apple cobbler, I can't get enough of that leggy broad.  Mo' is wearing a booming hard-on!  And you can call me Mo'!

I'm sorry everyone.  I don't know where that came from.  Keith Jackson is not a pedant, at least not that I know of.  But it is a crying shame that MacShane wasn't nominated for his portrayal of Swearengen.  First it was Santa Claus, then the Easter Bunny, then logical reasons for pre-emptive wars.  And now I can't even believe in the credibility of Emmy Nominations.  I'm pretty sure that no one was blogging things like, "Oh my, James Spader has turned television on its head with his fantastic reading of the attorney from the Practice."  Seriously, Spader?  And does anyone under the age of 55 watch Without a Trace with Anthony "Guinea from Down Under" LaPalglia?  This is a crying shame.  Deadwood got the diss, with only Calamity Jane and Doc getting nominated.  I'm liable to call this a cocksuckin' sham (which means I'm actually calling it a cocksuckin' sham).

Afternoon Hodgepodge

I'm glad we're all having fun with the comments board today...but seriously, not one poster mentioned a thing about the Sprint "Business is Beautiful" mershes I love so much? That hurts, and not in that John Cougar Mellencamp kind of way. Let's make it a point this weekend to catch that commercial and bask in its infinite glory. Thank you. Enjoy your pebbles.
This paragraph's for Mitchell Verger Dartz III, who's departing Da Natti shortly for the super secure infrastructure of Greece. (V-Dartz is to be a researcher for NBC during the Olympic games, so feel free to wish him luck and say your final goodbyes. Dude, it was really great being your friend over the past 7 years. Um, can I have your stereo?) So anyway, V-Dartz is easily the biggest Bengals fan on the planet; so much so that's he's got me on the bandwagon, I root for the Bengals more than any team but the J-E-T-S Jets Jets Jets (except for Week One of the upcoming season, when the Jets shall trounce those striped cats to death). But this is one of the greatest under the radar stories, fuckin' cheapo owner Mike Brown is threatening to sue former season ticket holders unless they pay the team $60,000. Now, I don't know who's right and who's wrong here, but this is just another example of why the Bengals will always be the Bengals. Force a sale, Bengals fans, force a sale. Mike Brown is a turd-licker. In a related story, I love Bengals Zubaz pants.
So Martha got five months in prison, five months of home detention and two years of supervisory probation. Ehh, that's not so bad. I remain committed to my position that this case was just trumped up bullshit, but hey, you're all entitled to believe what you want. Martha lied to investigators trying to implicate her, big fuckin' deal. Our fearless government officials have lied many, many more times, and they've fuckin' caused thousands of young kids to come home from war in wheelchairs or flag-draped coffins. Maybe the two aren't exactly analagous, but why the vengeance for someone who lied to save their own ass and not for the guys who lied and put other people's lives in jeopardy? I just don't get it sometimes.
OK, obviously today's posts are a little disappointing. I just have nothing funny on the brain today. Maybe it's the extra two hours of sleep today that just drained me of energy (I've heard you're more tired when you sleep more, due to more energy expended on dreams). Maybe it's the fact that I just suck ass. Some of you think you're entitled to hilarious or amusing posts all the time, some of you think you're entitled to thought-provoking posts. I suggest you pick up a keyboard, a write a post. Either way, I don't give a damn what you think you're entitled to. Sorry, that was a pretty sad effort at brining Col. Nathan R. Jessup into the equation, I can't go a week without bringing that guy up. Ah fuck it, I don't need to impress you people.

Business is Beautiful

I left something off my underrated list from yesterday, gotta correct that oversight today. Have you guys seen these new Sprint: Business is Beautiful commercials? I am in love. The commercial starts off slow, but then they say, "Totally connected...wire-less-leeee" and a kickass Keith Moon drumbeat breaks into some sort of Hair-meets-Godspell performance worthy of Broadway. In fact, they should take this act to Broadway, I'd pay at least $4 to see that show. Wire-less-leeee. I fuckin' love this mersh, I could watch it 10 times a day. Oh wait, I do watch it 10 times a day.
So Martha Stewart awaits sentencing today, and I'm kinda excited to see what happens. Look, I hate corporate criminals with a passion, and I think these Enron and Adelphia and Worldcom fuckers should get at least 10 years in a federal pound-me-in-the-ass prison. But Martha, I'm on her side here. She did something that every single person in America would do if their broker called with inside information. Oh, the company is gonna tank? Sure, I'll sell my 4,000 shares, thanks for the call, Peter. Yes, she lied to cover it up, but then again, how many of us would truly come clean after making such an illegal sale? One out of every five people would have done the right thing and you can't convince me otherwise.
Plus, she may have saved herself a handful of thousands, but this case cost her hundreds of millions of dollars (maybe it's even a figure in the billion range). I think she's paid enough, just give her probation with tons of hours of community service, including hours of work with the Women's Venture Fund as her lawyers suggested. My prediction: six months in a white collar prison, hours of community service and probation.
Switching gears a bit, here's a really interesting article from one of my favorites, Jayson Stark. If you're into baseball and want to see some changes in the sport, or conversely you don't want to see changes in the sport, read this here piece.
Sorry for the lack of comedy today, I kinda wanted to sound off on Sprint and Stewart. Today should be a relatively light day for me (relatively being the key word), so hopefully I'll find my funny pants later in the day and put 'em on one leg at a time.
I leave you with this awesome story about mullets and the freedom of expression.

Thursday, July 15, 2004

Ground One, er, no, I mean Zero

I know I said I wouldn't post today, but this is too good to pass up...

From The Smoking Gun:

JULY 15--In an embarrassing governmental gaffe, an official tribute sign erected on the fence surrounding Ground Zero actually misstated the date of the terror attacks, a glaring mistake addressed only after a visitor recently complained about the error. The sign, which memorialized victims killed in the Pentagon attack, noted that "September 11, 2002" was a pivotal day in the country's history.

Check it out here, and scroll down to see the boo-boo.

Light A Match

Whitman, Seinfeld, Jordan, Woody, Spike, Biggie, Huxtable...Fiedler? The Don is taking up the stakes and moving to Brooklyn, the Heights to be exact. It's the long-awaited move in with Irene, years in the making.

So now I got Irene as a partner. Any problems? I can go to Reenie. Trouble with the heat? I can go to Reenie. Trouble with the rent? I can go to Reenie. Internet virus while downloading porn? I can go to Reenie.

But now I gotta pay Reenie attention all the time. Tough day at law school? Fuck you, look at me. Hungover after drinking bottle of Jack? Fuck you, look at me. Any kind of sporting event is on? Fuck you, look at me.

And now, Reenie can do anything, especially send me out on degrading errands. Why not? I'm gonna pay for it anyway. As soon as the tampons come in the front door, she sends me back out for pH-balanced just for her deoderant. She can get a 5-liter bottle of Herbal Essences shampoo and never use it. Doesn't matter. I'm paying for it anyway!

And finally, when there's nothing left, when I got no more money and I'm spending all my time at the library, you bust this relationship out, you buy a ring.

...or just meet me at Magnetic Field for 15 rounds of SilverStrike Bowling.

Fiedler, Work Your Magic

Hopefully Donnie will be around today to add something clever and witty to this here for me, if I write something, shoot me. I need to be working today.

So I'll leave you with one of the oldest jokes I know:

Q. What did the snail say when he was on the turtle's back?

A. Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

And lastly, in a late addition, Arrested Development was nominated for Best Comedy Series at this year's Emmy Awards. This show leads my "list of the day," three severely underrated things:

1. Arrested Development
2. Milt Jackson
3. School of Rock

What's on your list of underrated things? Sound off.

OK, hasta la pasta, folks.

Wednesday, July 14, 2004

Da Bomb

Is anyone else sick of the top headline of the Times Online being some variation of "Bomb explodes in Baghdad, 12 reported dead"? I mean, enough already. I think the Times should just have a section somewhere on the page like this:

Shit Blowin' Up in Iraq
Not yet but it's coming, check back soon
Venue: 70% Chance of Car Bomb in Tikrit
Casualties: O/U 6
Days Since Last Civilian Contractor Beheading: 3

This might save the Times a lot of space for stories currently on like Bush Twins Describe Camp David Karaoke. And if that story becomes big, maybe CNN could save space by doing this:

Bush Twins Karaoke Update
Last Night's Session:
4.5 hours
Jenna's Top Hit: Manic Monday
Barbara's Top Hit: Groove is in the Heart
Should Have Stayed at U of I: Lon Kruger
King Dons for Jenna: 7

Wouldn't that make everything easier?

Clemens, McCarver and Blimps: Lots of Hot Air

So I wrote a whole long post at 11 PM last night, only to hit publish and find out that Blogger was doing "routine maintenance" to its site. What does that mean for me? Lost post. Yes, at least 2,000 words down the drain. Gone forever. I blasted Tim McCarver in that post, and I want it back. You just can't poke fun at McCarver often enough.

Not the most exciting All-Star Game in the world last night, as Clemens looked shakier than Muhammad Ali operating a jackhammer. What? Too soon? Hey, at least I didn't call him lamer than FDR's legs. So after a six-run first inning off the Rocket, the game never really materialized into the Midsummer Classic it could have been. Part of me was rooting for another tie this year. By the very end I was just rooting for a foul ball to fly into the press box and nail McCarver in the beanbag.

But my real beef with the game this year was last night's aerial coverage, provided by the Ameriquest blimp. I mean, are they just fuckin' giving these things away? How many blimps are there these days? I feel like it was just five years ago when spotting a blimp over a sporting event meant seeing "Goodyear" plastered along its sides. Didn't everyone tease the fat girl in elementary school by calling her the Goodyear blimp? Do kids these days mix it up and say, "Don't pick her for kickball, that chick is fatter than the Saturn Lightship"?

I remember when MetLife broke into the market and that was acceptable to me. The Snoopy I and Snoopy II blimps were fine for a little competition. Hey, I'm no Communist, I'll welcome a challenge to the Goodyear monopoly. But when the fuck did Outback decide it was a good idea to send the Bloomin' Onion I up to the skies?

At this point, I'm flat out praying for a major blimp catastrophe, something along the lines of an "Oh, the Humanity" Hindenburg-esque disaster. I'll even take something resembling a horrifying mid-air collision between two of these oversized douchebags. And if Tim McCarver should be the captain of such a vehicle at the time, well, that'll just be gravy.

Actually, McCarver is the subject of the misspeak of the week, courtesy of Roger Clemens' "Sunday Night Conversation" on ESPN. Clemens was saying how he's tired of all the talk about the whole Piazza/bat-throwing incident when he said something like, "McCarver and the guys at FOX, they just beat this thing WITH a dead horse." That's just a hilarious image, ain't it?

(And yes, it's 6:30 AM and I'm up for the day. That can only mean one's gonna be a loooong one.)

Tuesday, July 13, 2004

Chris Berman...Jerk

Could someone please do away with Chris Berman? I just watched a replay of the Home Run Derby and really, let's get rid of this bastard. I either wanted to see him get out there and take hacks in the derby thereby revealing him as a physically inept geekus or make him the only person out there shagging the non-home runs in the outfield. Would it not be great to see this fatman loping around out there in the outfield, cowering with eyes closed and glove held out extended under sky high pop ups. Can of corn? Meet tub of shit. This weasel has somehow conned ESPN in the last 5 years into believing that he is the be-all, end-all of sports announcing. How does this guy, who knows nothing of hockey, wind up doing the pre-game show for the Stanley Cup finals? His schtick is tired. The nicknames were great in 1984. End it. You know how Ahmad Rashad set sports journalism back in the mid-90s for being caught fallating Michael Jordan? Well, Berman showed him how...on Joe Montana.

In any event, the apartment-athalon continues...though things may be winding down. I may be moving in down the street from my favorite OB-GYN, Dr. Heathcliff Huxtable, in Brooklyn Heights. What can I say? Starbucks is like my personal Blaine Faban, leading the way across the salt wataaaa. Things get a little hot under the collar on the island, move out to the sticks.

Early over/under on John McEnroe's new show? 2 episodes. This can't possibly be good right? Although McEnroe did utter my second-favorite tennis-related line (the first being Seles' huh-UH). Playing a Czech national in a tourney in Europe, McEnroe charged the net and was hit with a return smash. McEnroe jumped over the net, got in the Czech's face and said, "I'll kill you if you ever hit me again you fucking Communist asshole!" If that doesn't symbolize the Red Dawn, Screw You Gorby America of the 80s, then I don't know what does...except for a rubberband-less faced Captain Lou Albano playing Lauper's dad in that video. Or wait, did he play Danny Aiello's dad?

Rumors on DIY Day Here at Slack

My brother sent me this about twenty minutes ago. I asked him where he got it, he said the stock market is so slow today that this is what one market site is reporting in terms of stock news...

"Hearing the Boston Red Sox have arrangement to trade Nomar to Chicago White Sox, with White Sox to trade prospects to Arizona, who send Randy Johnson to Boston. Deal could be announced as early as tomorrow, as sources at Major League Baseball indicate they don't generally allow significant announcements day of All-Star game."

Figured I'd post this as a public service for you beisbol rumor mongerers out there. And if it's true, let the games begin. Sawx fans, I wish you luck, but I want no more bitching about the Yanks deadline deals any more.

It's "Do it Yourself" Day

I'm about to Spano it up over here...there's no time, there's never any time. My one-man show has officially come to a grinding halt. I just don't have it in me today, I can't go out there...

How 'bout we BizarroBlog it up and you guys do the posting today? Sounds good to me. Sound good to you? Say you, say me? Say it together. That's the way it should be.

Hit comments, post a comment, hit publish or whatever, and let's see what ya got. I think some of you have some funny material, some good bits, shtick even, that you'd like to get out to the public. Let's hear it.

Remember to show all work, and there's no partial credit. You're on the honor system. Now, as Dick Clark would say, "Ready, go."

Monday, July 12, 2004

Hilarious B.I.G.

There are about a million knock-offs of The Onion these days, and I don't know a single one that's genuinely as laugh out loud funny as the original. But this one sports-related humor site posted an article last week that I recently came across, and I'll be damned if I didn't think it was the bee's knees.

Check it out, it's good for a laugh or six: Make-A-Wish Foundation Asked To Punch Barry Bonds In The Nuts. Enjoy!

I love when I claim to be "busy as hell" at work (which I am), yet I have plenty of time to read about major league sluggers getting tattooed in the knutsens by terminally ill children. Gotta love it...

Sunday, July 11, 2004

There's Magic in Those Mushrooms

Top story of the weekend: A 21-year-old college student from Delaware allegedly ate a bunch of mushrooms and stole two cars before getting lost twice in Connecticut, more than 300 miles from home. The three-day bender ended when the confused lad called police to say, "I think I stole a car...I'm not sure." This article is a must read.

Now the Ace Cowboy knows what this young hipster doofus may have been going through. One of my first times eating mushrooms happened to be the exact day I finished reading Keruoac's classic On the Road. And due to the fact that I was 18 and, for all intents and purposes, invincible, it took an awful lot of effort to keep me from taking off to All Points West in my parent's car. My better judgment kept me stationary, and boy did it pay off...

Later that evening, I bore witness to a spectacular scene. We walked into my buddy's living room, and a bag of those boomers that had been sitting on the table were mysteriously missing. Well, technically the bag was still there, only it was in tatters, torn to smithereens if you will. Someone, I don't remember who, and you don't fuckin' know them anyway so relax, but someone noticed that my buddy's dog had been hiding under the table with her paws over her ears for about ten minutes. Nobody quite knew how to react to that, but nervous laughter permeated the room. That dog probably ate an eighth or so, but I heard in dog mushrooms that's like seven-eighths or some shit. I bet she was tripping dog-balls.

It's been about six years since ol' Ace has dabbled in the psilocybin trade, but good times were certainly had before then. That last time was the 11/9/98 Phish show at the UIC Pavillion, a great and severely underrated show by all accounts. Except, of course, for the 45 minutes when I just completely freaked out, peaking hard in a fully enclosed arena with no air and no music to distract me, as the band was taking a break in between sets. I began to wander, first mentally while sitting two rows up off the floor. Then I had to get up and find some air, some water, something to kick me back into normal life, to remind me I'm okay, you're okay. But that backfired, as I committed Mushrooms Cardinal Sin Numero Uno: Don't look at yourself in the mirror. No sir, not ever, under no conditions.

Am I dying? Am I dead? Do I normally look this gaunt? No, fat. No, wait, holy shit my eyes are huge, look at those pupils, ha, pupils, that's funny. Is that funny? Yeah, that's funny, funny like those jokes about manboobs. Oh man, that guy just looked at me funny, I bet his name is Boris, maybe Lucy. I gotta get out of here, wait, where the fuck am I, can't I just go home at the snap of my fingers, wait, I have fingers, yeah man, check out my fingers, dude, look at this. Oh no, no, my fingers are freaking me out, bad fingers. Baddddfingeerrrrrrr. Stop singing to yourself. Get out of here already. I hope you die. Nooo, stop. I'm okay. I'm gonna die. I'm not. Wash your face. Fuck you.

So I washed my face and left the bathroom, and proceded to get pushed threw a throng of unkempt hippie folk, everyone's eyes darting side to side, everyone looking like the Reaper himself ready to claim me. Pushed and pushed and pushed, I finally made it to to the side of the tiny concourse and bumped into Fake Jerry of the Dead cover band Dark Star Orchestra (who looked a lot like the hyperlink picture attached). "Jerryman you'regreat Igottago, um, okay, kick ass whatever" I think I mumbled to him. By the stroke of luck, I ran into two friends who told me I looked like shit, and one went to get me some water. It was then that I pulled up next to the ketchup and mustard dispenser kiosk across from the concessions stand and began to vomit up everything I had in me, which wasn't much. After all, mushrooms are food poisoning. It felt better, but I still felt really high. Then I felt the hand of a stranger on my back, as a nice fella came over to say in a typical stoner hippie voice, "Happened to me in Vegas man, happened to me in Vegas." And it's happening to me now. It's all happening. Emily Rugburn.

Slowly I got back in the positive frame of mind, but halfway through the second set when I looked at Donnie and said, "If they don't play Moma Dance right now I'm going home," he knew that I was serious. Bam! Moma Dance! The band abides! Now I was determined to end this trip on a great note, and indeed I did. All systems go. From then on out, I saw it and it was good.

I never did get back on the horse. I had my fun and I tested my limits. And I walked away without a criminal record or stealing any cars or calling the cops to report my crimes. Plus, I got some great stories and the memory of that night will stay with me forever. I wouldn't trade that night for the world. Boomers anyone?

Friday, July 09, 2004

The Two Donalds

Welcome back, Donald, you were sorely missed. I almost Weekend at Bernies'ed you and posted under your name, just so the people wouldn't realize you had died. But yay, he returns, and now the people won't realize it's just me on this thing and never ever come back. You've re-energized our 26-person fan base.

Good luck on the apartment hunting kiddo, we all know how tiring that can be. Actually, we don't. Or at least I don't. Every time my lease comes up for renewal, my roommate and I just kind of look at each other, remember we're lazy pieces of giant turds, and re-sign the lease at our current apartment. It works. I'm tired.

Anyway, here's a great little LEGO video that one of my Canadian bretheren sent to me, eh...It's a bit long, a few minutes, but well worth it on a summer Friday. Gotta play it with some sound, and don't worry, it's not porn (it is porn). No, it's not porn (trust me, it's porn). For real B, it's not, it's a Spiderman 2 kind of flick made with LEGOs.

Also, check out the real Donald, who had some choice words for the Prez today. War, it's yuuuge.

Thursday, July 08, 2004

Back from the Dead

Hi everybody! Where the crap have I been? Well, I've been moping all over the west side of Manhattan, trying to find an apartment. I actually put down a deposit on an apartment on LE-roy St. in the West Village. It was sweet. It was mine. And then it wasn't. The owner is giving it to his granddaughter. This is now the 2nd apartment I've lost after having put down a deposit in the last 2 years to an owner's little bitch. Reminds me of legendary Seinfeld: "You see, you know how to take the reservation, you just don't know how to hold the reservation. And that's really the most important part of the reservation: the holding. Anybody can just take them."

When I was told of this occurance, the broker prefaced it with, "I've got some good news and I've got some bad news." The bad news was that MY apartment on LE-roy (letters addressed to me would have the name LEROY on fuckin' cool is that!? That's better than Great Jones) was now gone. I didn't quite catch the good news, probably because I started screaming "Fuck, Fuck, Fuck" into the phone. I've since come to realize that her "good news" is that I'm back at square one, looking at dozens of crappy walk-ups while suffering from massive crotch rot. It kinda looks like I'm menstruating down there. (too much?) Plus now I've got to continue my steady diet of bullshit as evil, hideous brokers chew my ear off about decent light and "you won't find anything better than this." I hate them.

But enough grovelling and more ouzo, for the Greeks have captured European soccer's biggest title: Euro 2004. This was a shocking upset of epic proportions (think Rutgers: 2005 Orange Bowl Champions) and I shudder to think of the sheer amount of chewed up souvlaki that was vomitted forth from millions of Greeks around the world after what must have been one hell of a celebration. Those (insert name here)-opolouses must have been going nuts. So Greece has now won Euro 2004...can they win Gyro 2004? I'm not a betting man, but I'd lay a spinning spit of sweating lamb meat that they will.

By the way, if you were going to open a Greek restaurant, what catchy, "play on words" name would you give it. In Evanston, there's the delicious Cross-rhodes. A very clever pun. Personally, I would prefer Pita Frampton or Tzadziki Barber or maybe mid-90s U. of Arizona's Desert Shawarma Defense. Can anyone top that?

Anyway, the posts are going to be sporatic because:

(1) Me no worky!
(2) I'm hunting for my next great apartment (with Cheney and Scalia)
(3) Crotch Rot (see above)

My Pitching Staff Sucks and Moore

So my fantasy beisbol team fell out of first place for the first time since late April. I'm obviously not happy with this development. I may have to pull the trigger on a bad move, anything to get some life into my dreadful pitching staff. It's either make a trade for pitching, or trade off my squad and put together such a bad team that will help us relocate to Miami. This guy here is dead. Cross him off then.

The whole situation has me a bit worried. Over the past two weeks, I've had a closed door meeting with my players and the players have had their own players-only meeting. But that didn't work. None of it worked. My hitting is simply incredible, the best in the five-year history of our league by far. But these starters just go out there and blow more goats than Noah Vanderhoff (I have proof). It's a very disconcerting situation, one that's going to require some careful examination of my dismal staff. Trade updates to follow, folks, thanks for your concern.

In other news, praise be to the U.S. Government for scaring the living bejesus out of people for no reason. So here's what we know: There will be a terrorist event, it will be sometime before November, and it may be mass transit. Here's what we don't know: Our ass from our elbow. Kerry announces a running mate one day and we get a terror warning the next day. But even though it's a terror warning, there's no reason just yet to raise the fuckin' color coding whatever bullshit. Resident Fatty Michael Moore may be onto something about this culture of fear (though I'm sure that point was obvious to most going into the movie). Four more years.

I'm pretty hungry, folks, I'm not gonna lie. But my bohemoth of a boss' secretary is at lunch, and I gotta watch the phones. If someone is up in my building's cafeteria, tell that lady to waddle back down here and do her fuckin' job. God, I hate Slackers.

Kerry Likes Edwards

Now this is some funny stuff...Drudge put together a nice little collage of these two running mates gettin' all touchy-feely.

Look Away, Baby, Look Away

And if you see me on the street someday, and I don't know what to say, look away...Hmmm, doesn't Peter Cetera kinda looks like a combo of Willem Dafoe and Max Headroom in that pic?

I got nuthin' in the tank today, besides the Chicago verse printed above. Cheesy Chicago tunes always get me goin' in the mornings. But I got nuthin' today. See, yesterday was my first 12-hour workday of all time, and I'm reeling from the pain of staring at this goddamn computer all day. And now I'm right back where it all started. I could really go for a Holiday Inn Express cinnamon roll right about now. They look so good on the commercials, and the commercials are pretty funny. And funny = enticing. Man, I wish I had an intern to go get me one of them there cinnamon rolls, who knows, maybe I'd get to stick a cinnamon cigar in her cinnamon cooch. That's uncalled for. Okay, clearly I need to go elsewhere.

In the meantime, feel free to check out this cool website that I found: The Cost of War.

Wednesday, July 07, 2004

Steal Your Face

A doctor at the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center today announced that "face transplants" are a matter of when and not if. In other words, people in the near future can have a dead guy's face if there's is deformed enough. Am I the only one who's completely freaked out by this?

To be fair, the article did say that this is not for cosmetic purposes. But you know this medical development will eventually be used in a personal capacity. I'm sure there was a time when rhinoplasty was for medical reasons only. Man, the prospect of someone getting a new face as easily as a nose job still freaks me out. Kudos goes out to these doctors, who are slightly concerned with this ridiculousness:

Other surgeons say there should be a national policy on face transplants before the procedure becomes a reality. They note face transplants would carry significant psychological and social ramifications.

I'd also like to see a national policy on face transplants. I don't know exactly what that would entail, and I don't even really want to know. And I hope it's nothing like the national policy on penis reduction surgery.

If you're also concerned about this development, write your local representative at the National Policy Center for Face Transplants and express your feelings. Don't run away from your feelings, Richard.

The Ultimate Bag-n-Straw Conversation

Ever since we moved offices, I get my breakfast from the cafeteria in the building. Truth be told, I miss the awful bagels and muffins and croissants I used to get from the Indian guys downstairs. They were cool, they always flashed me a smile and gave me a friendly welcome to the day. Now it's just corporate breakfast. I'm convinced the Indians know how to do breakfast. Isn't that a little bit racist? How can it be racist, if I complimented them on their breakfast skills? That's ridicurous.

My favorite brief, random conversation came with one of these convenience store clerks, back when I worked on Wall Street in the Trump Building (wait, I worked on Wall Street?). One day, February 6, 2002, (I have it documented in an e-mail to some friends) this conversation got out of's that e-mail:

"Actual conversation this morning with the guy who I buy the paper and a drink from in the morning went like this...keep in mind that this guy sounds like the 'what are you doooooing?' guy except a little more Indian.

Him: You need a bag or a straw buddy?
Me: Nah, I'm good.
Him: OK. (brief pause) Bag then?
Me: Nah.
Him: Straw then?
Me: Nah I'm good.
Him: OK. (brief pause) So, no bag, no straw buddy?"

Man, I love that conversation. I think about it all the time. Maybe that makes me kinda weird or insane, but I just loves the way it unfolds. The guy was practically begging me to take the bag, or at least the straw, please man for the love of God let me help you transport your purchased goods upstairs or at least let me help you drink that drink with the use of this awesome straw. Doesn't get better than that. No it doesn't.

Hopefully Donnie makes a re-appearance today with a story about the Greeks winning the Euro2004 extravaganza, but we'll just have to hold our breath. In the meantime, go fuck yourselves.

Tuesday, July 06, 2004

Hush, Keep It Down Now, Voices Kerry

Random band name while riding on the subway: FUPA The Day. And all our back-up singers will be at least a deuce, deuce and a half.

I thought of that one right before I elbowed some woman in the head and subsequently tripped her. Obviously it was an accident, and in fact, it was all her fault. I'm standing there with my hand up on the top bar, and this Kurt Warner's Wife lookalike was sitting in the seat directly below. She rose from her seat quickly to get off the train, and bounced her short-haired noggin right into my elbow. But then she tried to step around me to get off the train, but she just kicked her boot into my right foot like she didn't see it. Well, she buckled and missed a step, nearly going down like your mom on the poolboy. Then Fake Brenda Warner gave me the meanest look I've ever received in my life, no joke -- I thought she was gonna knife me right then and there. Then she knifed me.

So I get to work and see that Sen. Kerry has chosen psychic politician John Edwards as his running mate. I'm sure you've never heard that joke, that's a service I provide, new jokes for all. All the time, new jokes. And speaking of jokes, the good ol' NY Post got this one horribly wrong, very embarassing stuff: Kerry Picks Gephardt (if the link doesn't work by the time you read this, that means they ripped it off the website to save face -- try the Smoking Gun). And check out the front page of the hard copy if you haven't already, that's a keeper. This one might be even worse than when the Post printed that the Yankees lost Game 7 of the ALCS last year. Gotta love the Post, man, much love to the Post. Hey, at least they tried for the exclusive...suuuure they were wrong, but you gotta go for it sometimes.

A quick note from my buddy Ivan: "I love these army dudes in Penn Station and all around the city dressed in their full fatigues and garb, but do you really think they need that canteen? I saw some guy drinking from his canteen and breaking into his dehydrated food rations while standing in front of a Wendy's. That's going a little far for effect, don't you think? Can't this guy get a happy meal? Can somebody get him a happy meal?!"

Busy day, I must be going. Welcome back to Donnie Fiedler, hopefully this no-working ass-clown will do a bit of blogging today...

Monday, July 05, 2004

Working on a Holiday: Lovely!

Show of hands: How many people are stuck in the office working today? Exactly, just as I had suspected. It's the Fourth of July holiday and I'm fuckin' transcribing an interview I conducted on Friday about the Chinese electronics industry -- fair or not fair? I'd much rather be commemorating this holiday with a little musical called "Red, White and Blaine."

Oh work, why do ye torture me so...I'd love to be home on my couch right now, scratching my tuchus in my gatkas, maybe doing some laundry, maybe ripping some CDs onto the computer or ripping some of those infamous tubes of smoke, you know, a typical holiday. But no, I'm working. Work today is about as fun as a funeral on Yom Kippur.

Well, the Yank'ums got swept this weekend at Shea, which could have been expected after the brutal Sawx series at the Stadium. Look, I'm not saying that they're allowed to just drop three games against their crosstown rivals (and I use the term "rival" loosely), but it doesn't bother me as much after that Boston series. Thas'all I'm saying. Now, let's adhere to the religion/politics/Yankees rule and forget I brought it up.

But you know what doesn't make any sense? It's the July 4th holiday, everyone is off from work, kids are obviously off from school -- why are there so many NIGHT baseball games today? How come every single game isn't a matinee? This boggles my mind, it makes zero sense. What else do people have to do today? The fact that there are only three games before 4 pm today leads me to the obvious conslusion that nobody in Major League Baseball knows what the fuck they're doing. Or maybe they know exactly what they're doing -- I also noticed that there are four time-staggered games on ESPN and ESPN2 today. Look, I love televised baseball as much as the next poor schmuck, but how can you sell out the hometown fans for the national audience? This is really one trend that needs to be fixed. Get on it, Selig, you dumb bastard, it's a sailboat not a schooner.

And one more random thought: Is there anything better in this world than the Introduction before Help > Slip > Franklin's from One from the Vault? No, there isn't. Asked and answered.

Allright, that's enough dallying. I better get back to this crapola.

Friday, July 02, 2004

Pointless Drivel

Well, congratulations to Mr. Fiedler on his recent retirement from the world of paralegals. As Bunny Corcoran would say, "Enjoy your summer, old man."

Any plans for the summer? How 'bout heading off to Asia with Colin Powell and me for a rousing rendition of the Village People hit "YMCA"? Trust me, I just saw the footage of this Powell routine, and it's more off-the-charts hysterical than the "Fifteen Minutes of Shame" Family Guy episode.

Well, earlier today, Funnypants Mulgrew and I exchanged words over whether the Red Sawx should trade Nomar or play to win this year. Fiedler pulled a Billy Zane and called for a Blog-off, but that ain't gonna happen. I have neither the time nor the inclination to discuss New Englandish matters of importance on this very space. I say trade him, he says don't, I think I'm right, so does he. Case is closed. (They should trade him though, the guy's gonna walk at year's end and he's not even playing close to the level of the Nomar that won two batting titles in a row. Pokey Reese offers much more with the glove at short and the batting will be fine with Punk Manny and Papi Ortiz bashing like this.) OK, now the case is closed. I have exorcised the demons, this house is clear.

If we're talking sports though, let's chat about the possible move by Coach K to the Los Angeles Lakers (and I linked to and not ESPN because I don't want my boy Lukas to throw one of those Canadian Inferiority Complex Jealous Fits at me).

Say what you will about college coaches being terrible leaders in the professional ranks...I think Coach K has earned the right to do whatever the fuck he wants. It's only natural to want to jump into the deep end after swimming in shallow territory all his life, isn't it? I was glad Steve Spurrier made the leap to the pros, and I couldn't care less that he flopped. Everyone knew he would flop, and he did. But at least he tried. At least he said, "My system is so dominant here, I might as well see if it works at the next level." I'm no video-gamer, but it's a lot like playing Madden at the second-highest level your whole life while winning games 222-0.

Don't you want to play the top, to strive for more? Now, having said that, I think Coach K would be a pretty bad NBA coach. This guy is as solid a recruiter as anyone in history, but he's not the best X's and O's guy in the business. As everyone knows, the best X's and O's guy in the business is Wink Martindale, the charming host of Tic Tac Dough (I mean, how scary was that fuckin' dragon?). For Coach K and the Lake Show, this would be a sad three years and punt situation. And the Lakers should know better.

Well, I'm off to get some grub, folks. Check ya later.

The Best

The Yankees won the greatest regular season game I've ever seen last night in the most amazing fashion: beanballs, errors, home runs, faceplants, sick defensive plays, Sheff at 3rd for the first time in 11 years, Wormser strikes out, The Kid, Pedro, Kaat/Kay idiocy, Sulking Nomar, the whole works. I've been reading about it all morning. I'm in shock and disbelief.

And that's not even the coolest thing about today. Why?


Independence Day? Yes, July 2, 2004. Sure, maybe it's not the British I'm overthrowing, but I won't make a label, create a binder, track a billing expenditure, or make 2 courtesy copies for the judge ever again. Or until law school is over. But in the immortal words of Clark W. Griswald, "Hallelujah, Holy Shit!" I'm going to get a big sandwich, nay, THE big sandwich, today for lunch and then pass out down the shore for the weekend.

So have a great one and a fantastic fourth. I know I will.

The Bronx: Broom City

First of all, am I the only asshole who has to work today AND Monday? That shit is not cool. You got a fuckin' dart in your neck.

So if anyone missed the Yank'ums/Sawx game last night, you really missed out on an Instant Classic. That game should be played on ESPN Classic every day for the next week, with a disclaimer that reads "You're a total fucking douchebag if you watch the following game and don't fall in love with this sport."

These two teams played a 13-inning slobberknocker that left both teams battered and bruised, most notably Yankees' captain Derek Jeter. The Red Sawx battled hard and I must commend them on a well-fought game -- had Nomahhh not been a total pansy and actually played the game, who knows what would have happened. Incidentally, did last night's game seal the deal in terms of Nomar being traded? Absolutely. He's out of Beantown by the end of July, mark those palabras.

But this was more about the Yankees, who much like the Goonies, just never say die. Last night was their 31st game already this season in which they've won while coming from behind (the only two guys in the Sawx lineup who know a thing or two about coming from behind are Manny and Pedro, and that's only in private). The Yankees, quite surprisingly to tell the truth, are playing with heart, they're playing with grit, and they seem to be battling until the final out is recorded. Jimmy V would love to manage these guys -- they just never give up. On a team of superstars, you gotta love to see that. And it all starts with the Captain.

Since Jeter's return to prominence, the Yanks have become the unflappable force everyone thought they would be...give them an inch and they'll take 400 feet. The play he made last night was incredible, simply. The catch itself was a dandy, but that's not what made it so...he knew he would either run full speed into the wall or have to dive head first into the stands, risking serious injury. Well, you know what he decided. Simply incredible. It's hard to hate the Yankees after plays like that...well, I guess for some of you, it's a lot easier.

A sweep in the books, and damn it feels good. What a well-played series, though, one of the best regular season trysts I've ever seen. Three games of hard-fought play, great baseball and nonstop action. This game may not be America's pasttime anymore, but it sure as shit is the most fun game to watch when it's at its best.

Now I'm gonna go beat off in the office bathroom thinking of this beautiful sweep. Hey, beats pissing on the floor in there.

Thursday, July 01, 2004

Not Only Papi Was Sloppy

Isn't it great when you show up to the big ballgame and on your way in realize that it's some sort of crappy souvenier give-away day? Like Johnsonville Bratwurst Oven Mitt Day or something like that? Maybe you'll get a Purina Dog-Chow Steve Bedrosian Nesting Egg or a Brewers Meat Thermometer courtesy of the Salerno/Duane Douch-o-rama.

Anyway, yesterday was apparently Miller Light Incredibly Wasted Trailer-Trash Girls Day at the Yanks/Sox game at Yankee Stadium. Ace and Don, plus Don's father Rex, had pretty good seats in the 3rd row of the upper deck on the right field line. Except, well, when these two unspeakably plastered floosies insisted on standing up for nearly every pitch. One girl looked like Kathy Sanders from Jerry Maguire, only with a "woops, I fell asleep in my backyard in Secaucus while drinking Smirnoff Ice" sunburn. The other looked like that fat girl from college who decided to give up, be a hippy, and take lots of drugs and was always hanging out on Simpson with that Indian girl whose name I never knew. They were accompanied by a couple of foul-mouthed knuckleheads, obvious Apex Tech dropouts, one of whom was a dead-ringer for fellow obnoxious drunk, David "Boomer" Wells.

Why was this so annoying, you ask? They were in the front fucking row! No one could possibly be blocking their view of the entire field. Yet, stand they did. And I'm glad they did it. Of course, this caused our section of baseball geeks to really tear into them. They were instructed to jump to their deaths, and I thought they really might a couple of times as the wobbled dangerously over the railing. Boomer was instructed repeatedly to "Control those bitches" but he kinda just told people to shut the fuck up and stand up and be fans. Needless to say, Rex shook his head in disgust.

Their crafty response to these attacks? Flipping the bird, but in a loosey-goosey, Milwaukee's Beast kind of way. Once in a while, Kathy Sanders just put up two fingers and hoped one was the middle and in doing so, resembled a little league coach telling Rodney Retard in the outfield that there were two outs. But uh oh! Her pants continually fell down, exposing a pasty white ass cheek and a thong. Our section recoiled in disgust, having seen Kathy's hams, and began a chorus of "Pull up your pants" and "Buy a belt" and, well, "Die!" Oh, what fun. And the finger kept popping back up.

Unfortunately, a security guard came over to break up the show and warned them to stop. Boomer was embarrassed and shut up for the rest of the game. And they were all gone by the end of the 7th.

At that point, the Bombers were down 2-0. But then, someone spotted a wonderous thing: The Rally Tit. This girl, about 10 rows up, was wearing a skin tight Jeter jersey and, unbelievably, unmistakably, no bra. Well, when she leaned over or moved even slightly, out came: The Rally Tit! I'm not sure the nipple ever made an appearance. But no matter. The Yanks rallied for 2 in the 7th and 2 in the 8th to win.

Game balls to Angry Gary, Felix "The Clap" Chlamydia, and Cookie Monster Ortiz, whose faulty glove turned an the left half of a set of your standard fullies into: The Rally Tit!

No Real Post, Just a Little Game

Ever since my boss got shitcanned, my life at work has been busier than a beaver on ritalin. And if you know me, I'm a slacker through and through, so I don't like this one bit. Not a bit. I'd like to post a crazy recap of our night at Yankee Stadium last night, which included the first ever "Rally Tit," but time does not permit. So here's an old game that Donnie and I use to play to pass the time in our boring political science classes back at the ol' Purple University. Oh, and yes, we're both really mature, solid citizens.

Example: Penis Car Lesbian = Old Timey Funny Guy

Got it? Good. Now, as El Mariachi says in Desperado, "Let's Play." No cheating, bitches.

Penis Ass-Smooch = Revoluntionary Linebacker
Penis Head-Rag = U.S. Senator
Penis Stencil-y = Sleuth Extraordinaire
Penis "The Limited"-Bloodpumper = VP Candidate?
Judge-n-Jury-Leg-Joint Penises = Annoying Sitcom Star

Bonus: Stonecutter Cox-Surfing the Web = Survey This!

Good luck, and God Speed. Hopefully I'll find some time later in the day to recap last nights game: The nasty chicks who kept giving everyone the finger, "Rally Tit" McGee (who wore a Jeter jersey with no shirt and no bra), Sheffield's monstrous at-bat and Heredia's monstrous relief appearance. Good times in the Boogie Down.