Thursday, July 31, 2008
Is the IQ of some turkey who leans on his horn in bumper-to-bumper traffic high enough to be testable?
These offenders know the cars ahead of them can't move. They know that the cars – even the most expensive models – don't come equipped with wings. And deep down they must know that it's not a spiteful act orchestrated on a grand scale to piss them off and ruin their day.
And yet the offenders persist in torturing us with their brainless and incessant honking. Which gives me a good and possibly evil idea. The grating-honking concept need not be confined to America's lesser roads and major highways.
Suppose I were to invent a portable horn that could be attached to your wrist with Velcro and carried with you for life's little emergencies.
Whenever a frustrating situation arises, blast their ears off with my patented new PORTO-HORN. Instantly the rage within subsides while the offenders are left fuming. I'm sure you can come up with dozens of times when this would come in handy. But let me get you started.
Let's say you're standing in a long supermarket line and instead of three people checking out the groceries, there's only one and it's her first day. Whip out your PORTO-HORN and let 'em know you're there!
You've been waiting over an hour in a doctor's office. Then they move you into the smaller "waiting" office and tell you to remove your clothes, the doctor will be with you shortly. But that's bullshit and you're freezing your ass off. Get their damn attention with PORTO-HORN!
With kindness and love in your heart, you hold the door open for some guy with packages and Mr. Oblivious walks through, saying nothing, as though you were his personal doorman. Let's stop being doormats for thoughtless oafs! Now you can rock their world with PORTO-HORN!
And finally, If you find your loving wife in bed with your best friend, do not wait until they finish and are enjoying a cigarette. Spoil their special moment with PORTO-HORN!
Friday, July 25, 2008
Joey Buttafuoco was the bozo who made headlines back in 1992 for his affair with Amy Fisher (the Long Island Lolita).
Amy was the charmer who shot Joey's wife, Mary Jo, in the face. Amy's unique problem-solving technique was done to make sure that Mary Jo wouldn't ruin a storybook romance with her pal Joey, a felon who looks like he could be a hit man on The Sopranos.
It worried me that for the rest of my life I might be subjected to Joey being embroiled in a series of intermittent calamities that would keep his primitive and ugly mug in the media spotlight.
And let's not forget the name-- which perfectly captures the character behind it and with any luck should become a lasting term for ridicule. What a BUTTAFUOCO!
This former body shop owner and grease monkey has since surfaced many times, as I feared he would. He's been up on charges of soliciting prostitutes.
He served time for statutory rape. He staged a 3-round boxing match with a well-known over-the-hill female wrestler named Joanie "Chyna" Laurer and pummeled her while the crowd booed and called him appropriate names.
Later he had a sex tape produced by Red Light District, a production company that specializes in hard-core celebrity videos. He was also featured in "The Underground Comedy Movie" with Karen Black and somebody named Ant.
While it flies in the face of common sense and decency, Joey has hosted the "Let's Talk Recovery" talk-radio show where he counseled drug addicts. I understand he once had the balls to offer sobering advice to Lindsay Lohan.
This bleeping lowlife, who has appeared on Howard Stern's show and a bunch more, has somehow turned into a celebrity with staying power. To paraphrase a famous line from The Terminator … HE'LL BE BACK!
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Apparently this was the approach taken by many writers of children's literature. I know big kids enjoy a good scare now and then. But babies and toddlers?
"When the bough breaks the cradle will fall and down will come baby cradle and all." Why so harsh? Couldn't they have softened it with, "In the unlikely event that the bough breaks ..."
And how about those 3 Blind Mice? It was bad enough they were blind. But then the bleeping farmer's wife had to go cut off their tails with a carving knife. "3 Blind Mice, See How They Run." Well, of course they ran. Their damn tails were chopped off.
Growing up I can remember reading a lot of scary kid stories and poetry. But to me, the most chilling poem of all was the one about the ladybug. Near as I can recall, it went something like this.
FLY AWAY HOME
YOUR HOUSE IS ON FIRE
YOUR CHILDREN ARE BURNED
YOUR GOOSE IS COOKED
YOUR BROTHER'S BEEN DRINKING
YOUR SISTER'S ON CRACK
YOUR BEST FRIEND WENT CRAZY
YOUR LIFE IS A SHAMBLES
AND YOU HAVE NO FREAKING INSURANCE.
SO RATHER THAN FLY AWAY HOME,
YOU MIGHT WANT TO CONSIDER
FLYING INTO A WHIRLING FAN INSTEAD.
My feeling is that if you're going to write a story for little kids, try not to scare the crap out of them.
Monday, July 14, 2008
I'm begging journalists to stop with the freaking "gate" suffix applied to every sneaky, rotten, contemptible political scandal that reprehensible people have always engaged and delighted in and will never stop no matter what.
News coverage on the Watergate scandal starring Richard M. Nixon in the title role as the brains behind the break-in was a brilliant piece of reporting. And the gate thing, being fresh and new at the time, was fitting and clever.
Unfortunately, that gate spawned a spate of gates. I will enumerate some of them now in order to refresh your memories and make the point.
There was Baftagate, Billygate, Bingogate, Bittergate, Camillagate, Chinagate, Filegate, Grannygate, Hookergate, Iraqgate, Nipplegate, Pizzagate, Skategate, Spygate, Toiletgate, Troopergate, Whitewatergate, Wheatgate, Snipergate -- and Jerseygate, which referred to a Boston Red Sox jersey being buried under a concrete slab at the new Yankee Stadium in order to put a curse on the Yankees.
As a Yankee fan, I only mention Jerseygate to highlight the imbecility, immaturity, and gypsy traits of your average Red Sox fan.
All I'm saying is that it's time to stop leaning on the gate and come up with a new term that's exciting and original.
Journalists who ignore this plea run the risk of my writing a breaking news story on Reportergate.
Monday, July 7, 2008
I can understand having names for planets, penises, and household pets.
But it makes no sense to give names to tropical storms with winds blowing up to 150 miles an hour. Hell, they don't name typhoons, cyclones, tornadoes, snowstorms, earthquakes, tsunamis, and other natural disasters.
So why are we on a first-name basis with hurricanes?
In the beginning, if you recall, there were only female names.
My guess is that it was men who did the naming. Probably a bunch of losers who had been in painful relationships and wanted to get even with women for reducing their lives to rubble.
These days, in order to be fair, they alternate the names of men and women. Here's the current lineup for 2008: Arthur, Bertha, Cristobal, Dolly, Edouard, Fay, Gustav, Hanna, Ike, Josephine, Kyle, Laura, Marco, Nana, Omar, Paloma, Teddy, Vicky, and Wilfred.
I know you'll be terribly disappointed if your name didn't make the list. But maybe next year, with a little luck, your bleeping name will be chosen for calamitous destruction and ruined lives.
If I had a job where I was forced to keep track of hurricanes, I wouldn't do it by names. I'd do it by numbers.
It's simpler and you don't form attachments.
IF YOU HAVE ANY FRIENDS AT ALL, SHARE THIS WITH THEM.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
It's been a while since postal workers have gone nuts and shot a bunch of people. But since "going postal" has become part of our language, I'm sure they'll be on the 6 o'clock news before the next freaking hike in postage.
A few years ago, I wrote a bumper sticker that sold in the thousands: BACK OFF, I'M A POSTAL WORKER. The question is, why had postal workers become such a menace?
Some claim they're disgruntled, that they don't like making their appointed rounds in rain and sleet and snow and whatever other meteorological conditions it spells out in their silly fucking motto.
In case you'd forgotten, here are a few headlines ripped from the front pages of your favorite tabloids: POSTAL WORKER KILLS HIS BOSS! POSTAL WORKER GOES BERSERK IN GROCERY STORE! POSTAL WORKER KILLS 4 DURING HOLDUP!
Nobody knows why pandemonium and postal workers have such a strong connection.
But I have a theory on how it all got started. About 10 years ago, while waiting in a long and typical line at the post office, I saw a sign that smacked of paranoia, and may have set the stage for what was to come.
WARNING! IT'S A FEDERAL OFFENSE TO ATTACK A POSTAL WORKER!