Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Do the pinheads that put out magazines think we're all so dense we couldn't possibly find a reply card unless there were 5 of them conveniently scattered among the articles?
But card overkill, with its implications of lamebrain simplicity, is not the only problem. I am emotionally unable to read a magazine without first ripping out all the cards.
Sometimes I worry that they'll fall into my lap and rattle my concentration. Other times I'm afraid of reading each card and never getting to the stories.
Naturally, after ripping out these annoying little inserts, I have to get up out of a chair and find a wastebasket to dump them into before I can relax and read the crap they've written.
Nobody ever said it was easy being neurotic.
FORWARD TO ANYONE WHO'S EVER READ A MAGAZINE.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
I've never understood why so many women are obsessed with dieting.
Even women with great figures are forever seeking that cadaverous, emaciated look so prized among fashion models. Maybe this explains why those bony beauties always look so pissed off – they're dying for a pizza with extra cheese.
I know the obesity problem is rampant today. But dieting isn't the answer, and living on salads is not a lifestyle you can live with for long.
Sure, women can lose 30 pounds in a month on Jenny Craig, Weight Watchers, or the Atkins Diet. But they can also gain back those 30 pounds the next month.
What about just eating sensibly, taking some long walks, and maybe going to the gym 3 days a week?
Less than a hundred years ago, thin women were considered sickly, undesirable, and poor marriage bets. In those days, famous artists like Rubens only painted well-fed nudes with oodles of flesh.
Back then, if you couldn't force down a slice of pecan pie, a few eclairs, some French pastry, and several brownies before posing -- you could forget about becoming a super model.
FORWARD THIS TO ANY WOMAN WHO DIETS.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Sitting in a room around a big table with a bunch of people who don't want to be there is just wrong.
Except for the top brass, do you know anybody who likes business meetings or thinks they serve a real purpose?
Any executive who runs a meeting usually has a specific agenda that won't change no matter what anybody says or how eloquently he states it.
"Boss, I think given the downturn in business last year, we should be looking into insurance, cosmetics, the expanding elderly market, and anything to do with funerals and death."
Jenkins, let's give that some consideration and then dismiss it entirely.
To save time, the clown in charge should abolish all meetings effective immediately. This will no doubt earn him or her a place in history, and possibly some kind of Business Humanitarian Award.
Taking a meeting could be replaced by management CCing a few key players and spelling out what they need to accomplish in the weeks or months ahead, and how best to achieve their goals.
This simple move would eliminate the ass kissing, the groveling, the posturing, the phony camaraderie, the rollicking laughter when the boss tells a dumb joke, and all the other bullshit that goes along with it.
But then, maybe I'm missing the point.
CC THIS TO THE KEY PLAYERS ON YOUR TEAM.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
I remember years ago when you could just open a plastic package and easily get whatever was inside. It was never a test of muscle or wits. But sadly, those days are over.
Now when you encounter your package, you better put on your game face and prepare for battle.
I'm not talking about ripping something apart with your bare hands. That would be a slight challenge and perfectly acceptable. I'm talking warfare, no holds barred, by whatever means necessary.
I have met some defiant packages lately that have forced me to attack them with scissors, pliers, a butcher knife, a razor blade, and my teeth.
I guess the worst are those clamshell packages that house stuff like cordless phones, popular dolls, toys, light bulbs, electric toothbrushes, radios, tools, and flashlights.
"To open," the directions should read, "simply use a chainsaw in an orderly manner until your product can be safely retrieved." I know one guy who ended up with ten stitches and a bloody flashlight.
Then there's the problem of returning a package to the store when it looks like it's been attacked by a Rottweiler.
SHARE THIS WITH ANYONE WHO'S EVER GOTTEN A PACKAGE.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
You had to read this, didn't you? Couldn't wait to find out all the gory details. Later you'll let yourself off the hook by telling yourself you were just curious.
Relax, you're not alone. The fabric of society is practically threadbare. What is so titillating about the grisly and the grotesque? Why are we hooked on the misfortunes of others?
Newspapers around the country thrive on tragedy and calamity. In fact, the credo of many newspapers is, "If it bleeds, it leads." It's the same with radio and TV. We all know "Breaking News" is never pleasant, yet they can't wait to break it to us.
They tell us why a murderer, rapist, child molester, serial killer, or cannibalistic maniac commits a savage crime – and maybe throw in what this slimeball was like as a kid – and we eat it up like hot fudge on vanilla ice cream.
Why are we so curious about the creeps that prey upon us? And let's not blame a horrible gene pool or a lousy upbringing. I don't care if the men on his family tree were all ax murderers or spent their childhood tossing kittens and puppies off rooftops.
All we really need to know about a psycho is that he's blown up a skyscraper, slaughtered a trainload of people, shot up a college campus, has 35 shallow graves in his backyard, or ate all the relatives on his father's side.
The fact that he may have snapped one day during a surprise Latin quiz should have no bearing on how we judge him and hopefully convict the miserable, useless, rotten, no good sonofabitch.
AVOID SENDING THIS POST TO PSYCHOTIC FRIENDS.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
After lengthy consideration, I have decided that the jockstrap or athletic supporter is the oddest-looking contraption ever invented. It's got the pouch, the 2 straps on the side, and the bare tush hanging out blowing in the breeze.
The joker who thought this one up probably had something to do with the hand buzzer and the whoopie cushion.
I'm sure he still chuckles when he sees some jock wearing one.
If it's support for the crown jewels you're after, a snug pair of briefs will do the job and still leave your dignity intact. And briefs, unlike the pouch and straps embarrassment, won't give you "jock itch."
Speaking of questionable clothing apparel, what's the story with jeans for teenagers with the rips and tears in all the key places. I used to feel sorry for these teens --and even older folks who should know better-- until I realized they weren't poor, they were trendy.
What puzzles me is, how do you know when to throw out your jeans?
Let's not forget suspenders. Now there's a fashion statement. Oh sure, Larry King wears them. But that's an image thing and he's stuck with it. Besides, Larry is kind of an odd duck anyway. Some people—I'm guessing the severely insecure ones--even wear suspenders and belts.
Another thing that gets me scratching my head is neckties.
Yeah, I want something tight around my neck in an assortment of designs and colors that practically chokes me. Why have we all bought into this malarkey? Why can't proper business attire be cozy and comfortable?
Ties, my friend, are a cruel and useless appendage. You can't even wipe your mouth on them after dinner.
And don't get me started on tattoos that peak out provocatively from between butt cheeks. Or stretch and droop pathetically upon hitting a certain age.
FORWARD THIS TO FRIENDS WITH ISSUES.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
People over 60 shouldn't be allowed to show their elbows in public.
Yes, it may be harsh and judgmental. But listen to the rationale behind this discriminatory wrangle.
Is there an uglier part of the mature adult than the thoughtlessly exposed elbow? All puckered and wrinkled and brownish, it makes you want to avert your eyes, as from a car wreck on a major highway.
The average elbow is not a pretty sight even in its thirties and forties. But by the time it reaches sixty, it's the Quasimodo of the body.
I'm proposing that elbow shields should be made mandatory on your sixtieth birthday. That's right, make it a law. And I'm quite sure that whoever heads up the "Beautifying of America" Committee will agree with my seemingly ruthless edict.
WARNING: ALL 60-YEAR-OLDS NOT WEARING THEIR ELBOW SHIELDS WHILE WEARING A SHORT-SLEEVE SHIRT WILL BE SUBJECTED TO A FINE OF $1,000 OR TWO WEEKS OF COMMUNITY SERVICE.
FORWARD THIS POST TO FRIENDS OVER FORTY.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Parents must be proud when a son or daughter is chosen to be a bobblehead doll.
To be listed among such luminaries as Elvis Presley, Donald Trump, John Gotti, Anna Nicole Smith, Mr. Potato Head, Homer Simpson, and a long list of athletes is not something to be taken lightly.
It wasn't so long ago that those who had achieved some level of recognition were written about, filmed, photographed, quoted, had their hands and feet imprinted in cement, or even had statues made in their honor.
Today your prominence is celebrated with a collectible bobblehead doll.
So unless your head gets oversized and connected to your body in such a way that tapping it lightly will cause it to wobble in an uncontrollable and amusing manner, you'll never have to wear dark glasses to avoid recognition.
If you're worried that you might never become famous, there are companies out there that will create a special bobble head for you, a loved one, or a favorite pet.
SHARE THIS POST WITH BOBBLEHEAD PROSPECTS.
Monday, December 1, 2008
There's something very creepy going on in wheelchair advertising.
The advertisers are making it sound like it's not so bad, maybe even kind of fun, to be permanently confined to one place with a bad view. The ads tell you to reclaim your independence and start an exciting new life.
I guess it's good to be hopeful – glass half full and all that – but remember you're still being restricted to a seat and wheels on a regular basis.
It was only a few weeks ago that I began noticing this chilling trend with wheelchair names. They conveyed a surprisingly sunny outlook. Introducing the new Jazzy Electric, Cross Fire, Tilt and Quickie!
They had features such as anti-tip bars, drink holders, and the ability to drive backwards, sideways and diagonally.
Some of the more exuberant models allow for "wheelies" while the copy invites you to participate in sports such as basketball and competitive racing.
Today's upbeat wheelchair is not for everybody (a phrase highly recommended by the agency's lawyers). But if you have the can-do spirit, it might be just what you're looking for. Here's what they really meant but couldn't say.
The horrible freak accident that dumped you off the ski lift and onto the large jagged rock might be a blessing in disguise – thanks to (Wheelchair Name Goes Here).
REAL FRIENDS WOULD SEND THIS POST TO OTHER FRIENDS.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Nobody expects you to come up with fresh language on a regular basis, and it's fine if you never say anything that people write in their notebooks and save. But don't make a habit of spewing streams of exasperating platitudes.
Here are a few things you might want to consider cutting back on if not eliminating altogether.
It is what it is. Now there's a phrase designed to tell me absolutely nothing and doing a good job of it. I also hate happy campers. I'm hoping they get lost in the woods and never found. I don't ever again want to hear that he's arguably pound-for-pound the best boxer in his weight class.
I'm begging you to stop throwing people under the bus. Please consider pushing them off a cliff, or if you live in New York City, a subway platform. I don't want to hear tell me about it every time your mouth moves. Or do the math whenever you wish to convey the simplicity of something.
You also might want to avoid, know what I mean with every other sentence.
Those who resort to this phrase either believe that the people they're addressing are dimwits. Or they have an extremely low opinion of their own ability to clarify their thoughts.
And try not to sprinkle your conversation with to be perfectly honest (no, I'd rather you continued lying to me). Hey, trust me (if you need to say it, I should be checking my wallet). Don't ask (because I'm unable to explain exactly what happened to me and would rather not waste my time trying).
And when somebody advises you to hit the ground running, tell him you'd rather not risk a hamstring pull. Or you could counter his bromide with your own bromide –"Oh sure, that's a no brainer."
I love it when somebody with no taste in art and not a speck of creativity in his or her entire body says, "I'll know it when I see it."
None of us should be forced to put up with dull speech patterns on a daily basis… if you get my drift.
FORWARD THIS NOW OR RISK SPEAKING A YEAR OF FAULTY SYNTAX.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
As the years roll by and the disposition unravels, I am more easily irked by things I once overlooked.
I don't like holding a door open for some cretin who walks on through and doesn't say a word. At the time, I might just mutter, "Thanks is the word you're looking for."
Hours later while dwelling on the incident, I might come up with something more sarcastically elaborate. "I have enjoyed being your personal doorman and look forward to serving you again soon."
I also don't like getting in an elevator where everybody acts like a robot. Face forward, no speaking, focus on the floor numbers. Do not … repeat … do not under any circumstances show humanity or acknowledge one another's existence.
I can do without people who are never on time for dates, meetings, or appointments. They don't apologize or feel guilty about it. And if they bother to mention it, they make excuses that put you on the defensive.
"C'mon, a half-hour late is not really late." "Okay, so I'm 45 minutes late--let's not get in a mood over it."
I can't stand people who carry on lengthy conversations and get annoyed when you "interrupt them" if only to remind them that you're still there.
And I don't like guys who try to impress you with their killer handshake. Some, often the mesomorphs, attempt to crush your phalanges and metacarpals while giving you a big toothy Tom Cruise grin.
The other handshake that grinds my teeth is when somebody grabs the tips of my fingers–which technically is a finger shake–and squeezes the bejesus out of them.
It makes me want to challenge him to an early-morning duel. In my Walter Mitty mind, I pull out a white glove and slap him in the face while saying, "6 AM and don't be late!"
P.S. If there's anything that irritates you –that makes you want to fling plates against a brick wall—comment on it now. If I like it, I'll write it up and give you a plug on my next post.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
I'm annoyed when people ask about my plans for the weekend. I'm sure my answer generally falls short of their expectations. This used to be my typical response.
I plan to get in some grocery shopping, polish my shoes, take a walk, do the laundry, make a few phone calls, catch up on my bills, and watch a little TV.
When I explained that I didn't have any real plans, they seemed disappointed. But that's all changed. Now when people ask about my weekend, I give them the crowd-pleasing version of Saturday and Sunday.
I plan to go mountain biking, ice climbing, sky diving, hang gliding, snow boarding, deep sea diving, do some wife swapping, and finish up with tightrope walking across a gaping chasm. How about you?
People walk away satisfied and impressed, knowing they're dealing with a bad ass who wrings out a weekend till there's nothing left.
SEND TO FRIENDS WHOSE WEEKENDS COULD USE SOME EMBELLISHMENT.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
You've finished a meal, the table is cleared, and the waiter smiles and hands you a check. Why a check? It sounds like you're getting money. This is a good thing. Ah, but you owe money for the meal you just ate. So why aren't you getting a bill?
Apparently all restaurant owners everywhere – in order to keep the eating experience a positive and uplifting one – have long ago decided to convert the bill into a check. A clever sham. But if that's their game, why do they hide the check in the little leather book or put it face down on the table?
Are they embarrassed about overcharging me? Is this some kind of delaying tactic? Don't they think I can handle the reality of the so-called check?
The odd thing is if I look at the check the minute I get it, I feel like I'm doing something wrong. Like I've violated some unwritten covenant with the waiter.
But I think the most outrageous ruse has to be the restaurant owners' refusal to pay their waiters a living wage. Instead they rely on the generosity and humanity of their customers.
Naturally I would feel guilty if I didn't give the waiter a decent tip. But that's only because the cheap #$*%* restaurant owners have masterminded this #$*%* hoax so that I will feel guilty.
A special dinner should be held in honor of these charlatans and a BIG ONIONS AWARD handed out to the slime ball that came up with this nefarious scheme.
In keeping with the theme of restaurant subterfuge, I will begin effective immediately leaving my obligatory tip in various locations: under the ketchup bottle, mixed in with the sugar packets, or maybe use it to prop up one of the inevitably uneven table legs. Let the games begin.
SEND THIS TO ANYONE YOU KNOW THAT'S BEEN TO A RESTAURANT.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Women are constantly grooming the men they care about. I suspect there is a female chromosome that's permanently assigned to male neatness.
If women aren't collecting thread from your shirt, jacket, or sweater—they're smoothing down your hair, brushing lint or dandruff off your shoulders, straightening your tie, or checking to see if your clothes come anywhere near matching.
Depending on how far this relationship has advanced, the woman might be insisting you pick your dirty clothes off the floor, stand tall and straighten your shoulders, no farting in front of friends or parents, and don't eat food while sitting on the couch and watching your stupid sports shows.
Why any man in his right mind would think he could get away with liquor on his breath or lipstick on his collar is beyond my ability to comprehend.
In this murky zone of tidiness and grooming, women are thousands of years more evolved than men. A disheveled friend of mine thinks the highest praise you can hear from a woman is:
"You're really neat for a guy—are you gay?"
IF YOU LIKE THE WRITING, SPREAD THE WORDS.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
It galls me that I sometimes think about things that are absurd and meaningless and trivial and have absolutely no impact on anyone's life. Candy corn falls into this category with a loud clunk.
Just the other day I was wondering if these orange, white, and yellow triangles are sold only once a year.
If so, why would anybody be so dumb as to make a candy that you only buy on Halloween? Is there not a flaw in this marketing plan?
Does the candy maker go on vacation for 11 months, and then open up his doors again in October? Or do they secretly make candy for other occasions? Like heart candies for Valentine's Day. Ribbon candies for Christmas. Or chocolate bunnies and marshmallow eggs for Easter.
Maybe they should be cranking out little candy turkeys for Thanksgiving, firecracker candies for Independence Day, and still more candies for all the other holidays.
Come to think of it, the candy doesn't have to be tied in to a holiday. Look at candy corn!
Corn has nothing to do with goblins and witches and little kids in scary costumes ringing my damn bell and pestering me for crap that rots their teeth, gives them bellyaches, and makes them even fatter than they already are.
PASS THIS ON TO FRIENDS OR RISK GETTING NO CANDY THIS HALLOWEEN.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
It would seem safe to make the assumption that plastic bags don't grow on trees -- unless you live in New York City and spot them dangling from the freaking branches.
It makes you wonder what in hell's name shoppers are doing once they unload their groceries. I myself store my plastic bags in a cupboard and use them to cart trash or garbage to the compactor in the hall.
But apparently there's a whole other contingent out there with a more imaginative outlook. Perhaps they feel the need to free their damn bags from the restraints placed upon them by the less creative.
I envision a window being opened in the kitchen, some incantations are muttered in a cryptic language, and a kind of "dove releasing ceremony" is performed and sworn to secrecy by those practicing or witnessing it.
Maybe then the bag finds a decent breeze and flutters off in search of a new home in a nearby tree.
If the winds are wrong, it could take weeks to finally settle in. Hard to say whether they stay put once they land. I suppose the lazy ones stay. The restless ones probably go from tree to tree seeking the perfect branch.
While I find the hanging plastic bag phenomenon disgusting, some New Yorkers find a certain charm in our trees being festooned with tattered bags that grow grubbier by the day.
But if you plan to visit our city this fall as a tourist, it won't be in the brochure as a "must see" attraction.
IF YOU HAVE ANY FRIENDS AT ALL, SHARE THIS WITH THEM.
Friday, October 24, 2008
When somebody sits near us on a train or bus and is reading a book, why do we sneak a peek at the title?
I doubt we're counting on total strangers for help in selecting a book. I think we're seeking, for reasons inexplicable, penetrating insights into their private lives and innermost thoughts.
Hmmm … this plumpish woman sitting to my left … I deduce from the title of her novel that she's a middle child … probably a Libra … prone to crying jags during chick flicks …two miserable marriages … and a son who's in therapy three days a week and doesn't think it's enough.
This bearded guy sitting in front of me … he'll never finish that self-help book … high school dropout… went into his father's printing business … made a shambles of it … no wife, no girlfriend … no doubt lives with a scruffy cat that only stays with him to flaunt her feelings of superiority.
Sneaking furtive glances at other people's book titles is a conceit of jumbo proportions.
From a single feeble clue, we construct a complete character study in about 10 seconds. I think it's idiotic and reprehensible. And it's a shame that the bearded guy with the cat will never get his damn act together.
FORWARD THIS TO FRIENDS AND A POX WILL NOT BE VISITED UPON YOUR HOUSE.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
What's with our passion for abbreviations? And why is "abbreviations" such a long damn word?
Is it so difficult for us to say what we mean in whole sentences? I just got an invitation to a big party so I better RSVP. They said to BYOB.
Teddy Roosevelt, AKA TR, was our 26th president. May he RIP! I admired him more than LBJ, FDR, or JFK.
The Yankee star, who yesterday had 3 RBI's, was the DH. But next week he goes on the DL.
An alleged rapist, who had a low IQ and was being investigated by the FBI and CIA, was DOA. A year ago the same guy, a military misfit, was MIA. His father was an MP in WW2.
We sometimes even sign our letters with X's and O's. No doubt to get us through those moments of affection and caring as quickly as possible.
My brother's son was crazy about XMAS. The love letter was SWAK. I can't pay you now, I'll give you an IOU. The fighter was KO'd in the third round.
That package needs to be sent out PDQ. Most TV in the USA is barely OK. I need to catch some ZZZ'z. And FYI, he's not a registered democrat, he's a member of the GOP.
Honey, I need some TLC. Personally, I'd rather be getting some tender loving care than some TLC. One gives me a warm glow, the other sounds like a freaking sandwich.
Then there's computer speak. "Hey man, that joke was LOL." And if you ask me, MEGA, RAM, and GIG could easily be the bratty kids of some Hollywood starlet.
I like writing in complete thoughts without all the shortcuts and cutesy initials. In terms of communication and a clearer exchange of ideas, it's just better PR.
IF YOU LIKE THE WRITING, SPREAD THE WORDS ASAP.
Friday, October 17, 2008
People who write famous books write way too much and waste too many trees.
My advice would be to write what needs to be said and then shut the hell up. Authors, even the greatest ones, often fall in love with their own stunning revelations and blather on and on about them. Which reminds me.
How come the classics like Moby Dick and War and Peace are so tediously descriptive and long-winded?
Why the hell can't anybody ever write a damn classic in a hundred pages or less? You'd think if somebody was a brilliant novelist and original thinker, it wouldn't take so long to get the freaking point across.
It's my feeling--and you may disagree if you want to piss me off--that if these writers weren't so narcissistic and verbose, a lot more of us would actually read these epics instead of keeping them on our bookshelves for show.
IF YOU HAVE ANY FRIENDS AT ALL, SHARE THIS WITH THEM.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Why would anyone with an IQ higher than a crenshaw melon put a beverage back in the refrigerator with one or two drops left in the container?
The container has essentially been put back EMPTY.
How come? Maybe the cretinous wanker was too full to finish it off. Or the dumb bastard couldn't locate the garbage bag. Or he thought, "What could be funnier than some sap trying to get a drink from a carton with nothing in it? Man, that's a good one!"
Could there possibly be a reasonable explanation for this kind of aberrant conduct?
If any of you out there are guilty of this, or you'd like to blow the whistle on someone who is, I'd be glad to hear your confession and the motive behind your peculiar behavior.
IF YOU HAVE ANY FRIENDS AT ALL, SHARE THIS WITH THEM.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Well, zip-a-dee-fucking-do-da! I never know what to think when I see a banner like this over a restaurant.
First of all, maybe I liked the old management. It's not like the new owners give you a list of past achievements so you can rate them and make a sensible choice.
All you get is this vague banner to win you over. I guess they're counting heavily on the word "new."
Now I have nothing against new. It's a perfectly good word, and where would advertising be without it. But I think we're owed more than a damn word. Especially given the current financial climate.
Here's what I want on their banners. A guarantee that none of their backers are greedy Wall Street swine who'd sell their kids for a capital windfall.
Plus I'd like some assurance that the chef is mentally stable. The food won't contain E coli bacteria or cause a salmonella outbreak. And that the waiters wash their hands frequently, or at least once before serving me.
True, it would require a larger banner. But it will bring credence and added comfort to their empty claim.
PASS THIS ON TO FRIENDS OR RISK GETTING A STREAK OF BAD LUCK.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
I can't figure out why anybody in his right mind would want to be a boxing referee. Does he like getting between two sadomasochists with a tendency to bleed, and a desire to endure pain and knock the crap out of one another?
Maybe the joy comes from watching the fighters, sitting on their little stools, being worked on between rounds.
Picture the handlers yelling at their pugilists, swabbing their puffy eyes, giving them destructive advice, and slathering Vaseline on their faces to keep the gushing of blood to a minimum.
It's hard to imagine getting job satisfaction from telling two goons, probably with criminal records, to touch gloves and have a good clean fight. Maybe the reward lies in being skillful enough to avoid the jabs, hooks, uppercuts and head butts of two brain-damaged warriors.
While considering the absurdity of such an occupational choice, I wondered if a referee has ever been accidentally knocked out.
Would the fight continue? Is a back-up referee standing by in case of such an occurrence? Would the fighters show concern or remorse for their unwitting decking of the ref?
My guess is that they would reflect on the irony, think what a great bar story this would make, and proceed to laugh their asses off.
IF YOU LIKE THE WRITING, SPREAD THE WORDS.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Despite what the idiot manufacturers tell you, I've never assembled anything that was a snap to put together. In fact, you're better off just guessing where things go and burning the instructions.
When looking for people to write these so-called simple instructions, do they hire high school dropouts who have never written a coherent sentence and wouldn't recognize a lucid thought if it spit in their eye?
Is the whole thing a put-on, a prank, a joke on all of us? And why is one damn bolt, screw, or washer always missing?
I don't care how simple your widget is. By the time you wrestle with the barrage of meaningless jargon, the faulty syntax, and the phrases that lead nowhere ... your brain will be a useless lump of guacamole.
IF YOU LIKE THE WRITING, SPREAD THE WORDS.
Monday, September 22, 2008
It's bad enough that we have all these award shows on TV that praise and bolster the already enormous egos of overpaid actors, some of whom feel competent enough to advise us about our political leaders, and get listened to by dopes who never think to question their credentials.
But it's absolutely nuts that we have award shows today for stuff that should be kept discreetly hidden, let alone proudly displayed on cable TV.
Flipping quickly through channels the other night to track down a show that was watch-able, I came across a porn actress on stage holding up some kind of pornographic statuette.
She had starred in a movie with the barest of story lines and the worst dialogue since The Beast of Yucca Flats. She started choking up while thanking people for giving her this incredible cinematic opportunity.
She thanked her producer for believing in her. And her director for never leaving her side for the entire 3 days it took to shoot the film. And a very special thanks (by now she was sobbing) for her mom and dad who never stopped encouraging her to be the woman she was meant to be.
Oddly enough, I was caught up in this tender moment until I recalled … SHE'S A FREAKING PORNO STAR!
IF YOU LIKE THE WRITING, SPREAD THE WORDS.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
It's annoying to me that the world is saddled with both alligators and crocodiles.
Why would we need both? Did Noah screw up when loading the ark? "When I doth paired them up, I doth thought they were the same unsightly creature."
I'll bet even Darwin scratched his head over this one.
Crocodiles tend to live in rivers and lakes in Africa and Florida and are believed to go back 200 million years. The dinosaur became extinct 65 million years ago, suggesting that the crocodile is a hardy breed.
His lookalike creature, the gator, also goes back 200 million years. And for some strange reason, lives side-by-side with the crocodile in parts of Florida you should avoid if possible.
Maybe the crocs and the gators don't know they're different species. I wonder if they've ever mated and produced a crocogator or an allidile.
You would think that one butt-ugly prehistoric beast would be plenty. And what could a crocodile possibly bring to the party that couldn't be easily handled by an alligator?
Alligators give us alligator bags, alligator shoes, alligator wallets, alligator belts. While Crocodiles give us crocodile tears and Crocodile Dundee.
IF YOU LIKE THE WRITING, SPREAD THE WORDS.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Sometimes when I finish reading a book (something you probably never do), I'll see a note at the end that rambles on about the damn typeface.
"This book was set in Janson, a typeface long thought to have been made by the Dutchman, Anton Janson, who was a practicing type founder in Leipzig during the years 1666-1682."
Well now, isn't that riveting? 1666? Perhaps I can work that Leipzig bit into a conversation with the guys at Hank's Bar and Grille, or maybe at my next high school reunion.
Who gives a baboon's butt about the typeface? Oh maybe some type designers might be intrigued. I can imagine them discussing it in a café over a second bottle of wine.
"Instead of Janson, I think the book would have been a better read had it been set in Clarendon Condensed or Helvetica Extended."
And the other bozo chimes in, "Not enough distinction or nobility – and in both cases, the descenders lack conviction."
A contemplative pause follows and wino #2 adds: "If they had set it in Baskerville or Bodoni … this book could have been an effing best seller."
IF YOU HAVE ANY FRIENDS AT ALL, SHARE THIS WITH THEM.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
To tell you the truth, I lied.
I had no life as a stand-up comic. But a few weeks ago one of my devoted fans suggested I try filling the gap left by Jerry Seinfeld.
I thanked him and then contemplated my life on stage in front of a fake brick wall in a room full of drunks.
The drunks wouldn't be so bad. With their short attention span, I could keep my material brief. And brevity, after all, is the soul of wit.
The bigger problem is staying up between midnight and two in the morning and remaining alert. I'm usually in bed at night by eleven or so, preceded by five minutes of yawning.
I might find it intimidating to stand naked (metaphorically speaking) in front of strangers and hope for booming laughter and raucous applause.
What if I forget my lines? I can't read from notes or write the bits on my palms. And there are no TelePrompTers in comedy clubs. How do these stand-up people do this night after night?
Unless someone out there can figure out a way to bypass the normal routes of discovery and fame, I think I'll just give up this crazy dream of mine.
But if you do come up with something, think along the lines of me having my own TV show on a major network.
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Monday, September 8, 2008
How come the bread in your sandwich is never cut all the way through?
You can order a freaking sandwich to go, tell the spacey counter guy to be sure and cut the sandwich completely in half … all the way through … two separate halves is what I want. Now you may think you've made your sandwich requirements perfectly clear.
But listen closely and try to understand.
Nothing you say will do you any good! And when you attempt to pick up your sandwich, all that meat and lettuce and tomato and gooey mayonnaise you like so much will slide into your lap and onto the floor.
For some reason that defies scientific principles and rational thought, spacey counter guy is unable to cut completely through a sandwich.
There will always be that tiny section of bread that refuses to leave the mother ship.
If you have any friends at all, share this with them.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Who the hell in America decided that Christmas was Merry and the New Year should be Happy?
Was a damn holiday committee formed? What if the votes were in and it came out Happy Christmas and Merry New Year? Would we have accepted it blindly? Or would there be nagging doubts that something wasn't quite right?
"Hey, how are you doing?" Now here's a common greeting that could suggest you might not be doing well. Maybe you're just recovering from a broken ankle, an expensive divorce, or a bout with pneumonia. Why not make our greetings less open-ended and more positive?
"Hey man, you look great!" Or, "How do you keep looking so young? Is there an ugly picture of you in the attic?" This is a literary reference to The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde, in case your reading skills are confined to the sports pages and the daily headlines.
And what about "Have a good weekend?"
Why not "Have an excellent weekend?" Why do we feel the need to rein in our weekend wishes? Maybe we just don't want people to have as nice a weekend as we have.
You have a good weekend. I'll have a spectacular, sensational, eye-popping, mind-boggling weekend!
Friday, August 29, 2008
Why is it that cats don't take any nonsense from anybody?
You could pick a dog up by his tail. And when you put him down (unless he's a pit bull) he'll wag his tail and lick your face. Cats have no tolerance for such idiocy. It seems they were born with disdain for humans and other creatures that might be seeking favors.
You may have noticed there are no bomb-sniffing or drug-sniffing cats.
Screw that shit! Cats will not herd sheep or any other shaggy animals. And no cat will ever help blind people find their way in the world. As for learning tricks around the house, get serious.
"Roll over, Tabby."
"Sure, buddy. Whenever I'm obsessed with the urge to please and make you proud, I'll give it a shot."
So far as we know, cats can't talk. But they speak volumes with a regal look or a withering glance. It's all in the attitude. I can hear some house cat laying down the rules for his new owner.
"Let's get one thing straight, Buster. I sleep, I purr, I dig my claws into your lap, I rub against your leg when I want something. And occasionally, I'll drop a dead bird on your foot."
Sunday, August 24, 2008
When a man proposes to a woman, why does he ask for her hand in marriage? Certainly there are more interesting body parts. And indeed more essential ones if you plan to go on a honeymoon.
How did this custom get started? Did some proper behavior maven decide that it would be gauche to ask for the whole person?
Did some dippy focus group, with no expertise and few credentials, run through a list of other areas and arbitrarily rule them out?
Let's see … one could ask for her shoulder in marriage. How about her back, her wrist, her elbow, leg, ankle, nose, heel, toe, neck, thigh, breast.
"Sir, I've fallen deeply in love with your daughter and I'm asking for her ass in marriage."
Suddenly the hand is making a lot of sense.
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Tuesday, August 19, 2008
I hate to bust your bubble, my friend, but Lassie was a male collie.
I don't know why the Hollywood picture people didn't cast a female dog or change the name to Laddie. But they didn't, and chose instead to bamboozle us with their gender spin.
While doing some research, I found that the original Lassie was named Pal. And that a shrewd dog trainer had bought him for ten bucks. Which would make it one of the best deals Hollywood ever made.
As you know, it spawned a mess of sequels, a radio program, and a TV show that lasted so long you could barely stand it.
"Lassie, here girl … come on, girl!"
I wonder if they told little Timmy the truth.
Or was little Timmy old enough to figure out that Lassie-- no matter how maternal he seemed or how many people he rescued from wells, caves, and other dangerous locations—WAS NEVER GOING TO HAVE PUPPIES!
And where was Liz Taylor when the original Lassie movie was being foisted on the public? I always liked Liz and saw her as a stand-up gal. Yet she knew she was involved in a national hoax, and did nothing to expose it.
Come to think of it, one thing does make perfect sense. I now realize why nobody ever asked Lassie to roll over.
Friday, August 15, 2008
I'm sick of greedy pricks that sue for moronic reasons and get away with it. Apparently ethics and common sense are on the way out. Victim status is a hot button and oily lawyers are cashing in on it.
A New York man was mutilated when he jumped in front of a subway train. He sued and got $650,000 because the train that he jumped in front of couldn't stop in time.
And why do juries hand out millions of dollars to litigious creeps who smoke 4 packs of cigarettes a day for 30 years, get lung cancer, and then sue the tobacco company?
Now I hate tobacco companies just as much as the next guy. But whatever happened to personal responsibility for committing stupid acts on a daily basis? Wait, I'm just getting started.
Two burly gentlemen (read two boobs) strapped refrigerators to their backs and then lumbered along in an ungainly manner to see who was the fastest. One of the boobs, who injured his lower back, sued the refrigerator maker.
His lawyer argued that the warranty said nothing about racing down the street with a refrigerator.
An enterprising young thief from Los Angeles sued the driver of a Honda Accord for running over his hand. He received $74,000 and medical expenses. The young man claimed he never noticed there was someone sitting in the driver's seat when he was attempting to remove the hubcaps.
A woman from Texas sued a furniture store after breaking her ankle. It seems she tripped over a bratty youngster running around wildly inside the store. Even though the child was her son, she was awarded $780,000 for her pain and suffering.
Any decent instincts to remain responsible for our own deeds are being trampled by those who accept no responsibility whatsoever. Where are those crazy villagers with torches when you need them?
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Women are always asking men if they've eaten.
It doesn't matter if they've known the guy for a month or a decade. They're going to ask. Do they think we forget if we're not reminded?
"Come to think of it, I haven't had a bite in a week. Good thing you said something, honey."
Men will never ask a woman if she's eaten. Either we don't give a crap, or we assume she's bright enough to figure it out for herself.
And a woman's curiosity about a man's eating patterns knows no limits.
After she learns whether you've eaten, what you ate, where you ate, whom you ate with, and exactly what you discussed while you were eating-- she may inquire how your food was prepared. It wasn't fried, was it?
Some will even ask if you took all your vitamins. Or pills, if you happen to fall into the senior category.
You could be 90 years old, and your wife or girlfriend will still want a complete dossier on your ridiculous eating habits.
And if she doesn't think your meals were balanced or organic, or don't contain enough fiber, fish oils, antioxidants, leafy greens, or whatever the hell else the current health trends are -- you could be scolded and sent to your room.
Monday, August 4, 2008
"No one else has complained about that, sir." Let's say you've just lost a goddamn quarter in a goddamn phone in the lobby of a goddamn movie theatre. You complain to the manager. He says you're the first one to mention it.
What's that supposed to mean? That the phone really does work, but I'm not using it properly? He may even ask if I put in a quarter and waited for the dial tone.
"No, actually I just shouted into the phone and nobody shouted back."
Another scenario puts you at the counter of a coffee shop where, along with your hash and eggs, you've ordered a glass of skim milk to offset your unhealthy choice of hash and eggs.
Your skim milk is severely sour and you attempt to return it. Only to learn that everyone else drank the skim milk without a fuss.
Or maybe you phone a store to remind them that the fan you ordered 2 months ago, when it was still hot and muggy, never arrived. And the clerk says, "Who did you speak to?" like that's going to solve the problem.
I told him I spoke to Ernie. "Oh, you should have spoken to Ed or Steve. Ernie isn't very reliable, likes to leave early, and has some issues with taking orders."
You waste your breath by saying, "Well then, just fire his ass and let the reliable ones answer the phone."
Apparently in the "Employees vs. Customers" handbook—there is no mention of the customer always being right. Based on my experience, it probably reads more like this.
The customer is always wrong about everything. So don't take him seriously. He's an idiot. Even if he gets upset and yells, he'll be back. No matter where else he goes, he won't be treated any better for one simple reason.
Everybody who deals with the public is reading from this same handbook.
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.
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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!
Sunday, June 29, 2008
If there's anything of trivial importance, it's the almost worthless penny. And yet, next year in 2009, the U.S. Mint in their wisdom will launch a new penny with a new design of Lincoln on the tails side. Whoop-de-fucking-doo!
Right now the Mint Men are trying to decide what kind of log cabin to show for Abe Lincoln's early years.
They're also considering displaying his formative years in Indiana, his life and times in Illinois, or possibly his presidential years during the Civil War, which sure as hell was anything but civil.
When the surface of a penny is only a few millimeters, what difference will it make? Who looks at pennies? Who even stoops to pick one up when it's dropped on the floor?
Nobody is the correct answer!
And why do we still have pennies when they cost 2 cents to make? What kind of investment is that? Sorry Abe, but pennies piss me off!
Friday, June 27, 2008
"Thank you, Mr. Thistle, for banking with us all these years. Because we value your business, we have arranged to provide you with $1,000 worth of accidental death and dismemberment insurance."
This was my bank's way of thanking me. Why are these bleeping mouth breathers so freaking grim? Would it kill these ninny pods to offer me dinner for four at an expensive New York City restaurant?
I think when somebody thanks you for being a loyal customer, it should be a celebration of life rather than a somber reminder that I might be chopped to bits by a dysfunctional threshing machine. Or lose a limb while felling a tree with my Black & Decker chainsaw.
Needless to say, I have not yet taken them up on their ghoulish offer.
I'm holding out for the sterling silver urn for my ashes. Although I haven't ruled out the monogrammed oak coffin.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Today, instead of complaining about my life and the people who inhabit it, I will share 21 Thistle-isms for making the best of a hopeless and wretched existence.
1. When life gives you lemons, learn to make a sour face.
2. Should opportunity knock, ask for identification.
3. Into each life some rain must fall continually and in buckets.
4. Life is a hemorrhoid without the ointment.
5. What goes around comes around and bites you in the ass.
6. Take pleasure in your triumphs, meaningless and trivial as they may be.
7. To protect yourself against the pain of inevitable disgrace, just say no to self-esteem.
8. Dreams are made to be broken, then trampled on with big boots.
9. I'm not okay, you're not okay.
10. Embrace the fact that you're a mess and nothing can be done about it.
11. Anyone whose glass is half full just doesn't get it.
12. Life is a sham and a hoax pretending that it's not.
13. Always look on the bright side of doom, dogma, and political poppycock.
14. Try not to laugh. It causes wrinkles and you can't afford to look any worse.
15. If you can't get up on the wrong side of the bed, why get up at all.
16. To add some interest to your bleak life, fix people up that you think will destroy each other.
17. Ridicule anyone who tosses coins into a fountain or a wishing well.
18. Be aware that bankers and insurance agents have the scruples of jackals with none of the charm.
19. At least once a day try to dampen someone's enthusiasm.
20. When there's a piano to be moved, quickly reach for the stool.
21. Unless you let them, no one can make you feel bad about being on the bottom rung of society.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
At the risk of offending the pious, I don't get why in God's name they put bibles in the drawers of hotel rooms.
We all know that the bible is the most widely read book in the English-speaking world. It's easy to see why. The story of Adam and Eve--for those of you who haven't yet read it-- is a rousing tale of love, lust, murder and betrayal.
And who could fail to be enthralled by Abraham's willingness to sacrifice his only son, Isaac, as proof of his faith. Or Salome asking King Herod for the head of John the Baptist on a plate, and then getting it.
But why is the bible the book of choice for tired travelers? Are hotels secretly in cahoots with some religious organization? Will we someday be checking into hotels like Saint Hyatt or Our Lady of Hilton?
Perhaps they're trying to impress us with their goodness, figuring we'll think twice before stealing their crummy towels.
If my soul needed saving (and it might), I doubt that one or two nights in a hotel room with a Gideon Bible is going to get me through the Pearly Gates.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Who decides who the top ten felons are?
Do they pick the ones who've been committing crimes the longest? Do they make their choices based on the total number of crimes committed? Or does it depend on how shocking and gory the crimes are?
For example, would the number of times a victim was stabbed be a factor? I don't know why it's essential we put a number on this kind of thing. But it's a stat the freaking news media seems keen on sharing.
By the way, who is in charge of counting icky stab wounds and what's the job title? I kind of like Stab Tabulator.
And what the hell do I do if I spot one of these creepy psychopaths? Make a citizen's arrest?
"It's all over, Killer! I've got you trapped down here in the subway, and I'm blocking the exit door with my wiry, 135-pound body until the cops come."
I'm hoping situations like this never arise since I've never been good with criminal confrontation.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
This is kind of like "military intelligence" and "jumbo shrimp." We're talking oxymoron here, where the words contradict one another. But I guess, in all fairness, there has to be some truths somewhere in advertising.
Maybe there's a touch of truth hidden in those advertising disclaimers, which are really denials of responsibility to avoid lawsuits and usually written in tiny type so it's hard to read and figure out what's really going on.
Probably the most honesty I see displayed in advertising occurs in pharmaceutical commercials. That's where you see somebody being helped by a product with a name that sounds like it's been created by a nerdy lab technician.
Following a breezy commercial with people who now have something to live for… you're socked with a litany of cautions.
RELAXOFT may cause road rage, nose bleeds, baldness, memory loss, swollen ankles, facial boils, excessive earwax, uncontrollable cursing, an urge to play in the mud, snoring while awake, lying under oath, atheism, and a desire to spit at small pets.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Once upon a time books were actually written by journalists and poets and essayists and satirists and others trained and drenched in literary skills.
Today many books are written by celebrities, felons, liars, murderers, convicted sex offenders, crooked mayors, whistle blowers, plus friends and relatives of all of the above.
I just read a story about a woman from Alabama who had a rotten upbringing and wanted people to know about it. She was illiterate, couldn't even sign her name. But it didn't stand in the way of getting her book published.
My advice to all those yearning to be writers is the following.
Do not get bogged down with style, theme, character development, pacing, originality, tone, coherence, craft, plot, viewpoint, description, entertainment, opening sentences, endings, and all the other crap that stands in the way of getting recognition, royalties, and long lines of people waiting at Barnes & Noble for your book signing.
Simply figure out a way to get your picture in the papers. Front and back page is ideal. Landing on Page 6 of the Post would be outstanding. You might even try stalking a celebrity for months.
Of course, if you get TV or tabloid coverage in a sensational rape or murder case – especially one involving missing body parts -- your career will skyrocket and the best-seller list is yours for at least 30 weeks.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Danny Glover had it right in Lethal Weapon when he said, "I'm getting too old for this shit!" It just might be time for Indiana to consider Danny's fecal wisdom.
Now I'm fully aware that "Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull" – starring Harrison Ford and produced and directed by 2 other guys in their 60s -- was a box office smash, selling over $150 million worth of tickets in 5 days.
But Indy, now 65 years old, had 19 years to rest up and get ready for those death-defying stunts and months of emotional explosions.
In another 19 years (if film history is any indication) the next Indiana Jones movie will be released. Harrison will be 84. And I doubt that Lucas and Spielberg will still be up for a daily barrage of widespread pandemonium.
Besides, there's something terribly inappropriate for an 84-year-old to be leaping and fighting and dodging avalanching boulders while murderous evildoers are bent on crushing him into dust before the 2-hour film has run its frenzied course.
This kind of ordeal can be taxing on a man who's already been receiving AARP Magazine for the last 15 years. Indy, it's time to hand in you bullwhip. Better yet, use it to snap the heads off those damn daisies on your lawn.
Monday, May 26, 2008
"I'm at the corner of 36th and Third Avenue. (2 minutes later) Now I'm at 34th and Third."
This is a phone conversation I overheard in Manhattan between a young man in his mid 20s and somebody on the other end who either needs constant reassuring or thinks his caller is a mental case. Does anyone really need to know your freaking location every 2 minutes? For some screwballs, the answer is apparently yes.
Martin Cooper, who started working for Motorola in 1954, is generally given credit for inventing the cell phone, a real clunky model back then. He worked on the first portable hand-held police radio, and was the first one to make a phone call using a cell phone.
But you can bet your ass Mr. Cooper didn't call friends or cops to announce his whereabouts every few minutes.
As most people know, cell phones give off radiation. And although nothing has been proven yet, it is suspected that these little buggers can contribute to such health concerns as cancer, seizures, and changes in brain activity.
The part about changes in brain activity might explain some other aberrant behavioral patterns I've noticed about cell phone users.
They like to speak in public places in booming voices while disclosing personal information that they should keep to themselves rather than sharing with me.
"Oh please, Edna … my husband the skunk has been having an affair with Lydia the skank for years."
Friday, May 23, 2008
I hate getting emails from people living in places like Nigeria and Malaysia that just can't wait to make me rich.
My latest "tale of opulence" was written by a woman suffering from some kind of cancerous ailment who had only 3 months to live.
Her husband, who invested wisely in the capital market, had just died from a protracted illness. His lifetime dream –which will now be shattered if she can't find a dumb bunny to bail her out – was to leave his $10 million to widows and orphans and the financially destitute.
I believe their 5 children all perished when their school bus crashed through a fence at high speed and went over a cliff.
To nail down all the bases, she briefly mentioned that both her family and her husband's family were wealthy, undeserving, and cared little about uplifting the downtrodden.
Apparently I am her last chance to help the afflicted and oppressed.
Her money is safely deposited in a Security Firm in Malaysia. All I have to do is contact her and work out the details. Then she ended her plea with warm regards and hoped that the spirit of trust and love and generosity would stay with me throughout my days.
I couldn't help but wonder if these are the same people who sell those enhancement pills that are guaranteed to add inches to my penis.
IF YOU LIKE THE WRITING, SPREAD THE WORDS.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Is it possible for a politician to give a speech or participate in a debate and not end it with a reference to God?
Would a plague of locusts be rained upon us? I can understand wanting God on your side. But should we be enlisting the Almighty to get votes? Seems blasphemous. Wouldn't God see through that and resent being used?
And those soliciting favors from God are not confined to crooked politicians. Sports figures are also trying to enlist help from above. A baseball player on the way to the plate crosses himself and thrusts a grateful arm to heaven if he gets a hit.
A boxer who's just beaten his opponent to a bloody pulp will often tell you that God was in his corner.
I think if an athlete continually seeks religious assistance and becomes famous in his chosen field that an asterisk should be placed next to his name in the record books.
*While Mathew Lukas never used steroids, he was always high on God.
I'm sure the Supreme Being has weightier matters on his or her mind than who wins a sporting event or the outcome of an election conducted by scheming bloodsuckers and moral cripples. I'm surprised that religion hasn't been exploited to increase voter turnout. For God's sake, vote! Or maybe something a bit more edgy. Vote, for Christ's sake!
Monday, May 19, 2008
Another bomb has been dropped. Sue Simmons, an NBC news anchor for the past 28 years, dropped it and blew the minds of millions of viewers when on-air she yelled at Chuck Scarborough – "What the fuck are you doing?"
Supposedly TV stations in New York have zero tolerance for flying vulgarities, and the gaffe could result in her dismissal.
What a hypocritical crock of shit! People in real life – and not just cabbies, construction workers, and sailors – toss the F word around constantly.
Expletive hurling on TV is certainly not limited to Sue. Let me drop a few names.
Diane Keaton used an expletive on "Good Morning America." (That should get their morning off to a good start.) Jane Fonda used an expletive in discussing the play, "The Vagina Monologues." (Frankly, I'm surprised she was allowed to say vagina.) Reporter Arthur Chi'en was fired by CBS after chucking an obscenity at a pair of hecklers while conducting a street interview. (I'm amazed that doesn't happen more often.)
So yeah, like shit, "F" bombs happen. But people shouldn't be losing their jobs over it. Hey, there's no problem digesting my evening meal when an "F" bomb is lobbed into my living room every blue moon or so.
But while watching nightly scenes of violence and devastation played over and over again on my Sony, I sometimes have to reach for my Tums.
You tell me which scenario is more obscene.
Friday, May 16, 2008
I'm beginning to think that Roger Clemens, who claims he doesn't give a rat's behind whether he gets into the Baseball Hall of Fame, should be injected with a freaking truth serum instead of all those damn drugs I'm sure he's taken, but swears on his honor he hasn't.
Clemens, a married man with 4 sons, has always presented himself as a pillar of rectitude, which makes his charade all the more ugly and somehow laughable.
Roger the Ridiculous has single-handedly changed his hero status into some wacko Texan whose up to his ass in drug charges, perjury, defamation suits, and underage sex with a hot country singer named Mindy McCready. (Mindy, by the way, doesn't refute the article that ran in the New York News stating that she had an affair with Roger while still a teenager.)
We all thought those performance-enhancing substances were all about throwing a baseball harder and for more innings. Apparently the "high hard one" is now subject to interpretation.
Piling on, a woman from North Carolina has fingered Clemens as the guy who was having a relationship with Mindy. "I was with her the night she met Roger," said Jennifer Ryan Sirbaugh, Mindy's ex-roommate and inseparable best friend. And the media is trying to sniff out even more affairs Clemens might have been involved in.
As if there weren't enough humiliations in Roger's life, Bob Watson -- the U.S. Olympic baseball team manager-- has publicly announced that Clemens would be a distraction and doesn't want him pitching on his squad this summer in Beijing.
Roger's defamation suit against ex-trainer, Brian McNamee is another absurdity he could do without. Clemens already has too many cans of worms on his plate. He doesn't need to open another one. Go play catch with your boys, Roger and try to shut the hell up. As singer Kenny Rogers used to say, "Ya gotta know when to fold 'em."