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.



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.



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!



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.



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."



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.



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!