My Experimental Phase

On of my swell efriends has told me that I need to write stuff like this on my own blog.

In my defense, I don't really give advice. One, it's all I can do drag myself to work and home on a given day. If I have to go to the dry cleaners and the bank on the same day, it's like I've run a marathon. I'd have made a shitty pioneer.

Two, I don't really know anything about anything. Oh, I'm a wealth of useless information like bauxite was the major export of Jamaica and is used in the production of aluminum and Willie Hernandez won both the Cy Young and MVP Award in 1984 and the only song Elvis ever wrote was Viva Las Vegas. But for practical, fix my problem kind of advice, I'm pretty worthless.

Third, I don't consider myself wise. Sure, every now and then I have a flash of insight. But it never has any application. Stuff like: If fat and slim are opposites, why do fat chance and slim chance mean the same thing? Mildly amusing, yes. Insightful, no. Yes, I kind of understand how men think because I'm one of them. And I'm smart enough to know that there are certain things about women I'll never understand. But while I don't understand the fascination with shoes and sparkly jewelry, I do know how to use it to my advantage.

So when I read that someone was drunk enough to used eHarmony to wind up feeling rejected, it's time for an intervention. Just like friends don't let friends drink white zinfandel, I'm going to be part of the solution.

So it begins.....tomorrow bitches.

You Know You Want One

Please, come in. Sit down. Relax. Take a couple of deep breaths. Have a sip of a nice, cool, refreshing beverage.

Please try to remain calm. Don't panic. Because you're absolutely, positively going to go nuts over what you're about to see. No shoving, no yelling, no rude behavior in your rush to acquire one.

Yes, that's a Sock Monkey Dress.

Can you imagine anything nicer than a Cleavacious and a Sock Monkey Dress? I didn't think so.

You'll be the hit of the Holiday Party scene. Act now.

And the ultimate accessory? Banana Purse.

If Monkey Woman had this costume for her crime fighting, she'd still be on the show.

When you see Bjork at the next Grammy's wearing one of these, remember you saw it here first.

Have It Deloused First

In addition to, like, listening to her new album, Paris is also auctioning off her bed (including the mattress) and some other furniture. While it doesn't say so, my guess is that the bed has just finally given out. Those box springs can only take so much repetitive motion. And that's if you flip it every six months. What a shock to find out that Paris' bed is scuffed up.

I always thought if you wanted to get into Paris Hilton's bed you just needed to buy a bottle of vodka not the whole bed. So with a tip of the cap to Dave, here are the Top Ten Questions to Ask Before Buying Paris Hilton's bed.

10. Will it make my wife more whorey?
9. Is it really made out of space-age polymers developed by NASA?
8. Does it come with penicillin?
7. Is the "Please Take a Number" machine included?
6. Which famous slut's bed does Consumer Reports recommend buying?
5. Can it comfortably sleep five?
4. Does sleeping on this bed qualify me to be a Greek shipping heir?
3. Do I need the undercoating?
2. Can I just pay her to break in my current bed?
1. Why is T2ed carved in the headboard?

Oh, Paris. We kid because we care. Oh, that's right. We don't care about you. Nevermind.

Jesus Hates Techno Music

I have returned from Up North and lived to tell the tale. Luckily, I was able to get in all my golf rounds without getting a soaker. The line of the weekend was from one of the starters at a course stating, "It's a lovely October day." Too bad it was August. Thus, there was much driving around, eating well, and driving around some more.

We did manage to randomly drive through the Sausage Capital in Cedar, Michigan. Now that's a sign that makes the ladies sit up and take notice. At least the one riding with me sure did.

The Christians and their techno music did not fare so well. They were smote on two days with hard, driving rain. When I drove past the Open Space, there was no one there. Thus, I wasn't able to get any sweet Christian PJ's.

And in other works of Satan, does anyone else wonder if Mel Gibson paid that crank to confess to the Joan Benet murder? I'm just saying, look at what pushed Mad Mel off the front page. Is it crazy or is it genius crazy?

And congratulations, Ari. It's about time.

You consistently manage to steal the show every week. And in your own words, "I'm the only straight man to bring his mother two years in a row."

Now if only Turtle could be that funny.

With Apologies to Joyce Kilmer

As I sat in a worthless meeting yesterday (3.5 hours, no decisions made), I thought about the inventors of the best product ever. They've had the wisdom to link to me and can tell that my adoration is real. Thus, I am officially declaring myself the Poet Laureate of the Clevacious Adjustable Bra. I'm the Couplet Creator, the Prime Timer Rhymer, the Worse Verse of Reverse, the Prince Charming of No Harming , the King of Swing and All That Thing.

But I have a confession to make. I don't actually know anyone who wears a Cleavacious. Maybe I do and just don't know it. Or maybe they're just not wearing it in the "locked and upright position." So I'll have to confess that my experience with the Cleavacious is in that swell demo on their site. But that limited experience can best be summed up with the phrase "fantabulous."
So it is with that adoration in heart (if not in hand) that I offer the following:

I think that I shall never see
A thing as lovely as a B

Which swells and grows to a C

Or with luck impressive D

And appears quite ostentatious
When enhanced by a Cleavacious.

If worn down, look professional
If up and out, bypass the confessional

Decolletage will enhance
A lady's chance at romance

During the day, keep the girls in
But once the prowls of night begin

For all the men will no doubt shout
"Release them, let the girls come out."

Karey Weyenberg is the inventor
No other bra can make you contentor

So if you want to seem bodacious
And make the men become salacious

Let your bosom appear quite spacious
And get yourself a new Clevacious.

Feel free to submit your own ditties, limericks, couplets and declamations. Bonus points for bongo drum accompaniment.

Now I'm headed Up North for some hijinx and the Christian Electric Music Festival. Gotta get my Jesus Rock On, Party with the People, Dance with the Disciples and Proselytize with the Playas.

Everyone Get Right With the Lord

I don't want to say the end of days is upon us, but you explain this.

Paris Hilton says of her album, "I, like, cry, when I listen to it, it's so good."

If that's not the beginning of the end, I don't know what is.

Paris, like, so good doesn't begin to describe it. I cry when I hear your album too. But it's not just tears. It's stomach cramping, a feeling like knitting needles are being shoved in my ears, my hands tingle like they've gone to sleep and my testes shrink up into my body like I'm in the Polar Bear Club.

I can't, like, wait for Nicky Hilton's album.

Has She Been Bad?

I don't know why, but this lil hunk of goofiness is the first search result for this on Google.

I NEED PROFESSIONAL SPANKER FOR MY WIFE IN CARDIFF

Sorry, searcher. I'm strictly amateur. I don't want to lose my status for the Spanking Olympics. That's how they screwed Jim Thorpe.

I know the interweb it great for everything: maps, news, stupid stuff happening in Ohio. I did not put "obtaining professional spanking services" into the category of things improved by the interweb. Obviously, I stand corrected.

Please return to your appointed toil. By the way, does anyone have a hairbrush?

Splitsville

If Kate Hudson and Chris Robinson can't make it work, what chance do any of us have?

After six years of marriage and the release of one son, Hudson's publicist, Brad Cafarelli.
confirmed that Kate and Chris are separated.

While it's great to make your publicist take the heat when you make your announcement, Bad Brad really didn't offer any details for the split.

So I've got to make them up here. Feel free to play along at home kids.
Kate really is hard to handle now

• Chris' self-indulgent guitar solos
• Kate's steadfast refusal to shake her moneymaker
• Chris' insistence on spelling Crowes with the superfluous "e"
• Rich Robinson would not move out of basement
• Kate did not, in fact, talk to angels
• Chris saw Me, You & Dupree

No word on whether Kate and her new co-star Matthew McConaughey in the upcoming movie Fool's Gold are re-uniting in more ways that one. If so, I'll bet Chris will be jealous again.

When you strike comedy gold by pairing Kate and Matt in the critically acclaimed How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, it's easty to understand they'd go back to the well on that one.

It's Still All About the Girls or A School in Texas Did What?

Kids, I want to talk at you about an assault on our liberties as Americans. The Fascists are at our doorstep. Nay, they are already within our scholastic system. This is unbearable. As a citizen from the great country that gave you the Cleavacious, I won't stand for it. Brace yourselves.

The Arlington, Texas school district has banned cleavage. Okay, because they're dumb journalists they've got it wrong. The school district isn't actually banning cleavage. Rather, they are banning the display of cleavage. Girls can still have their cleavage, they just can't strap it up the girls with the Cleavacious to display to full advantage.

Pacifically, the new school's dress code states: “The display of cleavage is unacceptable. Low cut blouses, tops, sweaters, etc. with plunging necklines are not allowed."

Imprimus, the display of cleavage is not only acceptable, it's recommended, advocated and probably should be mandated.

Secondus, just because a neckline is low cut doesn't mean the cleavage is still not fully on display. Doesn't anyone remember the tight sweaters of the the 50's? Did everyone forget Mamie Van Doren for crying out loud? Did we learn nothing from Footloose?

Third, does this edict cover toe cleavage as well?

Fourth, didn't Texas also bring us the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders? And now a school has the gall to try to ban cleavage. One could argue, Texas brought cleavage to the masses. And because the Dallas Cowboys were once America's Team, one could argue that cleavage is as American as hot dogs, football and apple pie. Well, I for one, am not going to sit here and let Arlington Superintendent Mac Bernd bad mouth the United States of America.

Fifth, who is going to be on Cleavage Patrol to enforce this policy? I'm sure the male teachers (and maybe some of the female gym teachers) will be falling all over themselves to conduct inspections.

I call upon all of us cleavage embracing Americans to stand up for our rights and write a sternly worded email directly to Mr. Bernd. His email address is mbernd@aisd.net. Ain't the interweb grand, kids?

As further evidence of the silliness of this ban on cleavage, I submit the following. Arlington District Spokesperson Veronica Sopher (vsopher@aisd.net) claims encouraging messages have come from as far away as Utah in support of the ban. Anything that someone from Utah is in support of is definitely a bad idea. Utah isn't that far from Texas, Sophie. Check the map, you flack.

I'll be sure to post my stern letter to Mr. Bernd. Make sure you do the same, kids.

I regret that I have no cleavage to give for my country. I have not yet begun to ridicule. When cleavage is outlawed, only outlaws will have cleavage. God bless cleavage and America.

Go See This Guy

I forgot to mention that last week Wife and I went to see a show.

This guy has it going on. And his band Silvertone (who he's been with for 20 years) does too.

Now I'm not crazy about the slow stuff. I like good old rock and roll. You know, the kind none of the bands play anymore: hammerin' surf guitars, a bit of wah wah organ and straight-ahead drumming. But Chris does more than a little rock and rollin'.

He did a cover of "I Want You to Want Me" that had me thinking I was at Budokan. And he did Roy Orbison's Only the Lonely." Unlike most singers, Chris actually has the range to pull it off.

He also absolutely rocked on "Baby Did a Bad Bad Thing." This included an introductory story about the bass player that confirmed Rollie is a bad, bad man.

The entire show was fun, witty, engaging and rockin'. He's a star who doesn't know he's a star.

Oh, and he brought girls up on stage to dance. And when they couldn't dance, he mocked them.
Yes, he is my hero.

But I don't know Anson wasn't playing keyboard...

Up, Up and a Gay

I have a guilty little secret. I can't contain it anymore. Writing about it here will make me a better bear in pants.

I love, absolutely love the new show Who Wants to Be a Superhero? That's their name for it. I call it Who Wants to Look Like An Ass on Basic Cable. I may actually have to recap this show. It's that good/bad.

I've only seen one episode. But due to the power of TIVO and the gaping void that is original programming, I'm going to see them all.

I'm not going to belabor you with characterizations or plot or analysis. That would be actual good writing. And we all know that doesn't happen here.

So I'm just going to give you a swell link to the show and list the names of the morons characters and let you make your own decision: Ty'Veculus, Lemuria, Cell Phone Girl, Nitro G, Feedback, Levity, Monkey Woman, The Iron Enforcer, Major Victory, Creature, Fat Momma.

Yes, they are dressed up as superhero types. There is spandex. There are capes. No, they are not people who should be in these types of outfits and accessories.

Now in the first show, they took the cast and had them in their street or non-superhero clothing. They were supposed to change into their outfits, then run across a plaza. Folks were told they were being timed so they had to go fast. No mention of whether use of super speed was allowed.

But the best part of this whole silly exercise is that the show put a crying little girl in the middle of the plaza. She was supposed to be lost and was crying for her mother. You can imagine how tremendous this little girl was. She was no Dakota Fanning but was really laying it on. And it was great to see most of the "heroes" zip right past her.

Major Victory did not. He is a former male dancer (although he now claims to be a disc jockey) and actually did some dance moves en route to his rescue. At least there was no pelvic thrusting. But you know it's only a matter of time. In an hilarious moment, he actually picked the little girl up in his arms and carried her to the Security Office. Now that's someone who's read a few comic books.

I think they had 11 contestants and 6 just ignored her. Awesomely bad. And they eventually kick someone off. Don't ask who it was. I was laughing too much to pay attention.

Line of the Show: "Don't worry, Big Momma is here."
-- Big Momma to the "lost" little girl.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Hey, kids! Guess what time it is? That's right! It's time for the Ohio State Fair! This isn't some crummy little country fair. Yeah, I'm talking to you, Medina. What of it?

Not only can you wander around Columbus in the godawful heat and stupidity, but you can also demonstrate America's vast superiority to the rest of the world in Food on a Stick Technology.

But the real reason everyone goes to the fair is simple. It's not the shows like Masters of the Chainsaw (Aug. 4th @ 7:oo pm). It's not the rides like the Tilt-a-Hurl or the Giant Slide. It's not the swell concerts like Rick Springfield (Aug. 5th), REO Speedwagon (Aug. 6th), Kenny Rogers and the Oak Ridge Boys (Aug. 8th) or Bo Bice (Aug. 12th). How can any reasonable person be expected to choose between the musical stylings of The Gambler and the magic that is the power balled "I Can't Fight This Feeling."

No, that's not why people go to the Ohio State fair. It's for the sculptures made of butter.

Admit it. You've never seen butter artistry like that before. Look at the lifelike veins on that cow's udder. You know you want to put one of those rich buttery teats in your mouth and let the goodness melt away. Even better if you brought lobster.

But I have a secret for you. I hope it doesn't spoil your appreciation for the butter medium.

That butter isn't even from Ohio!

Now I'm sure you love rich creamy art as much as I do. So of course you know that true butter art is only done with salt free butter. The only butter producer in Ohio is Land o' Lakes in Kent. And they don't make salf free butter in Ohio! I'll type that again for you. They don't make unsalted butter.

Yup, they're tricking the rubes with imported butter. That's a big, fat, 2000 pound steaming pile of buttery lies.

No wonder the Ohioans are crazy. When you can't even trust your butter sculpture, who can you trust?

They're probably serving Soylent Green on the midway too. On a stick of course.

Random Musings

As I'm recovering from my sojourn to the South, I still am unable to focus my thoughts. Images buzz through my brain, but I'm having trouble carving out coherency.

Thus, I can only offer up these meager musings of half completed ideas for posts. Mea maxima culpa.

• Did they call the Pam Anderson Kid Rock wedding which took place on a boat "The Hepatitis Sea Cruise?
• I'll bet Mel Gibson is very, very sorry...that he got caught.
• Castro really isn't sick. He's on vacation in Disneyworld. He's going to be pissed when he finds out there's no Cuba at Epcot. He will enjoy the fireworks though.
• It's so hot, Star Jones called Barbara Walters just to get a cold shoulder. Yes, I completely stole that one from Dave.
• If it's not Halloween, it's probably not a good idea to dress up as a pirate.
• I know JK Rowling will miss Harry, but I'll bet she'll miss the checks even more.
• If Heath Ledger is playing the Joker, don't let Robin go camping with him.

That's it. I got nothing.

The Horror, The Horror

Due to the capricious nature of the interweb and Blogger, I won't be posting my swell pre-story from last Friday about me going to Ohio. Instead, you only get this lame recap. Probably with some swell photo goodness after I finally find my digital cam in the luggage. If you do manage to find a stray post from me somewhere, please send him home. No difficult questions about why there were no calls and who was he with and why couldn't I meet these new friends will be asked.

But yes, I headed down the delta into the crazy that is Ohio. I willingly ventured (alone I might add) into Crazy Land to meet up with the rest of my exploratory golfing expedition.

Obviously, since I'm posting this now, I survived. But while my body may be intact, the madness has descended upon me. No man enters the Heart of Darkness and walks away unchanged by the experience.

I think I know part of the reason they are crazy. It's the weather. In the Great Grey North, we don't have the kind of heat and stupidity they tolerate in Ohio. Sure, we can get in the 90's but it'll be for a day or two. We just cope by staying inside. In Ohio, they embrace it. They'll willingly go out in the 90 degree and 90% humidity.

As soon as I exited the air conditioned goodness of my fly hoopdie, I could feel the sweat and despair and moisture embrace me like an dead lover. My shirt was immediately plastered to my body and I could feel a line of sweat break out on my back and begin to run down into my shorts. This gave me an immediate case of swamp ass. A big hunk of sugar like me just melts in weather like that.

My only defense was to try to play golf as early as possible and get off the course by 10:00 am. A normal round of golf will take 4 hours. I made it a forced march to escape the weather in just under three hours. Then I'd sit in the swelter of my Aunt's apartment. Because she's a million years old, she likes it hotbox hot. I felt like I'd gotten my dirt in Boss's yard. After about 12 minutes of the indoor heat (coupled with discussions of old people I didn't know), I ran screaming from the hellishness. I went back to my hotel pool, left an oil slick and slinked around the edges like some crazed, demonic, albino alligator. I'd raise my head just enough to have a sip of a cool refreshing beverage then slowly slide back into the cool embrace of the water. At night, I emerged to feed. Yes, just a few short hours in Ohio and I have reverted to my most primal instincts: water and food.

My favorite example of the contrariness that is Ohio came on the course, of course. The establishment we played at would only sell 3 beers at a time. Thus, if you wanted to procure enough refreshments to last for 9 holes for a foursome, you had to bring reinforcements and thus, slow down play.

Luckily, directly across the street you could visit the drive through liquor store. Don't even get out of your car to purchase as much beer as you want. Hmmm, what type of behavior might this encourage? No one seemed to resent my elegantly logical solution of taking a golf cart through the drive through.

After two days, I feared for my sanity. I'd eaten dinner at 5:00. Pretended to care about the scarves my cousin was knitting. I could feel the madness clutching at my mind. I itched all over.

Under cover of darkness, I sped away into the farmland of Ohio and made my escape. The meandering road meant nothing as I raced through each town that was a mirror image of each other. Lodi, Greenwhich, Willard, Norwalk, Bellevue, Monroeville, Clyde, Fremont, Woodville, and finally, at long last, Toledo and escape to the North.

I rocked back and forth in a fetal position later that night, repeating over and over, "Fourty, Fourty-One, Fourty, Fourty-One, Fourty, Fourty-One." Yes, I did battle with the only weapons at hand--my diminished wits and my trusty clubs. At least I played well. Like some idiot savant who grasped to the liferaft of sanity that is golf, I could still play amongst the madness that is Ohio.

And I didn't even get a Swenson's dammit. Maybe next year.