The apparel oft proclaims the man...

The recent death of Chilean dictator Augusto Pinochet brought to mind something I had occasionally wondered about. I’m referring to the connection between many despots and really gaudy uniforms.


Yes, I know that these men like to constantly remind their citizens just who is in charge and of course they want to look as imposing as possible while doing so, but come on! Look at that uniform…if hell has a doorman, I’m sure he’s dressed just like that, and what is with the sash? Other that beauty pageant contestants what sane person wears a sash? Oh, that’s right…we’re talking about dictators here and sanity never was their strongest point.

Anyway, despite his valiant effort at sartorial pomposity Pinochet can’t hold a candle to the man that I think is the most absurdly dressed dictator of our time (although Idi Amin did give him a run for his money) Muammar al-Gaddafi, the leader of Libya.


Just take a moment to let the full impact of that uniform take hold. Hey look, there’s another sash and I’m positive that at least one of those two circular items pinned to it is a sprocket from a ten-speed bicycle. Not to mention, that scattered among the six pounds of unearned military medals he’s wearing there are at least three women’s brooches.

I’m guessing that they ran out of medals to “honor” Gaddafi with years ago, so now his underlings just run out to the nearest flea market to see what’s available. His heavily embroidered collar looks stiff enough to cut his throat…sadly it has yet to do so. Overall, I think if the “Good Humor” man had ever taken over a country this is how he would have looked.

I suppose the most glaring exception to this trend among dictators is of course Fidel Castro, with his simple, if somewhat drab style of dress. My personal theory is that the money other dictators would have spent on clothing, Fidel spent on cigars and special shampoos for his beard…viva la revolución!

Back in the saddle again...sort of.

What the hell happened here? I go away for a while and come back to find the comment section of my last post buried with spam. Listen spammers, believe me when I tell you that unless you’re sharing a cave with Osama Bin Laden, you can probably reach more people just by sticking your head out of your window and shouting at passersby, than you can reach by posting here.

Oh, and special thanks to Diesel and Jenna for stopping by and looking after the place while I was gone.

Anyway, unlike a lot of other blogs this here wordfest was never updated on a daily basis (more like every three or four days) but for the foreseeable future I will be inflicting my thoughts on the blogosphere only on a weekly (I hope) basis. So, to kind of get back into the swing of things, let’s look at the search engine queries that brought a few lost souls to this blog while I was away…

Casanova nude photo: given Casanova’s reputation I guess it’s not entirely unreasonable to wonder what he looked like without any clothes on, but that someone thought that there might be an actual photograph of the 18th century playboy is a little disturbing.

Donald Trump well endowed: you know, I’d bet my last dollar that it was Donald himself who googled that.

Three trannies at the pole: this either has something to do with an overcrowded transgender strip joint or it’s the title of the strangest Christmas movie ever made.

Gallstone humor: ‘cause if you can’t laugh at a painful medical condition, what can you laugh at?

Does Elton John wear a toupee: that’s a rhetorical question, right?

Bare assed schoolgirls: what do you want to bet that one was typed in with one hand?

How to treat a hunchback: why with kindness of course…hey, why not take him to see those tranny strippers.

Tidy bowl man captain: well, it’s been ages since I’ve actually seen the Tidy bowl man in any commercials, but I thought he’d be admiral by now…the lazy bastard!

Let's get highbrow...

I believe it’s time once again to try to raise the tone of this rather plebian blog. So, with the help of some research provided to me by my good friend the eminent scholar Monty Dingham Smythington, we’ll be taking a look at ancient Greek mythology. However, instead Zeus, Apollo and all the other well known gods and goddesses, we will focus on some of the lesser-known deities…


Epillitus: the goddess of body hair…no well-groomed ancient would shave without first asking her to bless their razor.

Bocephus: the god of moonshine…as well as temporary blindness

Curdellenia: a demigoddess responsible for the creation of all semi-soft cheeses…her father was Zeus and her mother was an exceptionally attractive and lactiferous cow.

Viagratinius: the god of rigidity…a minor deity worshiped by a secretive cult whose members were all older men.

Crabbathemia: a woodland nymph said to inhabit the nether regions of the great god Pan…no matter how many lotions he used to get rid of them.

The Poliplopous: a creature with the head of a sheep and the body of a goat. Considered by almost all scholars to be the least intimidating, not to mention least imaginative, monster in all of mythology.

The Columnorians: a race of giants with very spindly legs and tiny feet. Though good natured, their tendency to topple over made them a menace to ancient civilizations and some believe it was one or more of these unfortunate beings that sank Atlantis.


I don’t know about you, but I feel intellectually invigorated…or it might just be a head cold. Anyway, I’m going to be away from this here blog for a while, but I hope to be back in a month or two. So, thanks to everyone who has stopped by.

TDB

Thanksgiving?

I must confess that Thanksgiving is my least favorite holiday. I told this to my grand-pappy, right before he was sent away to the Sunny Meadows Home for the Criminally Incontinent, and he said, “ It ain’t your fault boy…you come from a long line of ungrateful bastards.”

Having been taught never to argue with my elders (unless you were sure they were unarmed) I just nodded my head. Anyway, I knew he was probably right, because old grand-pappy was as wise as his pants were wet.

Still, I’d thought that this year I’d look inwards and see if there wasn’t at least a little gratitude in me somewhere. So here is my list of things that I’m thankful for…

The fact that Geraldo Rivera doesn’t have a twin.

That I’m not a proctologist…my view of the world is dim enough, thank you.

The VCR and especially the fast-forward button…I don’t think I could watch TV without it.

Distant relatives…very distant.

That I’m not burdened by incredible good looks or awe-inspiring talent…really, I mean, who wants that right? Certainly not me, so… thanks to whatever cosmic force or coincidental set of circumstances responsible for averting that tragedy.

Well, that’s not much of a list is it? I guess my dear old grand-pappy was right after all…bless his moist memory.

Everybody must get stoned...

Often, when I think people are difficult to understand, I’ll hear or read about something that makes me realize that they’re not…they are in fact… impossible to understand.

Take for example, the story of several large 400 million-year old boulders that were recently dug up during a sewer upgrade some where in Brooklyn, New York. So, we’re basically talking about some very big, very old rocks, of no real interest to anyone other than geologists or some other scientific types…right?

Wrong, because no sooner than the city had moved the rocks to other parts of the city (presumably to get them out of the way) than some of the residents in the neighborhood started complaining. Here are a few actual quotes:

“The big one, the first one, should stay here with us.”

“It belongs to us, they pulled it out of our street.”

“What are we, chopped liver? They should stay in their hometown.”

“It wouldn’t bother me as much, if they had a plaque saying they came from Vanderbilt Ave. in Brooklyn.”

A plaque…someone wants a plaque to commemorate the day a few large rocks were dug up from the ground. Yes, I can see why you wouldn’t want that kind of knowledge to be lost to future generations. Any place else you’d like to put a plaque? How about that corner where you once found five dollars…or that alley you once took a whiz in because you didn’t think you could make it back to your apartment?

If this is how these people reacted to a few ancient boulders, I’m just glad that no gold was discovered or there would have been bloodshed for sure.

Anyway, despite the efforts of those passionate rock lovers, the boulders are gone. When asked about it, the president of the borough, in the grand old tradition of spineless politicians everywhere had this to say: “It’s flattering to know that everybody wants a piece of Brooklyn.”

For some reason, I just can’t help picturing him giggling like a schoolgirl as he said it.

The happiest place on earth

I don’t know if you’ve heard about this, but recently there was an incident over at Disney France. A group of employees were videotaped simulating sex acts while in costume. The Disney Company, to say the least, was not happy about this but I think they’re being shortsighted here.

There’s a market that’s not being tapped into, namely “adult” films featuring well-known Disney characters. This could be a gold mine people! Just think about it, the selling power that comes with the instant recognition of the Disney name, combined with the forbidden allure of hardcore pornography.

The possibilities are endless:

Mickey shows that he really is the “biggest” star at Disney when he and Minnie set the screen on fire in “Maestro of the Mouse Hole”.

Donald and Daisy Duck head off for a swinging couples weekend where they show the world just how passionate poultry can be in “Pluck me…pluck me now!”

Aladdin is back and this time he won’t just be rubbing his “lamp” in “Camel Humpers of the Casbah”.

The Little Mermaid does her patriotic best to keep up the morale of the US Navy in “All the Young Seamen”.

You read the “The Jungle Book” now feel the “ the jungle love” in “The Bare-assed Necessities”.

After running into each other at Lilith Fair, Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty and Snow White realize that they don’t need any princes at all in the Sapphic adventure story “For Ladies Only”.

Chip ‘n Dale will teach you to love your inner chipmunk…and then whip the hell out of it in the bondage classic “Beat Me Like You Mean It”.

Even Mickey’s pet gets into the action when the ASPCA locks him up and he learns that a bitch isn’t always a female dog in “Pounding Pluto”.


If those don’t convince those prudes running things at Disney these days I don’t know what will.

It's gettin' hot in here...

I don’t want to alarm anyone, but as I sit typing these very words the heat in the room is turned off, the window is partially opened and I’m wearing just a tee shirt. (Yes, I’m also wearing pants…can you try to keep your minds out of the gutter for just ten seconds)

Even more astonishing, as I walked to the store the other day my coat was open and my usual cold weather gear, scarf, gloves etc, were no where to be seen. All this despite being in the northeastern part of the US, well into November. “So what” I hear you say. “It’s just unseasonably warm, there’s nothing alarming about it.”

That might be true enough if you were talking to normal person, but what you don’t know about me is that I am the biggest cold weather wimp the world has ever known. At the end of each autumn I start praying to every major deity to grant me the ability to hibernate. I own more long underwear than the first three expeditions to the North Pole combined and I’m fairly sure that I have the circulatory system of a ninety-year old man. The mere mention of single digit temperatures causes me to break out in a rash and I’ve been rushed to the hospital several times after overdosing on hot cocoa.

So, what could be the reason for old man winter’s apparent feebleness this late in the year? I suppose that I could have some sort of rare, mysterious and possibly fatal disease that’s slowly raising my body temperature, until eventually steam will come whistling out of my nostrils, right before my head explodes…but I prefer to think that it’s global warming. Sure, that would mean the oceans will rise and much of the world’s coastlines will be submerged, but at least my head will be intact.

Look, I don’t pretend to be a scientist…well, there was that one time I tried to score a government grant to study the mating habits of women who work at Hooters, but my lawyers have advised me not to talk about that. All I’m saying is, you might want to consider investing in a company that manufactures air conditioners. In the meantime, I will keep monitoring the climate and checking my nostrils for any sign of steam…just in case.

You gotta be kidding me...

Speaking as someone whose blog consists mainly of weird stuff that I make up, it’s always a little disconcerting whenever reality decides to remind me that when it comes to weirdness, it does just fine on it’s own. Take for example these CD’s available from the Collectors Choice Music Catalog:


First up is a three-disc box set of recordings by Tiny Tim. For those too young to remember, Tiny Tim was a performer of sorts, who would strum a ukulele while singing old songs in a voice that sounded something like a castrato on helium.

Don’ t get me wrong, I liked Tiny Tim as a character and I enjoy a little musical weirdness as much as the next guy (providing the next guy isn’t someone who can’t wait to by this item) but a little Tiny Tim goes a long way.


This next item is called “My Rifle, My Pony and Me”, and although that might have made a great title for a children’s book from the NRA, it’s a terrible name for a CD…even if it is just a collection of western movie and TV soundtracks.

The dubious musical value of this disc doesn’t end there because along with a few legitimate country stars like Johnny Cash, this CD also features songs by actors like Jimmy Stewart and Kirk Douglas. My biggest fear is that some Broadway producer will come across this and turn it into a musical starring Donny Osmond.


Here we have the Nana Mouskouri Collection. Now unlike Tiny Tim, I’m not familiar with this singer’s work, although I’m sure it’s fine (just in case there are any Mouskouri fanatics out there). No, the oddity in this selection has to do with numbers. As in the number of CD’s in the set: 34…and the number of songs: 673…and finally, the number of dollars this thing cost: $ 474!

673 songs? She must have started recording ten minutes after Edison invented the phonograph. Who the hell has the time to plow through that much material…retired people…inmates serving life sentences? As for the price, I guess it could be worse. I’m pretty sure this set would cost even more if they were charging by the pound.



And last but not least is a CD of holiday music entitled “Christmas with the Rat Pack”. As the catalog says “Ring-a-ding-ding in the holidays with Frank, Dean n’ Sammy”. Yeah…cause nothing says Christmas quite like booze, cigarettes and hookers on the Vegas Strip.

To put it another way...

The subject of death came up in a conversation I was having with someone…it might have been myself. Sometimes I forget to take my medication.

Anyway, for many people talking about death is never easy. Which is why people often resort to euphemisms like “passed away” or “gone to meet their maker” or the less reverent but more colorful “kicked the bucket.”

There are others but the problem is they’re all too general and we live in an age of specialization. So here’s a list of new euphemisms for death and the groups they’re intended for…

Environmentalists:

“Being recycled”

“Shacking up with Mother Nature”


Sports fans:

“Racing in the pine box derby”

“Ejected from the game”


The hopelessly politically correct:

“Living impaired”

“Existentially challenged”


Computer geeks:

“Uploaded” (if you liked them) or “downloaded” (if you didn’t)

“Deleted from life’s hard drive”


Politicians:

“Stuffing the final ballot box”

“Joined a grass roots movement”


Musicians:

“On tour with the Lord”

“Collecting cosmic royalties, man”


Young people in particular have a hard time understanding this difficult concept, so for them I’ve come up these…


“Hangin’ with the Reaper”

“Permanent detention”

“Doing the Bone Yard Bop”

“Chillin’ in da Crypt”


So any help getting these in to common usage would be appreciated. If I could only see it happen before I have my “appointment with the heavenly therapist”, I’d be a happy man.

Have your head examined...

Are you skeptical of modern day psychiatric methods? Is it your considered opinion that Sigmund Freud was a cigar sucking, misogynistic coke fiend? If so, why don’t you join me in my crusade to bring back the once respected but now discredited pseudoscience of phrenology.

Phrenology was an early attempt to assign particular personality traits to specific regions of the brain. I’ve heard that it also had something to do with feeling the bumps on people’s heads, but that might have just been a fetish of whoever invented phrenology.

Anyway, to kick-start this revival I went to see Dr. Leopold Von Nubbin, one of the few practicing phrenologists in the world. I was given an exam and if you click on the image below you can get a closer look at the results:



Well…it turns out my brain isn’t quite what I hoped it would be, but don’t let that discourage you. I’m sure your results will be much better.

Trick or treat...

Halloween is my favorite holiday. No forced Christmas “goodwill”, no desperate New Year’s “revelry”, just reminders of our mortality and greedy children as far as the eye can see. So, to honor the day, I offer a glimpse into one of my prize possessions. Here are some excerpts from the diary of Dr.Frankenstein’s lab assistant, the one and only…Igor!


March 10, 1798
Dear diary,
The master is in one of his moods today, going on and on about how hard it is to find good help these days.
Just because the brain I stole for the creature he’s making turned out to have been taken from a homicidal maniac. I swear, sometimes there’s just no pleasing that man. Not to mention he still hasn’t fixed the hump on my back like he promised…although he did do a great job of liposuctioning my thighs.


March 28, 1798
Dear diary,
Things continue to go badly for the master. For weeks he’s been trying to reanimate his creature with no success. The electricity bill is going to be enormous and I think his new bride is already proving very “popular” with many of the master’s male servants…if you know what I mean.


April 12, 1798
Dear diary,
Finally, the creature that the master stitched together from several dead bodies has sprung to life! On the downside, it has killed quite a few people, including the master’s young bride. Oh, it seems that the homicidal maniac, whose brain is now in the creature, was also a homosexual. Not that there’s anything wrong with that…except that it may be a few days before the master can sit comfortably again.


April 26, 1798
Dear diary,
Well, it looks like I’m unemployed. Last night an angry mob of villagers armed with torches and pitchforks burned down the castle with the creature still inside of it. It’s too bad really…he had done such a lovely job of redecorating it.

The master has gone off to Vienna to try to forget. As for me, there’s a humpback convention in Munich and who knows…with any luck maybe I’ll find a “Mrs. Igor”. Wish me luck dear diary!

Progress marches on...

There was good news in the world of medicine recently when government scientists announced that they have created a vaccine against a virus that may have killed as many as one hundred million people.

The bad news is that they’re talking about the Spanish flu virus of 1918 and there’s no expectation that it will resurface, but hey…better late than never. So with that admirable philosophy in mind, here a few other things that scientists are busy working on:


Saber tooth tiger repellant

Off road chariots

Flame retardant paint for the Hindenburg

Disposable togas

A prosthetic ear for Vincent Van Gogh

Indestructible phonograph needles

Pyramid polish

Genetically engineered horses to speed up the Pony Express


And last but not least, remote controlled drawbridges…you know, for those occasions when your castle is under siege.

The Blame Game...

Having recently posted something about Madonna’s little adoption adventure, I didn’t expect to be writing about her again so soon. However, I heard something that I just couldn’t let pass with out comment.

It seems that a teary eyed Madonna told the “Mighty and Beloved Oprah” (I think that’s her official title now) that she was surprised by the backlash caused by her recent adoption of a child from the country of Malawi and get this…she blames the MEDIA!

That loud sound you may have heard was the cosmic irony meter exploding. Now, blaming the media is a favorite pastime of television and radio pundits everywhere, but when Madonna (a woman who craves the spotlight the way zombies crave brains) does so, you have to take notice.

So I called her people and they very kindly informed me that the media is also responsible for: Madonna’s failure as an actress…suppressing the knowledge that the kabbalah is the one true faith…the death of vaudeville…black holes…Elton John’s awful hair piece…the Ebola virus…anal warts…obesity in America…global warming and finally…the sinking of the Lusitania.

Appalling, simply appalling…I urge that this “media” be rounded up and tried for crimes against humanity and sentenced to repeated screenings of Swept Away. That ought to teach them

Sticks and stones...

My hatred for politics in general and politicians in particular gets worse all the time. In fact, it’s nearing psychopathic proportions…an unfortunate state of mind perhaps, but then again the motto of this blog is “random as I wanna be” not “rational as I oughta be”.

Be that as it may, the unkind remarks made recently by Republican candidate John Spencer regarding the appearance of his opponent Hillary Clinton, have awakened an ancient, chivalric impulse deep within me and with it an urge to ride to the aid of a damsel in distress. Ok, that’s a lie…I’m no more a chivalric knight than Hillary is a helpless damsel. The truth is that someone has started in with some old fashion name-calling and I want in on it…there, are you satisfied now?

So without further ado, here is a list of insults Hillary can use if she decides to return fire:

“My opponent John Spencer…”

Has the muscular development of an anemic Girl Scout.

Won’t wear shorts because the varicose veins on one of his legs form the numeral 666.

Dyes his pubic hair magenta.

Has the most pockmarked face of anyone who hasn’t been out hunting with Dick Cheney.

Claims that’s his “real” hair, but it’s actually a toupee made in a Filipino sweatshop filled with eight-year olds.

Always smells like a mixture of Ben Gay and Preparation H.

Has testicles the size of Tic Tacs.

Wears false teeth made from the ivory of endangered elephants.

Has a nose big enough for Osama Bin Laden to hide in. Someone should probably look inside there…just in case.

Is rumored to have multiple body piercings “below the belt”…if you catch my drift.


By the way Hillary, should you decide not to exchange insults in public with Spencer, please feel free to use them against Bill the next time you two argue…I’m sure at least a couple of them must be applicable.

Spies like us...

Have you seen the television commercial for the CIA? I don’t know about anyone else but I can’t remember ever seeing advertisements of any kind for CIA recruitment. I wonder if it’s due to the beating that its image has taken recently?

Anyway, I thought the commercial was a little dull. We’re not talking about working at McDonald's here, this is espionage…cloak and dagger stuff. You need to appeal to people’s inner James Bond, so I’m taking this opportunity to show them how it should have been done…

Have you ever wanted to topple a foreign government or assassinate a rogue dictator? Do you find yourself fighting the urge to secretly video tape your friends and family? Does the thought of breaking international law and then denying all knowledge of it turn you on? Think you could run a secret prison?

Well, as part of the CIA, you’ll be able to do all those things and more all in the name of national security. The best part is, as a clandestine organization, we never really have to answer to anyone! Hell, some of the stuff that we’re doing is so hush-hush, that even we don’t know what’s going on.

If you’d like one of our brochures, call the number at the bottom of your screen… let it ring twice and then hang up…we’ll get one out to you right away. If you act now we’ll throw in this official CIA fleece jacket for free. Well, actually it was paid for with your tax dollars, but it’s a real nice jacket…so call today!

Not just another pretty face...

I readily admit that I have never given much thought to what (if anything) goes on in the mind of a supermodel…hard to believe I know, but it’s true. So it was with some amusement that I read in a newspaper that Claudia Schiffer thinks that the current crop of fashion models is too thin.

Now, Claudia herself (according to the paper) is 5-feet-ll and 128 pounds. I’m going to take a shot in the dark and guess that she doesn’t see the irony here.

She seems unaware that to an American woman of average height and weight, she herself is still impossibly thin. Perhaps since she’s had a couple of kids, she sees herself as just another typical "hausfrau". A point she tries to illustrate with the following comment, “I eat chocolate almost every day and drink milk, so that I don't lose any more [weight]”.

Way to go Claudia, that’ll endear you to Jane Q. Public. Anyway, I’m off to see if I can find Christina Aguilera and ask her if she thinks that today’s pop stars are too skanky.

An open letter to Angelina Jolie...

Dear Angelina,

Oh no, she didn’t!

So, Madonna is trying to move in on your international baby adoption racket. Are you going to take that? Are you going to let that kabbalah loving, awful movie making, relic from the 1980’s get away with it?

The ball is in your court...the stakes have been raised... a challenged has been issued...the gauntlet has been thrown down…well, I’ve run out of clichés . The point is, if you wish to retain your position as Hollywood’s preeminent orphan baby abductor…er, I mean adopter, then you must move quickly.

If I may be so bold as to offer some advice, I think the time has come to scale up your entire baby adoption program. No more of this one kid at a time stuff, on your next trip to…where ever the hell it is you’re going to next, adopt an entire orphanage.

I know it sounds expensive, but don’t worry about the cost, just pout those flesh colored airbags you call your lips and they’ll probably give you a group rate. Not to mention, if you reconcile with your dad, you’ll have an instant baby sitter…just don’t ask him to remember their names.

Then just sit back and watch Madonna’s head explode as she tries to figure out how to top that.

Sincerely yours,
TDB

The Devil's IQ...

Despite having less inclination towards spiritual matters than your average living room sofa, there is something I’ve often wondered about Satan worshipers.

Namely, have they ever been concerned that their chosen deity might be…well…special? I mean, “short yellow school bus special” if you catch my drift.

The reason I ask is because as I’ve heard the story told, Satan was an angel in heaven who rebelled and was cast into hell. Now, the trouble I have with that scenario is imagining anyone of sound mind looking over at the being that has created every thing in the universe, is all knowing, all powerful and saying “Yeah, I think I can take him.”

I mean, there would have to be something wrong with you right? Exactly what part of ‘all powerful’ did this celestial retard not understand? Just imagine the most lopsided fight you can think of…Gary Coleman versus Hulk Hogan, Mike Tyson versus Dakota Fanning …whatever. This would have been a billion times worse.

Furthermore, even after the entirely predictable result of getting his ass kicked, Lucifer (Latin for ‘dim bulb’) is said to be waging war against his creator to this very day. With that kind of flawed decision-making, you have to at least consider the possibility of brain damage, don’t you?

To any Satan worshipers who feel offended, remember now this is just a little metaphysical speculation on my part, so don’t get your robes all in a twist and start threatening me with your hexes and whatnot. I support your right to worship any mentally challenged deity you choose and anyway, don’t you have a short yellow school bus to catch?

Seek and ye shall find: The sequel...

It is time once again to take a brief look at some of the search engine queries that have led a few intrepid explorers from the furthest reaches of cyberspace to this desolate planetoid of a blog…


Retirement nudist: probably just someone looking for a wrinkle friendly environment in which to spend their golden years.

Anne Heche alien abduction: Hey Anne, you remember when you had that little psychotic “episode” and thought you’d been abducted by aliens? Ah, good times…good times.

Deepthroat techniques: this one has actually come up so often that I think someone should open up a school dedicated to teaching it. I’m thinking of Madonna for Head Mistress.

Preparation H sniffing: this query raises the question is the sniffing to take place before the famed hemorrhoid cream is applied or after…sadly, we may never know.

Buy lederhosen for dachshunds: I’m guessing that those are something you can’t just buy off the rack…you've got to get them custom made. Anyway, the very idea of a dachshund in lederhosen is both disturbing and comical…it’s distomical!

Skinny dipping Yellowstone: Yeah, just don’t do it in Old Faithful. I wonder if this person would like to meet ‘retirement nudist’? At the very least they share an interest in public nudity.

What Hugh Hefner eats: you don’t need me for this one, just insert your own oral sex joke here.

Eliminating the smell of mothballs: I can only assume that they are talking about the commercially available product for protecting clothing and not the tiny testicles of actual moths…but I could be wrong.

Just wrap your lips around this Mademoiselle...

I must admit that I was flabbergasted to learn recently that many people credit the diminutive, French 19th century painter Toulouse Lautrec with inventing chocolate mousse, though he himself called it “chocolate mayonnaise”.

I don’t know about anyone else, but I’ll never be able to look at chocolate mousse in the same way, knowing that it was created by the most decadent painter, in the most decadent city, during the most decadent part of the 19th century.

You just know that he was using his “chocolate mayonnaise” to seduce the hookers hanging around the Moulin Rouge into giving him freebies. God only knows what he did with it when he got them over to his place.

It’s just like my great-grandfather Seamus MacFergle used to say, “ Aye, beware the wee perverts bearing creamy deserts”.


*Editor’s note: Here with a brief rebuttal is the president of the Toulouse Lautrec Admiration Society, Pierre La Blangue…

“We at the TLAS take great offense at the suggestion that Toulouse Lautrec was using his brilliant culinary creation in unseemly acts with prostitutes or that he was in any way a pervert. In fact, we don’t even believe the author of those remarks even had a Scottish great-grandfather. Not to mention, we hear that he’s a little kinky himself, some have even called him a stone cold freak…but you didn’t hear that from us.”


*Editor’s note: We here at the Drive-by Blogger recognize our obligation to post opposing viewpoints…whenever we are being held at gunpoint.

The Momma Lisa

According to a recent news item, a team of Canadian scientists using special infrared and three-dimensional technology say they have made a remarkable discovery about Leonardo da Vinci’s famous painting the Mona Lisa.

It seems that Mona’s dress is covered with a thin, transparent gauze veil, typically worn at that time by women who were either pregnant or had recently given birth. Amazing indeed, but I happen to know that the research team has been less than forth coming about some of the less flattering discoveries they’ve made. It turns out that Mona also had:


A “Born To Raise Hell” tattoo


A third nipple


A slightly phallic shaped birthmark


A mild case of eczema


And possibly some early signs of osteoporosis


Well, there you have it, the Mona Lisa as you’ve never seen her before…and probably never wanted to. Thanks science!

Gentlemen, start your steam engines...

The antiquated looking machine pictured above was invented by the French Artillery Officer Joseph Cugnot in 1769. It is considered by many to be the world’s first self-powered vehicle or “automobile”.

Perhaps not surprisingly, Mr. Cugnot is also credited with the world’s first automobile accident since his steam powered vehicle, moving at a mind blowing two miles per hour, crashed into and demolished a stone wall on it’s maiden voyage.

Which of course raises the question what the hell kind of stone wall falls apart when it’s hit by something going at 2 miles per hour? If I ever go to France I’ll have to remember not to lean against any old buildings.

Anyway, Cugnot was undeterred and spent the next year building an even larger version for the French War Ministry. Since the name of this blog includes the word “drive” in it, I feel it behooves me to try to recreate those moments when Cugnot demonstrated his "new set of wheels” on a street in Paris:


(Two generals, one very old and a magistrate are standing with Cugnot in front of his vehicle)

Cugnot: Gentlemen, I thank you for this opportunity. Prepare to be amazed as I start my machine and proceed to move five tons at a speed of nearly four miles per hour.

Old general: Sacrebleu! Is it possible? Can humans even survive such speeds?

Young general: What are you talking about? Your own horse can go faster than that.

Old general: My Fou-Fou ? I can assure you sir that my horse has never run away from anything in his life. You had best watch your tongue or I’ll have to insist on a duel of honor.

Magistrate: Enough nonsense, let us proceed. I have two beheadings and a hanging to preside over and I don’t want to be late.

(Cugnot starts up his vehicle, which roars to life and starts to pull it’s heavy load. The distinguished onlookers gaze intently as it slowly moves to the end of the cobblestone street, only to see it crash on to it’s side as it attempts to turn the corner.)

Old general: I’m the first to admit that I’m not up to snuff on all this new technology, but I must say that I’ll be damned if I can see how that can be of any use.

Young general: Well, at least the walls of Paris are still standing.

(The magistrate summons the gendarmes)

Magistrate: Arrest that man and impound that…that...“vehicle!”


And so off to jail went poor Mr. Cugnot, making him the first person to be arrested for being a reckless motorist. So the next time you’re involved in a little fender bender or even a twelve car pile up, take a moment to think of this forgotten hero of French engineering history.

You don't say...

Do you ever find yourself wondering how something began? Me neither, nevertheless, today we take a look at the little known origins of some familiar things…


Acupuncture: was accidentally discovered about the year 2800 BC, by a sadistic tailor by the name of Huang, who used his wife as a human pincushion. It is said that he died from disappointment when he realized that this had only made her healthier, and she went on to live another twenty years with the tailor’s handsome young apprentice.


Chewing gum: was invented and promoted by the European aristocracy as a way of placating hungry peasants by giving them something to chew on, thus creating the illusion that they’d actually eaten. The plan seemed to be working until the King of France decided for some reason that all the gum in his country would be sugarless. This of course, enraged the peasants and led to the French Revolution.


Tattoos: tattooing was first practiced during the Stone Age by cannibals in the Amazon, not on themselves, but on their victims and usually indicated whether that person was to be eaten for breakfast, lunch or dinner. Some anthropologists believe that the fat ones may also have been tattooed with a “high calorie” warning, but this is mere speculation.


Hypnotism: the first person to be credited with possessing the power to hypnotize people was the ancient Greek mathematician Theoplopolese. A man said to be so mind numbingly dull that just being in the room with him was enough to induce a trance. Although every student at the University of Athens was required to take his class, not one could actually remember it or explain why they would start to cluck like a chicken when anyone snapped their fingers.


So the next time you’re at a social gathering that’s getting a little dull, just whip out a couple of these fascinating tidbits…you should make quite an impression.

Spaced out...

As you may already know, the space shuttle was recently sent up again and the crew has been busy with the construction of a space station. I don’t really know exactly what it’s going to be used for, but in case there are long periods when there are no astronauts working on science type stuff, I’ve come up with some alternative uses for the space station:


A new "secret" CIA prison

The next presidential library

A Star Trek themed bordello

The setting for a new reality show called "Battle of the Mustachioed Stars", featuring Tom Selleck and Geraldo Rivera in the first episode.

A maternity ward for privacy obsessed celebrities…I’m talking to you Angelina Jolie!

The first orbiting Wal-Mart

Headquarters for the Michael Jackson Search for Extraterrestrial Boys Program

A mandatory retirement home for all radio talk show hosts


Personally, I’m hoping for the reality show…come on Tom, kick his ass!

This post is brought to you by the letters T, W and the number 10...

There was a time when parents looking for children’s programs had to turn to public television. The explosion of cable television has changed all that and now kids have more choices than they can shake a stick at (it’s just an expression kids, don’t go around shaking sticks or you’ll poke someone’s eye out).

So I’ve come up with some ideas for new kids shows to help public TV compete with the likes of Nickelodeon and the Cartoon Network:


Fightin’ Tykes: This is one of those rare shows that parents (or at least dads) will enjoy watching too. Hyperactive kids from all over the country climb into a boxing ring and pummel each other for three rounds. They’ll be wearing protective headgear of course…they’re already hyperactive, we don’t want them brain damaged as well.

Drawing with Captain Peggy: Inspired by the popularity of the Pirates of the Caribbean movies, kids will learn the basics of drawing from the androgynous and unthreatening Captain Peggy and Polly the hermaphroditic parrot.

Xenophobe Corner: Kids need to know that the world can be a scary place and with gruff but lovable uncle "Xeno" as their guide they will learn all about the dangers posed by foreigners.

Madame Pasha’s Psychic Playhouse: Do your kids know how to read tarot cards or palms? Do they know how to handle a hostile poltergeist? Well, they will if they watch this show hosted by the mysterious Madame Pasha, former psychic adviser to celebrities like Nancy Regan and Montel Williams.

"PC" Pete’s Puppet Parade: Parents who believe they are raising the leaders of the future will want to make sure that their kids tune in to this show. "Politically Correct" Pete and his puppet friends will teach them how to express insensitive and even offensive ideas in ways that not even the most vigilant members of the PC police will be able to object to.


Well, I’ve got go and start thinking up merchandising angles for these shows…I’m guessing that the parrot will be a big seller.

I'm Ok, You're Ok...

It seems that no matter what the problem is, someone has written a self-help book dealing with it. Here are a couple that I think are destined to become bestsellers:

"Stop Spoiling Your Inner-Child" by Dr. Gustav Von Liebergeitzel.

This eminent psychologist is known as the "Bavarian Dr.Phil" and even has his own brand of "down home" sayings:

You can try to waltz through life, but that won’t stop the chaffing in your lederhosen.

Sounds like a load of schnitzel to me!

You can bet your mamma’s strudel on it.

Just because Fritz has a Fräulein, doesn’t mean he isn’t ‘playing’ in the oompah band!

Yah right…and my grandmother was head of the Luftwaffe.

The Bavarian Daily News says, "You will buy this book…Now!"



For those of you suffering from a malaise of a more spiritual nature there’s this one:

"How to Win against Sin!" by Pastor John H. Coprolite.

Whether it’s adultery, stealing, substance abuse or gambling, the good pastor has been through it all and now he offers up to you his hard won knowledge.

From his humble beginnings preaching at rural tent revivals to the glory days of his multi-million dollar TV ministry it’s all here, along nuggets of wisdom like:

Just because a hooker is mute, don’t mean she won’t tell.

The Internal Revenue Service…government agency or godless tool of Satan?

Casinos really do have cameras everywhere!

Sometimes the devil comes dressed as an angel of light…sometimes as a sixteen year-old blonde cheerleader from Wisconsin.


So if your soul is worth saving go out and get this book.(all proceeds go towards the Pastor Coprolite legal defense fund)

For art's sake...

Back in 1982 or thereabouts, Sylvester Stallone donated a statue of himself as Rocky to the Philadelphia Museum. It resided there for a few months before being sent to some sports arena before it was finally put into storage.

It looked like Rocky was down for the count, but wait! Not so fast chief, it seems the Philadelphia art commission has voted to put it back!

My sources tell me that Stallone was so thrilled with the news that he’s decided to start the Stallone Foundation, which will offer financial help to artists creating the type of art that Sly cares deeply about, such as:

Paintings on velvet

Butter sculpture

Graffiti (so long as it’s not painted on anything owned by Mr. Stallone

Sad clown paintings

Works done with an Etch-a-sketch

Balloon animals (believed to be a personal favorite of Mr. Stallone)


Hey, if he’s into art made from pipe cleaners, dried macaroni and glitter I could have it made!

Hooray for Hollywierd...

I thought I’d give this gossip columnist thing a try. Here are some tidbits from Tinseltown that you might not have heard:


Tom Cruise, Margot Kidder, Anne Heche and Martin Lawrence have joined forces to open their own mental health facility. According to a statement released by the actors, the facility is to serve as a place of refuge from the insidious influence of psychiatry, illegal drugs and alien abduction and/or probing.


Sharon Stone’s vagina has reportedly filed for a trial separation citing irreconcilable differences, but a source close to the pair said they have been fighting since the box office flop of Basic Instinct 2.

In an appearance on The View, Ms. Stone’s vagina had this to say: "Look, let’s not mince words here. I’m the only reason she’s a star. Before I made my screen debut in the first Basic Instinct movie, she was a nobody!"

A spokesperson for Ms. Stone said "she and her vagina are trying to work things out and hopes that everyone will respect their privacy during this difficult time."


Following the recent death of talk show host Mike Douglas, there was a mix up when the funeral hearse accidentally wound up at the home of aging actor Michael Douglas. Sources say it took Catherine Zeta Jones four hours to convince her husband to come down from the attic.


50,000 copies of Paris Hilton’s CD are reportedly missing. Officials for Homeland Security have expressed concern that they may have fallen into the hands of terrorists and could be used as instruments of torture…at least to anyone with good taste in music.


Now that is a scary thought.

Like a rolling gallstone...

Well, I guess it’s official…Bob Dylan has become an old fogey. Now, it was well known that Dylan is getting old, but that’s not the same thing. Not everybody who grows old becomes an old fogey…old fogeyness is a state of mind.

As evidence of Dylan’s slide into old fogeydom, I offer the following statements taken from a recent interview:

"You listen to these modern records, they’re atrocious, they have sound all over them. There’s no definition of nothing, no vocal, no nothing, just like static."

At first it might sound like the usual cranky complaint of an aging generation on the music of a younger one, but Dylan is also reported as saying that even his records sounded better in the studio than on the disk. That pretty much renders his comments incomprehensible, which when combined with his use of the word "modern" generally means it’s old fogey time.

If you’re still not convinced, here are a few more signs that Dylan has become an old fogey:

He is always yelling at the tour bus driver to slow down.

Has been known to lecture groupies on the importance of getting enough fiber.

Not only does he think motorcycle helmets are a good idea, but believes people should wear them while riding escalators.

He says that everyone on TV is talking too fast and wearing too many bright colors…it gives him a headache.

Canceled subscription to Playboy and signed up for Readers Digest.

Has a large collection of sweater vests.


Old fogey syndrome can strike anyone and there’s no know cure…well, death eventually takes care of it, but lets hope science can come up with something less drastic.

This court is now in session...

As strange as it may sound, in the past animals were often accused of crimes and brought to trial. In 16th century France a lawyer by the name of Bartholomew Chassenee became well known for a case in which he defended a group of rats.

So I started wondering what it might be like if this practice had continued to this day. It seems like a perfect fit for the current reality TV craze and the attack on Roy (from Siegfried & Roy) by that tiger during one of their shows back in 2003 is a good place to start…

Judge: Call your next witness counselor.

Prosecutor: The prosecution calls to the stand Mrs. Ruth Hoyle. Now Mrs. Hoyle, you were sitting in the front row when the attack occurred, could you describe what happened?

Mrs. Hoyle: Well, everything had been going just fine until the tiger started moving towards the audience. Roy tried to stop it, but then the tiger turned on Roy, grabbed him by the neck and started shaking him like a gaudily dressed, well coifed rag doll…there was blood and sequins everywhere!

Prosecutor: And is it fair to say that you were traumatized by this horrific incident?

Mrs. Hoyle: Oh yes! To this day I can’t attend a magic show, go to a zoo or even eat Frosted Flakes.

Prosecutor: No further questions your honor.

Judge: Does the defense wish to question the witness?

Defense attorney: Yes, your honor. Mrs. Hoyle isn’t true that you’ve always hated tigers…that you are afraid of any strong and independent animal. Isn’t it true that in order to win your affection an animal has to be cute, cuddly and harmless…

Prosecutor: I object, your honor! The defense is merely trying to spark an emotional response in the jury by playing the species card.

Judge: Objection sustained. The jury will disregard the possibility that the witness is a hate filled bigot.

Defense attorney: Fine, in that case your honor, with the court’s permission I would like to call to the stand as our final witness, the illustrious pet psychic Mr. Edward Shelton. Now, Mr.Shelton have you conducted an "interview" with the defendant? (He points to a caged tiger on the other side of the courtroom)

Mr. Shelton: Yes, I spoke to the tiger.

Defense attorney: What did you find out?

Mr. Shelton: Well, first of all, he feels terrible about what happened. It was all just a misunderstanding. You see, he thinks of Roy as another male tiger and this was just a challenge.

Defense attorney: A challenge over what?

Mr. Shelton: Not what…whom. It turns out that the tiger has a thing for Siegfried.

Judge: (mumbles) Join the club.

Defense attorney: And did you inform him that Siegfried is also a male?

Mr.Shelton: Yes, he seemed quite surprised by that, but he thought about it for a while and said he’s try anything once.

Defense attorney: So you’re saying that this was a crime of passion, an unfortunate consequence of powerful natural instincts and not a cold blooded attempt at murder!

Mr. Shelton: Absolutely…can I go now? There’s a beached whale dying about two miles from here and I’m supposed to take its last confession.

Judge: You may step down. The jury will now retire to render its verdict.

(Ten minutes later)

Jury foreman: We the jury find the defendant… not guilty! Can we go too? We want to see that psychic dude talk to that whale.

Judge: OK, everybody pile into my Hummer and let’s get going.

Defense attorney: Shotgun! I called it!


Justice triumphs again…I don’t know about you, but I get all goose pimply just thinking about it.

Does anyone have a stamp...

The rather unappealing creature in the photograph is called a geoduck (pronounced gooey duck). It is a large clam that is said to be edible. Hard to believe, I know, but it was an even stranger fact about this critter that prompted me to write the following letter to Mother Nature:


Dear Mother Nature…or do you prefer to be called Mrs.Nature? Ms. Nature? How about Mom? No…probably not. Look, I’ll get right to the point, I’ve got a complaint regarding one of your creations, namely the geoduck.

It had recently come to my attention that the average life span of this animal is 100 years and that it has been known to reach an age of 160.

Now, what I would like to know is…WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING? ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?! Sorry, sorry…I didn’t mean to lose my temper Mother Nature. Please don’t smite me with a swarm of killer bees or send a tornado my way. Surely you can understand my feelings in this matter.

To human beings, who possess thoughts, emotions and an awareness of their own mortality, you give an average life expectancy of about 70 years. But to this mindless, unfeeling blob of snot in a shell you give an average life span of 100 years!

Human beings have created art, language, music and science, while the geoduck spends it’s entire life buried in sand filtering out plankton…and you let it out live us! Not cool MN, not cool. It was bad enough knowing how long tortoises can live, but at least they are vertebrates! Not like that precious pet bivalve of yours.

Seriously Mother Nature, I hope you can see how grossly unfair this is and that you will soon make things right. I’m not saying you have let humans live longer…just shorten the life span of that ugly refugee from a sushi bar.

Love always,
The Drive-by Blogger

P.S.
I know I’ve been slacking up with that whole recycling thing…it’s been kind of hectic lately, but I’m going to get right on that…I swear.

My newspaper days...

While going through some of my old stuff, I found some copies of an advice column I used to write for the now defunct newspaper the Global Herald Weekly. The column was called "Ask Mr. WiseGuy" and the fact that the editor was unconcerned by my complete lack of qualifications to give advice to anyone on any subject might explain why the paper is no more, but I’ll let you decide for yourself:

Dear Mr.WiseGuy,
I’m beginning to suspect that my husband is cheating on me, but I have no proof…what should I do?

Worried in Tacoma.


Dear Worried,
Well, since you have no real proof, perhaps a gentle reminder to your husband about the possible consequences of cheating is in order. Start keeping your largest pair of gardening shears on the night table next to your bed and have the words "Thou shall not commit adultery" engraved on the handle.

Also, every once in a while when your husband thinks you’re sleeping, mumble something like "The price of betrayal is blood". This should keep him on the straight and narrow.


Dear Mr. WiseGuy,
My wife and I are at our wit’s end. Our three year-old son is so hyperactive that we’ve had to resort to using one of those kiddy harness things, but we’ve gotten a lot of negative reactions from family and friends. Are we wrong on this?

Confused in Peoria


Dear Confused,
Don’t listen to any of them! You’ve got to get that little delinquent of yours under control. Use the harness, a cage or even a stun gun if necessary. And since we all know that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, I’ve advised your local police department that they may want to keep an eye on you…so watch your step.


Dear Mr.WiseGuy,
Homo says what?

Your dad in the basement.


Very funny dad. You do know that I still have the telephone number to the old folk’s home?


I don’t know why I included that last letter in my column... it got me fired and I still get nasty letters from old people on a regular basis.

A conversation with a legend...

Recently, I was lucky enough to get an interview with Dennis "The Gypsy" McCorkle, who at 112 years of age is the oldest living former major league baseball player. McCorkle began his career in 1912 and played until 1929 and was given his nickname because he never stayed with any team for very long. Here is some of what he had to say:

TDB: Mr. McCorkle, looking at baseball today, you must be glad that steroids weren’t a problem during your playing days.

DM: What? You’ll have to speak up sonny…my hearing aid fades in and out.

TDB: I said, steroids, not a problem in your day!

DM: Oh…not really, no. I think Ty Cobb might have had em’, probably why he was so mean. We didn’t have Preparation H back then.

TDB: No, steroids…never mind. Is it true that you knew the great Babe Ruth.

DM: Yeah, that was during the half season I spent with the Red Sox. In fact I’m the one who talked the owner to trade the fat bastard. I said look, all he cares about is beer and hookers…you’ll never hear about him again. The rest as they say is history.

TDB: So you were responsible for the curse of the Bambino that hung over Boston for so long?

DM: The curse of the who?

TDB: Er…Babe Ruth…we were talking…

DM: I knew him, don't ya know! It was during the half season I spent with the Red Sox. In fact I’m the one who…

TDB: OK, moving on. Mr. McCorkle your career was interrupted by World War One… is that correct?

DM: Yeah, I went over to France, that’s where I met Fifi. I tried to teach those Frenchies about baseball using a stale loaf of bread and a wadded up ball of Gruyere cheese, but all they cared about was soccer…or was it sodomy…no, it was soccer.
(Fifi, a one-eyed artist’s model well known in Paris for her weekly suicide attempts was the first of McCorkle’s four wives)

TDB: So after the war, you return to the states and start playing again. Is it true that in those days a lot of players had to find other kinds of work during the off season?

DM: Hell yeah, that’s true! We didn’t get paid the bazillions of dollars these young fellas get today.

TDB: What were some of the jobs you had?

DM: Well, in the early days, I was a lifeguard at a public pool…until that time that kid almost drowned. I told that whipper snapper to quit the horseplay, but he wouldn’t listen. So when he hit his head and went under, I said "Serves you right" and didn’t move from my chair.
Oh, I was gonna pull him out at the last minute, but his Ma started making a big fuss and I got fired. Women…always coddling their kids…tough love is what they need.

TDB: I guess love doesn’t get any tougher that death by drowning.

DM: Damn right! Anyway, later on during prohibition, I made some money working for some small time gangsters…delivering bootleg gin and beating the crap out of people who didn’t pay their tabs at the speakeasy.

TDB: A regular role model weren’t you? And to think you were never put on the Wheaties box.

DM: What?

TDB: Nothing, Mr. McCorkle, it’s been an honor. Do you have any final words of wisdom?

DM: Does this foot look infected?

(Two weeks after this interview Dennis "The Gypsy" McCorkle slipped into a deep coma. After lingering on for another month, his family finally pulled the plug…and strangled him with it)

Drive-by Blues...

For as long as I can remember, I have harbored a secret desire to be a blues singer/guitarist. The fact that this dream endures despite my complete inability to sing or play an instrument of any kind is a testament to the power of self-delusion.

Anyway, since most of the great blues singers had great nicknames like Muddy Waters, Howlin’ Wolf, Blind Lemon Jefferson and Lead Belly, I thought I’d better come up with one for myself. Here’s what I’ve come up with so far:


"Silky Drawers" Thompson

"Ol’ Fuzzy Foot"

"Melon Head" Wilson

"Spastic Sam"

"Nightlight" Johnson

"Squealin’ Ferret"

"Dill Pickle" Dave

"Lil’ Otis" Flatbottom

"Swollen Glands" Mackelroy

"Nine Fingered Louie"


Wait…I think that last one is actually from my mobster wannabe phase.

Science friction...

Generally speaking, I like science. Oh, I admit that when it comes to things like quantum physics, I haven’t got a clue. But I enjoy a good documentary about microscopic parasites or killer asteroids headed towards earth as much as the next morbid weirdo.

However, this Pluto situation has gotten on my nerves. For the benefit of anyone who doesn’t know what I’m referring to (i.e. those of you with lives) it seems that scientists have been debating whether or not Pluto should be classified as planet since 1930!

You see, some scientists think that it’s too small to be called a planet, while others not only disagree, but also want a recently discovered rock to be add to the list as the tenth planet. By the way, the man who discovered this would be planet has nicknamed it Xena…after the warrior princess…anyone else find that a little creepy?

Anyway, a twelve-day conference is being held in Prague to try to resolve this issue. All I know is, if they decide to strip Pluto of it’s planetary status I’m going to file a massive lawsuit, seeking compensation for the unnecessary mental anguish I suffered in school from being forced to memorize all NINE planets. I figure fifty million dollars should cover it.

Deeper into the past...

Well, my curiosity finally got the better of me, so I went ahead and had one of those genealogy websites look up my family tree. The price was a little steep, but they turned up some interesting tidbits about my forebears.

For example, the earliest of my ancestors that could be found, dates to the 12th century and was connected to Royalty…sort of. Actually, his title was "Keeper of the Chamber Pot" for the Duke of Mumpshire. A position he held for fifteen years until he was discovered selling vials of the Duke’s urine to the local peasants.

Apparently, they considered them good luck. For this he was first hanged, then beheaded and finally thrown into the dungeon, a punishment considered harsh even by the brutal standards of the time.

The fortunes of my family only went downhill from there. Which can be seen by the fate of another of my hapless ancestors who was a mushroom picker and part time poacher in the forests of Strokingham, during an unusually wet period in the 15th century. As a result of which, he came down with a terminal case of "foot rot" and died at the ripe old age of twenty-four.

I’ll conclude with the case of one of my female ancestors, who as a young woman in the 17th century, followed various traveling troubadours around Europe and was possibly one of history's first groupies. Later in life she wound up running what was then known as a "house of ill repute" in London, with a clientele that consisted mostly of retired boot polishers.

I may be biased of course, but it all sounds like first rate History Channel material to me.

All the wee beasties...

For some unknown reason (well, unknown to me anyway) groups of animals are sometimes given very strange names. For example, a group of crows is called a murder, then there’s a quiver of cobras, a parliament of owls, a troubling of goldfish and last but not least…an ostentation of peacocks.

I don’t know who decides these things, but I want in on it, so here is a list of names for various groups of animals that I would like to see put in to everyday use:


An orgy of slugs

A potpourri of dust mites

An accordion of marmosets

A clog of wombats

A bureau of sea cucumbers

A jackpot of koala bears

An administration of earthworms

A crescent wrench of boll weevils

An apology of spiders

A thermos of iguanas


Believe me when I say that there are perfectly logical reasons for the names I have assigned to each animal group…I just haven’t thought of them yet.

Seek and ye shall find...

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Rest in peace...

The rich are different than you and me and that includes what they want done with their remains after they have shuffled off this mortal coil. Have a look at the final arrangements desired by these notable figures…


Dick Cheney: wants to be freeze-dried, turned into pellets and shot into Michael Moore’s face.


Bill Gates: in case his plan to have his brain transplanted into a robot doesn’t workout, the privacy obsessed billionaire is looking to buy the moon to use as his own personal burial site.


Donald Trump: classy as ever, Donald’s body is to be gold plated, mounted on a diamond encrusted marble pedestal and placed on top of his casino. It’s rumored that Trump has turned down requests to leave his hair to science.


Martha Stewart: wishes to have her bones bleached to a pearly white, festooned with tinsel and shaped into a lovely Christmas wreath.


Richard Simmons: the fitness guru has stated that all of his pallbearers must weigh at least three hundred pounds and everyone who attends his funeral must jog, not walk or drive, from the church to the cemetery.


Madonna: inspired by her belief in the kabbala, Madge would like to be buried in a secret tomb somewhere on Mount Sinai with all of her former backup dancers. She is apparently under the impression this is what Moses had done.


If I ever become rich I think I’ll try to get the Tupperware people to make my casket…who knows it might catch on and their slogan could be “freshness for eternity”.

Truth is stranger than fiction...

The real name of the man in the photograph was Joseph Pujol, but most of the world knew him as Le Pétomane. He was the most eminent "Flatulist" of his day (although I’ve no idea how many of them there actually were).

You’re probably asking yourselves “Flatulist? Does that mean what I think it means?” Yes, yes…he farted for a living, but to say that Le Pétomane could break wind is like saying Enrico Caruso could carry a tune. It simply doesn’t do justice to the man’s artistry.

Yet today he is all but forgotten, his genius unrecognized. So saddened was I by this injustice that I’m writing a play that I’m hoping will revive the reputation of the great Le Pétomane:


Setting: Le Pétomane has been in Paris for a year and is the toast of the town. He is meeting with Toulouse- Lautrec at the Moulin Rouge to discuss having a poster made for his upcoming tour.

Le Pétomane: Thank you for agreeing to do this Henri

Lautrec: Think nothing of it. You know, coming over here I was thinking about how we met. Remember… I was sitting right over there and you blew my hat off from ten feet away, ah good times, good times. It’s too bad Van Gogh isn’t around anymore. That crazy Dutchman really appreciated robust flatulence and I’m sure he would have admired your work.

Le Pétomane: You are much too kind Henri. I give all credit to the Supreme Being. I am just the instrument through which he plays.

Lautrec: Nonsense, you are a national treasure, like the Eiffel Tower…or the croissant. Long after the world has forgotten about Napoleon, France will still be remembered for having produced Le Pétomane, the great Fartiste!

Now about the poster, I had wanted to depict you during that part of your show where you “play” a flute, but I’ve been told there may be trouble with the censors…what’s wrong mon ami, you seem troubled?

Le Pétomane: Well, just between us Henri, I have a doctor’s appointment later today. I’m afraid something might be seriously wrong…for three days now I’ve not been able to make a sound. Not even the slightest toot, my whole European tour could be in jeopardy!

Lautrec: Mon dieu!


Now that’s drama…that’s suspense…that’s all I’ve written so far. I’m hoping the French government will give me a grant so that I can continue working on my tribute to this lost maestro of the sphincter.

The doctor will see you now...

It seems that there is a growing trend in Hollywood to over indulge in plastic surgery, often with disastrous results. So as a public service to clueless celebrities everywhere, I’m here to tell you, that you know you’ve had too much plastic surgery when…

Your plastic surgeon names his yacht after you.

You find yourself peering out through your nostrils.

Just the sight of cutlery in a restaurant compels you to lie on the table and demand anesthesia.

You’ve had enough skin, fat and bones removed from you to create your own personal Mini-Me.

A three thousand-year-old mummy comes to life and asks you who your embalmer was.

People start to mistake your belly button for a tracheotomy hole.

A waiter enraged by your lousy tip throws the coins in your face and they ricochet off with enough force to kill three by-standers.

Your breasts are so large that they qualify for their own zip code.

You are the reason your plastic surgeon has carpal tunnel syndrome.

Frightened villagers armed with torches and pitchforks start chasing you around.

Madame Tussaud’s thinks creating a wax figure of you would be redundant.

Joan Rivers, Michael Jackson and Cher get together and have an intervention for you.


If this doesn’t win me some kind of humanitarian award I don’t know what will.

Just say no...

Yet another very strange story has emerged in the news. This one involves a disturbing trend among teenagers who are getting high by sniffing mothballs. I know what you’re thinking… " How the hell do those kids even know which moths are male?" No, I’m talking about the other kind of mothball, the ones used to keep moths from eating your clothing.

Anyway, I would just like to take a few minutes to "rap" to any young people out there who might be thinking about mothball sniffing. Like, don’t do it man…it won’t make you a "cool cat" or a "groovy chick" and it’s a gateway to the harder stuff.

Sure, you start off just sniffing a few mothballs with your friends on the weekend, but before you know it, you’re snorting athlete's foot powder or "huffing" spray-on deodorants. Then one day you’re hustling on the street for money to buy the Preparation H you are injecting directly into your veins. I’ll bet it doesn’t sound so "cool" now, does it.

This message brought to you by the National Organization to Prevent Kids from doing Really Stupid Stuff.

Head butts and butt heads...

A jockey recently found himself in the news, not for winning a race but for head butting his horse. This has got to be one of the more bizarre bits of news I’ve heard in a while. Even his "apology" was a little strange: "I’m very sorry they had to see such a thing". To me, that sounds a little like "yeah, I’m sorry…sorry I got caught!" You’d think he’d be a bit more contrite considering it was done in front of a lot of people and recorded on video tape.

Anyway, I believe that a large part of the blame for this incident should go to Zinedine Zidane. You know, that idiot soccer player who cost France the world cup when he head butted an Italian player in the chest.

Also, I predict that this is only the beginning and this kind of thing is going to spread worldwide. Corporate executives will be head butting the guys in the mailroom, teachers will start head butting unruly students and George Bush will head butt every reporter he sees.

A deed that was once only committed by soccer hooligans and professional wrestlers will soon be common among distinguished scientists and gray haired grandmas. I’m not a biblical scholar, but I think this is one of the signs of the apocalypse…I’ll have to look it up. In the meantime, I’m off to buy myself some stock in an aspirin company…and a helmet.

From deep inside the vault...

Today I am pleased to share with you a couple of items from the official drive-by blogger collection of cultural oddities.

Not many people know that before Charles Schultz came up with his very successful comic strip PEANUTS, he produced a few that didn’t make it. Among the earliest of these is this strip inspired by Schultz’s fascination with the Paris art scene of the 1920’s:



Switching his focus to the great writers of the same period, he came up with this:



Undaunted by the failure of these strips and determined to create a comic inspired by his love of high culture, he also tried these ideas: Coconuts, based on Paul Gauguin’s life in Tahiti and Totally nuts, about Dali and the other surrealists.

Sadly, there don’t seem to be any surviving examples of these strips. However, I am in a bidding war for an original manuscript of children’s nursery rhymes by Scientology founder L. Ron Hubbard…wish me luck.

Casanova in lederhosen...

A volume of previously unpublished letters by Albert Einstein is shedding light on the famed physicist’s extra-marital affairs. According to some reports the letters indicate that Einstein had about half a dozen girlfriends. I guess it makes sense, his wild hair, bushy mustache and rumpled clothes... what more could a lady want? Anyway, here’s one of the Teutonic lothario’s love letters to one of his ladies dating from 1931:

Dearest M,
Thank you for the wonderful gifts you sent me, the meerschaum pipe, the ivory mustache comb and of course the imported silk underwear. However, I must ask you to refrain from sending any more nude photographs of yourself or at least send smaller ones. They have accumulated to the degree that I’m having difficulty finding a safe hiding place for them.

The conference will be over in three or four days and we can get together then. I can assure you that "little Albert" has missed you terribly. By the way, my hot little strudel, have you given any thought to that three-way that I mentioned last time we met in Düsseldorf?

Passionately yours,
AE


Einstein, his wife and girlfriends…just imagine that on the Jerry Springer show.