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.

Rock the Casbah...

Back in April it was reported that Osama Bin Laden released an audio tape recording containing one his usual rants. However, what wasn’t mentioned is that in addition Osama has released a music CD, on which he performs songs he has written himself, presumably hoping to appeal to young people. Thanks to my sources in the CIA, I’ve managed to obtain a copy:



Personally, I think Cat Stevens is behind this.

A bit of family history...

Someone once asked me if I was the only member of my family to take up writing. Actually, their exact words were "Are there any other scribbling malcontents in that lunatic asylum you call a family?" Choosing to ignore this rudeness, I proceeded to tell them about a journal kept by my great-grandfather during his ill-fated attempt to be the first person to reach the North Pole. I humbly submit these excerpts for you perusal:


March, 4 1907
In an effort to acclimatize my self to the cold I sat in a bathtub filled with ice shavings from a nearby ice cream parlor. My wife is still mopping up…and swearing like a sailor I might add. I didn’t even know she knew some of those words.

March, 10 1907
Gave two weeks notice to old man McGinty at the factory. God, I’ll miss the old place. Sure, making asbestos is hard work, but it’s a trade with a real future. It’s the wonder material of the age I tell you. Note to self; see doctor about clearing up this cough before leaving on trip.

April, 3 1907
I’ve managed to assemble what I believe to be a hardy and steadfast crew:

"Fritzy" Mueller, a sausage stuffer from Pennsylvania who weighs over three hundred pounds but assures me that it’s all muscle.

"Cubby" Rothington III, the black sheep son of a wealthy Boston family is also helping to finance the expedition.

And finally, a one eyed former gold miner known only as "Slim" who claims to be 1/16 Eskimo, will be our guide.

May, 22 1907
Arrived at Ellesmere Island, disappointed to find only three of my sled dogs are huskies. The rest are a mixture of breeds ranging from Collies to a Dachshund whose legs don’t even reach the ground when he’s in the harness. The little fellow is all heart though…I think I’ll call him Doxy and make him our mascot.

June, 18 1907
It is with great sadness that I must record that "Fritzy" Mueller has eaten our mascot Doxy. Rations have been running low and apparently six hours without food was more than he could stand.

June, 27 1907
Our misery continues unabated. "Slim" who has been suffering from frostbite in his one good eye, has fallen into deep crevasse. It was the final straw for "Cubby" who had already become very unstable. He ran off into the frozen landscape, screaming something about finding Santa’s workshop and performing unnatural acts on the elves…we have not seen him since. So, that just leaves "Fritzy" and myself to carry on. It will be difficult, but I believe that if we stick together we can still make it to the pole.

July, 9 1907
I’m afraid that I had to shoot poor "Fritzy". For days he had been looking at me very strangely and last night I awoke to find him pouring salt on my leg. I tried firing a warning shot, but he would not turn loose my leg. What my next move shall be…is uncertain.


As it turned out, his "next move" was to hightail it home and leave the honor of being the first to the North Pole to Robert Peary. The expedition did leave its mark on my great-grandfather though. My great-grandmother said for years after he would sometimes wake up in the middle of the night screaming "Fritzy, I’m begging you…drop the salt shaker!"

For your eyes only...

I don’t know about anyone else, but I was surprised to read that a man had actually been arrested for trying to sell Coca-Cola’s secrets to Pepsi. Secrets? Are they talking about the "secret formula" that’s used to make Coca-Cola? I always thought that that was a myth, you know, a marketing ploy. Anyway, even if it does exist, why such ruthlessness in keeping it a secret? Could it be that there’s some ingredient in it so appalling that if it were made public it would bring the company to ruin?

We here at the Drive-by Blogger laboratory have decided to get to the bottom of this and have started analyzing this beverage to discover the "secret" ingredient that makes Coke "the real thing". We’ve still got a lot of testing to do, but we’ve narrowed it down to these substances:


Pork fat

Cough syrup

Ragweed pollen

Monkey glands

Orphan sweat

Low grade plutonium

Ectoplasm

Hobbit toes


McDonald’s special sauce…you’re next.

Stars among the stars...

Well, the space shuttle was launched a few days ago, even though there still seemed to be some disagreement among the experts at NASA regarding safety issues. If I ruled the world I believe I could solve that problem as well as find a way to generate a lot of money for future missions.

Instead of sending up intelligent people who possess valuable skills, I would create a new reality show called "Celebrity Space Shuttle" and send groups of desperate, attention grubbing celebrities into space. Ok…so they can’t all be celebrities, after all we can’t expect these idiots to actually fly the damn thing, but most of the "crew" would be celebs.

Viewers would be able to vote someone off the shuttle every few days and those people would then have a rocket pack strapped to their backs and be shot off into deep space. I know this is bad news for the losing celebrities, but if your gonna make an omelet, you gotta break some eggs.

The sole surviving celebrity would then return to earth and get a book deal or something. Since it’s my idea, I get to pick the first group to go and these are my choices and why I picked them:

Michael Jackson, because I’m pretty sure outer space is where he came from anyway.

Regis Philbin, he thinks he can sing…he has actually recorded a CD…he is quite possibly insane…he must go.

Ashley and Mary-Kate Olson, since the combined weight of these two is less than one normal person we get to count them as a single celebrity

Howard Stern, just tell him that there are quadruple breasted lesbian strippers on Mars…I’m sure he’ll go for it.

Joe Rogan, my personal choice to be voted off first, we’ll find out if fear is a factor for him.

Donald Trump, I want to see the effects of zero gravity on the world’s most famous comb-over.


If the show was a hit we could do another one involving a submarine, the Mariana Trench and celebrity torpedoes…fingers crossed everyone.

By any other name...

I don’t remember whom it was but someone once said that the term housewife could be replaced with the title of domestic engineer. I think this idea could be used to add a degree of prestige to other kinds of jobs as well. So I’ve taken it upon my self to come up with a few new titles for some old familiar jobs:


Ingress and egress facilitator (doorman)

Mood enhancement technician (bartender)

Vintage vehicle re-circulator (used car salesman)

Genital hygienist (prostitute)

Surplus currency solicitor (beggar)

Feral canine wrangler (dog catcher)

Dinning surface reorganizer (bus boy)

Refuse coordinator (garbage man)

Animal parts distributor (butcher)

Follicle reduction artist (barber)

Tubular meat facsimile dispenser (hot dog vendor)


Now I’ve just got to come up with some names for non-paying jobs…like blogging.

Scout's honor...

Having grown up in a large urban area, I’d always associated the Boy Scouts with things like camping and…umm…more camping. So I was surprised to learn that the list of merit badges that can be earned includes Architecture, genealogy and chemistry. Anyway, this got me thinking of starting a branch of scouting just for kids who live in the city. Here’s a list of the merit badges that "City Scouts" will be able to earn:


Traffic dodging

Subway tunnel spelunking

Recycling crack vials

Hostage negotiating

Panhandling

Turnstile jumping

Pimp slapping

Switchblade handling

Tranny spotting

Elevator surfing

Three card Monte

Pigeon plucking


The Boy Scout motto is "Be prepared", so I think we’ll need one that captures the essence of the City Scouts…maybe something like "What’re you lookin’ at" or "I swear, he was bleedin’ when I got here". Now all we need are uniforms and we can start molding the future leaders of America.

Death, be not humble...

I have an email subscription to a website called Celebrity Death Beeper. Whenever a celebrity buys the farm I get an email telling me about it. A little morbid perhaps, but I like it. However, lately I have become concerned about the quality of "celebrities" that have been included.

For example, of the last six or seven "celebrities" to kick the bucket, I’d only heard of three of them and one of those was the dog from the TV show Frasier. Now, I don’t blame the site, I can see where you wouldn’t want your subscribers to go too long without hearing from you, so you use the term celebrity in the broadest sense.

No…I blame the celebrities. They’re just not dying the way they used to. James Dean, Marilyn Monroe and Jimi Hendrix…those were noteworthy celebrities dying in a newsworthy fashion. Too many of today’s stars are health and fitness nuts. Where is the excess, the reckless over indulgence that used to a big part of the Hollywood lifestyle?

Oh sure, you have a few celebrities doing there part for this grand old tradition, like Kate Moss reportedly snorting any white powdery substance within fifty feet of her and for a while Billy Joel would occasionally crash his car into something, but it’s just not enough.

So I’m asking all of you A and B list celebrities out there to put down your bottled water, fire your personal trainer, pick up a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a pack of smokes…just to get things started. Remember, for best results your demise should untimely, unexpected and if at all possible, spectacular.

Hell, at this point I’d even settle for D list celebrities…
Kathy Griffin, are you listening?

The genius of Leonardo...

It would seem that my good friend, the eminent scholar Monty Dingham Smythington, has had a stroke of good luck recently. He tells me that he was hired by Bill Gates to research and translate a notebook of Leonardo da Vinci that Gates purchased for 30 million dollars in 1994. According to Monty it contains a large number of ideas for inventions that once again show how very far ahead of his time Leonardo was. Here are just a few that Monty mentioned in his letter:

An automated lice picking machine.

A steam powered escalator.

The pocket fisherman.

Aromatherapy.

Edible underwear.

Pictionary

The Chia pet.

Nose hair trimmers.

Inflatable love dolls (gender unspecified)

The Mood Ring.

A foolproof “gaydar” machine (which Monty says was better left unfinished, as it probably would have exploded in 15th century Florence).


To be honest with you… I think that either Bill Gates really got ripped off or my old friend has started drinking again.

Welcome to poetry corner...

I was going to enthrall you with a three thousand line epic poem of mine that was inspired by that miracle of nature known as photosynthesis. Sadly, I can’t seem to find it, so instead here are some limericks inspired by low budget horror films:


There was a werewolf named Lee
A murderous beast was he
Your flesh he would shred
Until you were dead
Then on your leg he would pee


There once was a mummy named Betty
Who was late with her husband’s spaghetti
He began to smack her
Then used a weed whacker
Now she’s a big pile of confetti


There was a zombie from France
Who truly did love to dance
One night as he twirled
His intestines unfurled
And soiled his best pair of pants


There once was a man called Jack
A proud necrophiliac
The girls he preferred
Were always interred
Though the digging was hard on his back


There once was a doctor so smart
A monster he built à la carte
But you could tell by one glance
At it’s tight fitting pants
The Doc had forgotten one part


A vampire with a bad attitude
Flew off in a terrible mood
To the Arctic he did go
Where he dined on Eskimo
Only to find he didn’t like frozen food

Well, I’ve got to go…that lost epic isn’t going to rewrite itself.

America's Most Wanted Kiddies...

It was reported in the news last week that the officials of a New York City public school called the police on a six- year old boy, who they said had "thrown a tantrum and kicked a vice-principal". Previous to this incident the police had been called in because of a five-year old boy who allegedly "bit a teacher’s ankle".

We here at the Drive-by Blogger (and by we I mean me) say kudos to the strong leadership shown by these brave school officials in dealing with these pint-sized menaces to society. For too long these diminutive delinquents have run roughshod over the public school system. So, as a service to the Board of Education, I’m posting their top ten most wanted list…

1. Bill Weston, age 5: charged with carrying a concealed water pistol and inciting others to run with scissors.

2. Scott Jansen, age 5: charged with starting food fights and mooning the other children during show and tell.

3. Suzy Pollan, age 6: charged with attempting to blackmail her teacher with the "funny pictures" of her and the janitor the girl found while rifling her teachers desk.

4. Timmy Dugan, age 5, a.k.a. "The Wedgie Kid": charged with inflicting willful damage to other people’s underwear.

5. Robert Vega, age 6: charged with waging a vicious spitball campaign against a semi-retired (and completely clueless) substitute teacher.

6. Mary Sheldon, age 6: charged with extorting money from other children by threatening to sneeze on their lunches.

7. Ricky Smith, age 5: charged with attempting to kill the class’s pet hamster by feeding it his grandfather’s high blood pressure medicine.

8. Luke Fontana, age 5: charged with distributing pirated copies of Barney and Dora the Explorer.

9. Fred Wilson, age 5: charged with deliberately disorganizing the supply closet, also suspected of eating paste.

10. Rachel Tratsky, age 5: charged with flushing one hall pass, three erasers and her teacher’s keys down the toilet.

As John Walsh might say… "Come on America, let’s bring these low-lifes to justice!"

Questions, questions, questions...

During my last stay at my favorite mental health facility, I managed to slip one arm out of my straitjacket and with a crayon I had secreted upon my person, I wrote down a few of the deep questions that were on my mind at the time…

If so many people are ready to believe that Jesus was married and may have modern day descendants, how come these same people aren’t at all worried about Satan’s potential progeny? I mean if Jesus fathered a child isn’t more than likely that Satan put a few "buns in the oven" in his time?

Does anyone else out there believe that movie studio executives are using a "Magic 8 Ball" to decide what films to make?

Why is it that a baseball player can face a 90 mile an hour fast ball while 50 thousand fans are screaming their heads off, but a golfer who hears the click of a single camera looks at the offending photographer as though he has just strangled a kitten?

Is there any practical reason why the lid on the tank of my toilet weighs almost as the lid of King Tut’s sarcophagus?

Did no one in the opera world ever see the irony of Luciano Pavarotti playing the role of a "starving" poet in "La Boheme"?

How is it that in a world where people constantly complain about the large number of television commercials that they’re forced to endure, QVC (which is basically commercials without programming) can be so successful?

Does anyone really believe that the conductor of a symphony orchestra is anything but a glorified timekeeper?


I did have more questions, but it was at this point that my crayon broke.

Bill, we hardly knew ye...

As you may already know, Bill Gates has announced that he’s stepping down as the head of Microsoft to concentrate on his charity foundation. As noble as that may be, you know that a real "go getter" like Bill Gates is going to be busy with other things as well…things like:

Trying to talk Oprah, Donald Trump and George Lucas into doing an all billionaire version of "The Surreal Life".

Perfecting that 3D pornographic software he’s been promising himself.

Catching up on thirty years worth of "Field and Stream" magazines he hasn’t had the time to read.

Bribing as many officials as it takes to get legislation passed that will change the caption on all US currency to read "In Nerds We Trust".

Finding a way to permanently alter the human genome and rid the world of jocks once and for all.

Conducting exhaustive research on the bible to prove that his name is mentioned in there…somewhere.

Using GPS technology and a team of professional explorers to map the gigantic 125 million-dollar house he lives in.

Seriously Bill, if you find yourself having trouble burning through all that money…I’m here to help.

Who let the dogs out...

Some new dog breeds seem to be gaining popularity these days, breeds like the "puggle," a cross between a beagle and a pug, or the "labradoodle", a Labrador Retriever-Poodle mix. Now that’s all good and well, (provided you can ignore the obnoxiously cute names) but dogs should be bred for a particular use. So, with that in mind and not being a person who ever lets a bandwagon go by without jumping on it I present to you some unusual breed mixes and the useful traits they’ll possess…

Jack Russell Terrier and Yorkshire Terrier: a tireless, self-propelled feather duster…beloved by lazy housekeepers everywhere.

German Shepherd and French Poodle: will instinctively invade it’s own back yard and then immediately surrender.

Great Dane and Golden Retriever: forget duck hunting…with this dog you can go after the endangered (but oh so tasty) California condor.

Siberian Husky and Pug: sure to become the favorite sled dog of tiny Eskimos.

Pomeranian and Rottweiler: pocket sized protection from the world’s fiercest lap dog…think of it as the canine equivalent of mace.

Mastiff and Dachshund: forget buying a pony, this dog can seat your spoiled kid and five or six of his or her bratty friends to as well.

Maybe some day we can do something like this for cats. Of course, that’s assuming anyone ever discovers a breed of cat that does anything other than eat and sleep.

This just in...

The first reports on the death of terrorist Abu Musab al-Zarqawi seemed to suggest that he had been found dead in the rubble after the air strike. Then reports came that he had actually lived just long enough to be put on a stretcher and mumble a few last words. Now, there’s a report that he managed to hang on for nearly an hour.

I find this trend fascinating and wonder just how far it will go. I personally wouldn’t be surprised to eventually read a news story that reveals:

Abu Musab al-Zarqawi not only survived his injuries, but also tried to convince American and Iraqi forces that he was in fact comedic actor Dom Deluise, but was tripped up when he couldn’t answer questions about the movie "Cannonball Run 2".

Later, he managed to roll off the stretcher and tried to escape by putting on a burka and claiming he was Zarqawi’s housekeeper. Unfortunately for Zarqawi, an Iraqi soldier mistook him for his wife and beat him to death for being out of the house without permission.

The End???

Up, up and away...

The X-Men, a new Superman movie…once again it seems that Hollywood is turning to super heroes for help at the box office. However, not every super hero is good enough to make it to the big screen…here are a few that didn’t make the cut:

The Human Puddle: can transform himself into a small pool of water at will. After his battle against the evil Dr. Mop he was never seen again.

Captain Cloaca: battles super villains by controlling the contents of the world’s sewers…though most people he tries to rescue would prefer that he didn’t.

Slo-Mo Man: his only super power is the ability to move ten times slower than any living thing on earth…he was voted world’s worst super hero three years in a row.

The Iron Evangelist & Bible Boy: this devout duo is constantly battling with an evil organization bent on world domination…the dreaded Worldwide Association of Naughty Gays, better known as W.A.N.G.

Giggle Girl: her super sonic and condescending laughter renders even the most determined super villains unable to explain their absurdly complicated evil plans.

The Flabinator: a champion bodybuilder until he was bitten by a radioactive hippo, he now uses his gargantuan, gelatinous bulk to flatten evil doers.

You’ve got to admit it’s hard to see any great merchandising deals coming out of that bunch.

Pardon my rant...

I would like to say something to who ever is responsible for publishing the countless "helpful" medical reports that tell us what is and is not healthy for us…DON’T BOTHER!

Really, I mean what’s the point in trying to keep up with this stuff if every week brings a new report that contradicts some other medical report published three months ago.

Take egg yolks for example, for a while the consumption of egg yolks was considered only slightly less harmful to your health than sucking on the cooling rods from a nuclear power plant…and now they’re O.K.?

And there have been similar reversals regarding coffee and alcohol, but for me the straw that broke the camel’s back (guess he didn’t read the reports about osteoporosis) was this story about the dangers of not getting enough sunlight.

That’s right, the sun…you remember the sun don’t you…that big, bright burning thing in the sky? You weren’t supposed to go outdoors without slathering sunscreen on any part of your body that might be exposed to that malevolent ball of gas for any length of time…even if it was cloudy!

But now they’re tell us that too many people may not be getting enough sunlight! Well, I don’t know about you but I’ve had enough of these endless examples of pseudo-scientific waffling. I am going to get a jar of leeches and just hope that they're good for what ever ails me.

Let's hear it for the Bard...

Monty Dingham Smythington, a scholarly acquaintance of mine, recently made a remarkable discovery. In a very old library he came across an original manuscript of unfinished and until now, unknown poems by William Shakespeare. The most interesting thing about these poems is that in them Shakespeare tackles some unusual subject matter…

Like this one about hair loss:

Oh, luxuriant tresses of my youth
Thy premature departure cuts me to the quick
Where verily did stand a thicket of auburn locks
Can now be seen naught but a scalp shiny and slick

Cruel fate doth make merriment of my tears
And grants me hair anew not on my head
But in my bloody ears…

Or this one about impotence:

Zounds! What fresh misery is this?
The shaft of Eros hangs in limp despair
Some witch must hath cast a vile spell
For never has this happened, verily I swear…

And this one about constipation:

My physician doth compare me to a river dammed
And claims his potions will grant my innards ease
But I must also drink copious amounts of water anon
And for god sake, stop eating so much cheese…

Ah, they just don’t write em’ like that anymore.

Back with a little jailhouse gossip...

On a tip from an elderly inmate the FBI recently spent two weeks digging at a farm in Michigan looking for Jimmy Hoffa. For those of you too young to remember, Hoffa was a union leader who disappeared in 1975 and is believed by most people to have been killed by the mob.

One estimate puts the cost of this little "excursion" at about $250,000. All because of something said by an elderly prison inmate, but hey, if you can’t trust an old jailbird whom can you trust? So, I decided to delve deeper into the gold mine of knowledge possessed by the old geezer segment of the prison population and this is what they had to say…

That was not the real John Dillinger that the authorities killed in 1934. Dillinger quietly retired from his life of crime and used his ill-gotten gains to pursue his life long dream of opening an ice cream parlor in Bayonne New Jersey.

The Hindenburg disaster was no accident. The zeppelin was actually blown up by an escaped mental patient, who as a child had seen his father (an overly ambitious purveyor of helium filled balloons) overload himself with his merchandise one windy day, rise high into the air never to be seen again. The lunatic was eventually returned to the asylum after he was caught at the Thanksgiving Day parade trying to puncture one of the floats with his teeth.

Apparently, famed aviatrix Amelia Earhart was a man. A shocking revelation to most people, but no one was more shocked that the old inmate who told me that he found out one boozy night in 1932 that the "cockpit" of Amelia’s plane was more aptly named then he could have imagined.

One of the oldest inmates, a man nicknamed "Lumpy" due to the countless blows on the head he has received during his decades in prison, claimed that the Great Train Robbery never really happened. He went on to say " I mean, even if you could steal a whole train, what are you gonna do with it?"

I think I’ll file that one under dubious. Anyway, I’m off to see if I can get the FBI to look into any of these or at least give me the money and let me look into it for them. Hey, anything for justice.

Hold on to your rabbit's foot...

Although I don’t consider myself a superstitious person, I do come from a long line of superstitious people. I’m thinking in particular of my great- grandmother, a small but sturdy woman from a poor nation of indeterminate location. She was 109 years old when they finally buried her…I’ve heard she put up quite a fight. Anyway, here are some of the more obscure superstitions she brought with her from the old country…

Things that will bring bad luck:

Shaving a yak on the Sabbath.

Proposing marriage at an orgy.

Committing suicide during any month that has the letter R in it.

Placing your grandpa’s ashes is a pickle jar while you polish his urn.

Chopping firewood in an evening gown…especially if you’re not a woman.

Fondling a cheese wheel during a full moon.

Drinking directly from the udder of a cow before you have been formally introduced.


Things that will bring good luck:

Pinching the love handles of an obese fishmonger.

Being sneezed on by a one-armed bongo player.

Polishing your boots with the drool of a colicky infant.

Kissing the worm before you start fishing…but no tongues.

Trimming the toenails of a cross-eyed hermit.

Blowing your nose in a silk handkerchief…provided it’s not yours.


Then again, better safe than sorry…damn, where did I leave that pickle jar?

Oh, the things you find on the Internet...

When people talk about old Mother Nature, they’re almost referring to beauty, as in sunsets or her destructive power, as in earthquakes. It would seem however that Mother Nature also fancies herself something of a comedian. To illustrate my point, here are some excerpts from a science article I recently came across…

"Caterpillars shoot their faeces more than a metre from their homes to protect themselves from predators, an American ecologist has discovered."

"Older and larger caterpillars can launch 24 g pellets nearly 40 times their body length, at speeds of 1.3 metres per second; the longest distance recorded by Weiss was 153 cm."

"The study of ecology and evolutionary biology has been largely focused on the feeding strategies of animals; Weiss said it may be time for scientists to also look at waste disposal as a potentially promising new field which she dubbed 'evolutionary faecology'."

I’m just glad that primates didn’t take up this peculiar evolutionary adaptation or toilet training children would be an entirely different experience…involving Hazmat suits and water hoses. As for the promising new field of 'evolutionary faecology', there’s a title you’d be proud to have on a business card.

Stop The Music...

To be honest, I’ve never liked musicals, whether they’re on the screen or on a stage. However, it wasn’t until they started producing shows like Titanic and Momma Mia (a show based on the music of the pop group ABBA) that I realized there was almost no subject too tragic or inane to become a musical.

So here are some ideas that with the right backing could become huge hits. Now all I have to do is get Rosie O'Donnell’s phone number…

Who’s a Naughty Boy:
Based on the exploits of Jack the Ripper, played by Tommy Tune. Music by Elton John featuring such future hits as "Don’t Let This Knife Go Dull On Me" and "I’m Still Slashing". Rounding out the cast is Martin Short as the head of Scotland Yard.

The Mountains of Tennessee:
A dance revue inspired by the music and anatomy of country music legend Dolly Parton. The Olsen twins return to their show biz roots and give a memorable performance as Dolly’s breasts.

Love You Like the Plague:
A musical comedy about the "Black Death" that ravaged Europe during the 1300’s, with Nathan Lane as the last surviving priest trying his best to avoid all those dying around him. Fun for the whole family.

Beneath the Golden Arches:
The story of America’s most famous fast food joint told in song and dance. Andrew Lloyd Webber provides the music and you will believe that John Lithgow is Ronald McDonald.

Pardon My Dust Bowl:
It’s the Great Depression, as you’ve never seen it…set to music by Stephen Sondheim. Starring Mandy Patinkin as a union busting goon and Bernadette Peters as the unemployed factory girl he falls in love with…bring a hankie.

Do You Believe in Magic...

Hey, how about that David Blaine…with the water and the chains and whatnot. You know, it can’t be easy coming up with stunts that manage to amaze and bore your audience simultaneously.

Previously, he has accomplished this seemingly impossible paradox by being buried in a glass coffin, encasing himself in a block of ice and spending 44 days suspended high in the air somewhere in England. Although, many of the people there seemed more annoyed than amazed…I guess some cultural curiosities don’t travel well.

Now that he has spent a week in a gigantic fishbowl, rumors have already started circulating about what his next daring stunt/snorefest might be…

For one full month he will live in the tallest tree in New York City’s Central Park, by which time he claims he will have become "Lord of the Squirrels".

He will glue himself to the back of one of those giant tortoises in the Galapagos Islands and vow to stay on it until one of them dies.

To test his tolerance for pain, wearing only the skimpiest bathing suit, he will lay flat on a huge electric griddle. Every half-hour a forklift will flip him over.

Chained to an easy chair with his eyes propped open with toothpicks, he will endure watching every single episode of Will & Grace, without a break. Charlie Sheen will be standing by with two emergency hookers, who will spring into action at the first sign that Blaine might be starting to " turn that way".

Wrapped from head to foot in Saran Wrap, he will be placed in an abandoned refrigerator for two weeks, after which time a panel of television chefs will check him for freshness.

Well, I’m off to see if there’s any water left in the big fishbowl…I’m sure I could sell it on eBay.

Geldings and Stallions and Mares, Oh my...

The Kentucky Derby was held a couple of days ago…please, try to contain your excitement. Generally speaking, I don’t pay much attention to horse racing, even thought it has been called the "sport of kings"…a term that I always thought referred to the kings "activities" with the royal concubines.

However, thanks to the media’s relentless coverage of this event, I was reminded that there is one aspect of this sport that interests me…the names of the horses. For some reason racehorses are often given unusual or even weird names, like this years winner Barbaro or his fellow competitors Deputy Glitter and Seaside Retreat.

Well, since the unusual and weird are right up my alley, here’s what the race might have sounded like if I had been allowed to name all the horses…

"And they’re off! Morning Wood pops out of the gate quickly, followed closely by Forty ‘n Flatulent and Lethal Injection in third. Moving hard to the outside is Your Father’s Mustache with Clogged Arteries hot on his tail".

"The horses jostle for position and as they head into the first turn Pride of Guantánamo and Alcoholic Haze are neck and neck, trailed by Soon To Be Meatloaf."

"Now they’re through the final turn and heading for the home stretch and from out of nowhere its Zits a Poppin’ taking the lead! Zits a Poppin’ wins the Kentucky Derby, with Nervous Altar Boy coming in second and Phantom Fudge-Packer bringing up the rear".


Damn…I bet everything on Morning Wood.

Goodbye cruel world...

Not long ago I read about a man who in a failed suicide attempt used a nail gun to fire 12 nails into his skull. While his bid for oblivion might have been unsuccessful, I think you have to give him credit for "thinking outside the box" (even if he was just trying to put himself into one permanently).

Clearly, here was a man without a real gun, so he decided to improvise. This got me thinking about other possible "alternative" suicide methods and their positive and negative points and I came up with the following…

Overdose on laxatives.
Positive: whoever finds your body will remember you FOREVER.
Negative: not sure if it will actually kill you or just keep you "occupied" for a really long time.


Walking around during a thunderstorm completely covered in aluminum foil, while waving a golf club over your head.
Positive: if you mange to get struck, it should be all over very quickly.
Negative: you might have to fend off any homeless people who mistake you for a very large baked potato.


Radiation poisoning from the x-ray machines at the airport.
Positive: big style points for creative use of technology.
Negative: takes way too long and might lead to unpleasant, but non-lethal cavity searches.


Blocking the entrance to Kirstie Alley’s favorite restaurant the day after her contract with Jenny Craig expires.
Positive: being trampled by a ravenous celebrity might get your name in the paper.
Negative: contact with Scientologists can result in the sudden belief in crackpot theories and or Tom Cruise jumping on your couch.


Landmine stomping, this involves traveling to Southeast Asia where forgotten landmines pose a threat to local inhabitants and stomping around until you hit one.
Positive: people will think you did it for humanitarian reasons.
Negative: there’s a small chance that you’ll just have one of your legs blown off, thus forcing you to resort to "landmine hopping".


Avian Fluicide, the idea here is to try to catch a deadly virus by licking every bird in your local pet store.
Positive: the birds seem to like it.
Negative: possible unwanted advances from the creepy storeowner.


Slit wrists with the jagged shards of a hundred broken dreams…no wait, forget that one…it’s just an entry from my diary.

Oh, I’d like to thank the folks over at
Bloggy Award.com for the nice review they gave to yours truly.

As my dear ol' grandpa used to say...

Most of us are familiar with at least a few old sayings, those concise, pithy and sometimes barely comprehensible nuggets of "wisdom" that get passed down through the ages. However, if you’re anything like me (perish the thought) you may have felt that something was missing…like you were only given a part of the original saying. So I did some research and compiled a list of well know sayings in their complete and unabridged form…

That which does not kill me, makes me stronger…except when it leaves me curled in a fetal position, weeping and or bleeding.

The early bird catches the worm…not to mention pneumonia from the chilly morning air and salmonella from eating filthy worms.

A penny saved is a penny earned…which then becomes a penny taxed, which in turn becomes a penny spent on studying the reproductive habits of the highly endangered Albino Barnacle.

You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink…but if you tie enough weight to it, you can certainly drown the stubborn bastard.

Blood is thicker than water…but it still makes a lousy syrup.

Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth…and don’t let me catch you poking around the other end either.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder…so why the hell are you still here.

All that glitters is not gold…but you never know, so bury it for safe keeping and kill anyone you think might have seen you.

Hindsight is 20/20…but if you say "I told you so" one more time, I will poke your eyes out.

A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush…provided of course you don’t mind a hand covered in bird crap.

Iron bars do not a prison make…but it’s a hell of a beginning.

Cold hands, warm heart…could be hypothermia.

Too many cooks spoil the broth…because you know one of them is bound to sneeze in it.

A place for everything and everything in its place…does that make you happy now, you obsessive, compulsive control freak!

A fool and his money are soon parted…which reminds me, can you loan me $500.


I feel wiser already.

When gravity attacks...

There’s never a dull moment with these aging rock stars. It seems while on vacation in Fiji, Keith Richards, the 62 year old guitarist for the Rolling Stones, was climbing a coconut tree…and fell off. According to the doctors treating him, Keith suffered a mild concussion. My question is, how can they tell? I’ve seen him interviewed on television several times before and I barely understood a word he said.

Although Keith gave no reason why anyone as rich and old as he is would be climbing a coconut tree, I’ve come up with a few possible explanations…

1. He was going to hang himself, but forgot the rope.

2. Was just trying to find out if the spider that bit him was radioactive.

3. Addicted to fresh coconut milk.

4. Heard that Dick Cheney was hunting nearby and panicked.

5. Wanted to prove that gravity is just a scam created by "the man".

6. The transplanted chimpanzee liver is starting to have strange side effects.

7. Trying to impress cute dolphin he met while swimming.

8. Thought he saw a kitty stuck up there.

9. Hides his money in trees because he doesn’t trust banks.

10. Mick Jagger has taken up the art of voodoo.

11. Mistook tree for a really tall woman.

12. The ghost of Brian Jones dared him to do it.

Then again, maybe there are some things we aren’t meant to know.

For sports fans only...

I’m not sure when it happened, but the term "soccer mom" seems to have gained a place in the American vernacular and it does seem that a fair number of suburban kids are playing the game. This has led some people to claim that soccer will eventually be extremely popular in this country.

As I’ve stated before in this here blog, I no longer watch a lot of sports. However, I did watch enough in my time to come up with a theory (who am I kidding, I’m a fountain of crackpot theories) that explains why these people are probably wrong about soccer ever catching up to the big three…baseball, football and basketball.

My theory is simple (hey, if you want complicated I’m sure there must be a physicist with a blog somewhere) and it goes like this:

As far as the typical American sports fan is concerned, the quicker the pace of the game the higher the score should be and conversely the slower the pace of the game the lower the score should be.

The problem with soccer is that although it has a lot of fast paced, back and forth action with the players running around like the energizer bunny on a caffeine binge, the score is always very low. I’m talking single digit low…2 to 1 or 1 to 0 are typical scores after 90 minutes of play!

It’s the same story with hockey, where the pace is even faster, not to mention the teeth shattering brawls. I’ve tried watching once or twice before and I was certain I was going to pull an eye muscle trying to keep up with the action. If it wasn’t for the puck occasionally (and I do mean occasionally) winding up in the net, I’d swear these guy are just swiping at thin air.

Still awake? Good…basketball on the other hand has a lot of the same type of quick paced, back and forth action as well as a lot of jumping up and down by men who are only slightly shorter than your average oak tree. But, and this is a big but, it’s not unusual for one or both teams to score 80, 90, or more points. That’s the kind of points to pace ratio that sits well with the American sports fan.

Now, compared to the sports previously mentioned, baseball is played at a pace comparable only to a tortoise with a bad ankle sprain (assuming they have ankles), but according to my theory that’s ok because the scores are relatively low. Yes, I know that every so often a team will go crazy and score 20 runs, but even the highest scoring baseball game doesn’t come close to the point totals in basketball.

"Where does football fit into all this?" I hear you ask…assuming of course anyone has actually read this far. Well…it’s sort of in the middle, with a slower pace and lower scores than basketball, but a quicker pace and higher scores than baseball, it fits my theory perfectly…hence, it’s popularity here in the states.

"What about rugby, Australian Rules football and cricket?" To be honest I’ve never watched any of those sports and don’t know a thing about them, so I guess it’s possible that any one of them could poke a big hole in my theory and then it’s back to the old drawing board. Damn you and your probing questions!

One final personal observation about soccer…I was watching a match on TV and every once in awhile the entire crowd would start to sing in unison. I’m not talking about some simple chant like USA…USA, I’m talking an actual song without any musical accompaniment and with the precision of a well rehearsed choir. I don’t know how they all know when to start, but to tell you the truth…I found it a little creepy.
Cheerio!

Blame it on the brainfreeze...

According to a recent article in the news, the ice cream company Ben and Jerry’s issued an apology to anyone they might have offended. How does a company that makes something as benign as ice cream offend anyone? It has to with the wacky names they tend to give their products…you know, Cherry Garcia, Chunky Monkey and so on.

Well, they decided to call one of their new flavors "Black and Tan", which as it turns out was the nickname of an auxiliary British police force serving in Ireland in the early 1920’s, so brutal and violent that they are still remembered with hatred.

While this may be the first public incident for Ben and Jerry’s, I have managed to obtain a top secret list of names for new flavors that were considered but ultimately rejected as to controversial or inappropriate…

Mussolini Mango

Tranny Banana Surprise

Neverland Ranch Boys ‘N Berries

FEMA Fudge Up

Iraq Attack

Abu Ghraib Grape

Dixieland’s Vanilla Dreams

Cannibal Caramel Crunch

California Mudslide Mocha

Deadeye Cheney Chocolate Chip

Weapon of Mass Deliciousness

Santa’s Big Red Sack

Don’t forget that no one is supposed to know about this…so keep it under your hat.

This product is brought to you by...

I recently saw a commercial on television that took me by surprise. It was for a product called Bayer Complete Insect Killer…that’s Bayer as in Bayer aspirin. Now, I don’t know about anyone else but I found it very strange to think that a company that I’ve always associated with pain relief is also selling products that kill…even if it’s just lawn destroying insects.

I don’t know if selling products completely unrelated to what a company is most well know for is common practice or the wave of the future. But in my usual delusional desire to get a piece of the action, I’ve come up with a list of product ideas that some well known companies might want to consider…

Martha Stewart Living OmniMedia Mortuary Services: Perfume scented embalming fluids and pastel colored caskets…they’re a good thing.

Hallmark’s Blended Scotch Whiskey: Because only a maudlin drunk would be moved by the "poetry" printed on those cards.

Mrs. Butterworth’s Home Pregnancy Test: If it turns blue you’re pregnant, if it turns red you’re not and if it turns a golden brown it’s time for pancakes.

Fisher-Price Body Armor: Brightly colored, washable and able to stop anything up to a 45-caliber bullet.

Chanel Mace No.5: Really sends a message to that obnoxious blind date that you’re not interested.

Ferrari’s Male Enhancement Pills: Because lets face it…if you bought one of these cars, then you probably need them.

Exxon Plant Fertilizer: Finally…a use for all those animals killed by those huge oil spills.

Quaker Oat’s Quick Drying Cement: If you’ve ever tried to get oatmeal out of a bowl after it’s hardened, you know this idea is a natural.

Goodyear’s Steel Belted Condoms: When you REALLY can’t afford any "accidents".

Pillsbury’s Weight Lifting Equipment: Of course, that pudgy, out of shape mascot Poppin’ Fresh has to get buff or get out. Maybe he could benefit from Folgers Anabolic Steroid Crystals: Just add water.

Remember corporate America, as always, all I’m asking for is ten percent and an office with a window…

Dear diary...

It occurred to me that the tantalizing view into my soul in my previous post may have left readers more curious than ever about me (stop shaking your head no and just play along). So to give you some idea of a typical day in my life, I present a page from my diary…

I awake at the crack of dawn after a good night’s sleep…or was it another sleepless night spent smoking crack till dawn? Probably the former, anyway, I hit the snooze button on my alarm clock for another hour or two of sleep.

11:40 am: OK…I forgot I don’t own an alarm clock, just one of those little devices that replicates the sounds of the ocean. That might explain all those nightmares about drowning.

11:45 am: Jump into the shower.

11:46 am: Discovering there's no hot water I jump out of the shower, shrieking loudly as I do so.

11:48 am: Answer the door wrapped in a towel and explain to my 78-year-old neighbor, the widow Jansen, what had happened and apologize for screaming as though someone was trying to murder me.

11:50 am: Politely turn down the widow Jansen’s offer to check me for "cold water trauma", apparently a little know hazard that she says killed her first husband.

12:02 pm: To the kitchen to make breakfast or brunch or whatever the hell you want to call it. Bacon, eggs and an English muffin has always been my favorite breakfast…at least it was the last time I could afford all that stuff…so a bowl of Cocoa Puffs it is.

12:10 pm: Sat down at the computer for my next online ukulele lesson from the Don Ho institute.

12:30 pm: Turn on the TV and start flicking from channel to channel every thirty seconds or so as usual thanks to my ever decreasing attention span.

4:25 pm: Drop the remote and run to the kitchen to put ice on my thumb, which feels like it’s on fire. Worry that I might have Carpal Tunnel Syndrome.

4:55 pm: Stop by the office of my friend who is a doctor…ok, he’s a proctologist but without insurance I don’t have a lot of options. He reluctantly takes a look at my hand and tells me it’s not serious, probably just a cramp. After I insist on something for the pain he finally writes me a prescription and I head to the pharmacy.

5:10 pm: Halfway to the drugstore I read the prescription he gave me and it says " one Band-Aid for the big baby". Some friend…I consider reporting him to the AMA.

5:33 pm: Stop at Momma Nuchek’s Coleslaw Emporium to pick up dinner.

6:42 pm: Read a few chapters of "Yoga for the Semi-invalid" by Yogi Parahansagraba.

8:02 pm: Check phone messages…just two, both from the widow Jansen. Sort through 284 e-mails, all spam, and then stare at computer screen while trying to think of something to post on my blog.

9:47 pm: Wake up with a jolt, wipe drool off keyboard and promise myself I will definitely think of something to write tomorrow.

10:25 pm: Make myself a nightcap of NyQuil and ginger ale and stagger off to bed. It’s been a full day and the crack of dawn awaits…

To meme or not to meme...

If you are a regular denizen of the blogosphere then you know that memes are all the rage now. Being the "with it" kind of blogger that I am, I couldn’t let this meme thing pass unnoticed. So, here are 12 things you didn’t know about me…The Drive-by Blogger…

1. When I was eight years old I was shocked to discover that contrary to what I thought, my friend was real and it was my family that was imaginary.

2. I believe that relish is Satan’s own condiment.

3. In high school I made the unfortunate decision to start sniffing glue. I was cured of this bad habit however, after having the wing of a small model airplane stuck to my nose for nearly a week.

4.I had to give up a promising career as a landscaper after being savagely attacked by a rabid gopher.

5. When it comes to shampooing, I always lather and rinse, but I never repeat. I guess it’s just the rebel in me.

6. I’m convinced that Shirley MacLaine owes me money from a previous life.

7.On my first and last hunting trip I bagged an eight point buck…and by bagged I mean wounded it just enough to make it really angry and chase me up a tree.

8. I almost worked at one of those Renaissance fairs, until I found out that the job of "codpiece inspector" had nothing to do with checking on the quality of the fish in "ye old mess hall".

9. One of my friends used to complain that he had actually invented the "Atkins" diet before anyone else. This turned out to be partly true…unfortunately, his version of the diet consisted of eating only people named Atkins.

1o. I may be married to a woman from a tiny island nation somewhere in the Pacific Ocean…either that or I co-signed a loan to cover her country’s national debt. Either way I should have hired a translator.

11. I was once in People Magazine’s 50 most beautiful people issue…not all of them… just the copy I bought and pasted my picture into.

12. Although I consider myself something of an amateur scientist and I have watched almost every documentary that was ever made about evolution, I still giggle whenever anyone on the screen says the words "Homo erectus".

Now...wasn’t that enlightening?

I hope she brought her crystal ball...

We are in luck today because my dear friend and world renowned psychic Madame Putwonovaonya has agreed to be interviewed by yours truly…

TDB: Welcome Madame Putwonovaonya and thank you for coming.

MP: You’re welcome…can I have my dog back now?

TDB: Ha ha, what a kidder. Madame P. lets start at the beginning. When did you first realize you had these amazing gifts?

MP: Since I was about six or seven years old. I used to think it was much earlier because I always had this vague memory of someone from the spirit realm trying to speak to me while I was still in the womb. However, the spirits have since convinced me that it was just my mother breaking wind.

TDB: Fascinating…Tell me Madame P. what is the range of your gifts? What can you offer those who come to you for help?

MP: Oh, I do horoscopes, seances, exorcisms and the occasional bachelor party.

TDB: You give psychic readings at bachelor parties?

MP: Uh, right…readings…yeah, lets go with that.

TDB: Madame P. why is it that despite the fact that predicting the future is a large part of what you and other psychics do, none of you ever seem to see the really serious catastrophes coming?

MP: You see, sometimes the enormity of the event is so great that our psychic vision can’t take it all in, we’re just too close. You know the old saying about not being able to see the forest for the trees? It’s something like that.

TDB: Well that certainly sounds convenient…uh, I mean reasonable and it brings me to my next question. Why is it when you or one of your fellow mediums is in contact with the "other side" everything is so vague? It’s always something like "I’m feeling a strong male presence…goes by the name of Mark or Max…something starting with an M. Is there someone here who had a grandfather, father, uncle, older brother or cousin who’s name started with an M…anyone…?". Why can’t any of you ever just come out with very specific information, you know… names, dates and places?

MP: My dear, simple friend there are several reasons for this…

TDB: Somehow, I thought there might be.

MP: First of all, many of these people are in a transition from this world to the next and often don’t even know that they are dead.

TDB: Really? How odd…I would have thought that if the funeral didn’t tip them off, the burial would have made it quite clear.

MP: Also, there are dark forces on the other side and you don’t want to go shouting your name and location all willy-nilly. You never know who or what is listening, so the spirits only divulge a little at a time.

TDB: The other side sounds like a combination witness protection program and waiting room for ghosts. What are these dark forces you mentioned?

MP: They include everything from your garden variety demons to ancient, nameless entities so evil you wouldn’t even wish them on Geraldo Rivera.

TDB: Madame P. are you ever tempted to use your powers to do things like win the lottery or break the bank in a casino?

MP: Never, the spirits make it quite clear that we are not to use our gifts for personal gain.

TDB: But you do charge your clients a fee, don’t you?

MP: Yes, but it’s just enough to put food on the table and pay the rent.

TDB: Would that be the rent on your house in Malibu or the one in The Hamptons?

MP: For your information, that house in Malibu happens to be a school where I teach others to develop their own psychic powers.

TDB: I see…and how many students are enrolled now?

MP: Well, at the moment none, but that’s because I’m having a thermal regulated hydro meditation unit installed.

TDB: Do you mean a hot tub?

MP: Whatever…look are you implying something?

TDB: Of course not…well, we have just enough time left to mention your new book "Kiss me I’m Psychic: a hot chick’s guide to the paranormal." I must say that I think it’s the most compelling literary work since Suzanne Somers epic poem "Ode to my ThighMaster".

MP: Thanks…I think. Listen, about my dog…

TDB: Madame P. it has been a pleasure talking to you…but I’m sure you already knew that.

Ah, those mad hatters...

What is it about hats that have caused people at various times in history to completely loose all sense of proportion? I’m not talking about esthetics here…I know that fashion changes and outfits that Liberace would have found tacky were considered everyday wear in another time.

I’m just talking about the size of the hat relative to the size of the head on which it sits. For example, from about the last decade of the nineteenth century to the first decade of the twentieth century, women’s hats grew to a size only slightly smaller than an ottoman (the foot stool…not the empire). These creations were so large they had to be held in place with oversized, dangerous looking hatpins, presumably stuck through the hair and not the scalp.

Men have not been exempt from this phenomenon. Consider the famous stovepipe hat that not even Lincoln, as tall as he was, could pull it off (the look that is…I’m pretty sure the hat came off). Then there’s the sombrero, the design of which probably had it’s roots in providing protection from the sun, but it still ended up with way more brim than is needed for the job.

Of course, it’s not always a case of the hat being too big, sometimes it went wrong the other way. The pillbox hat immediately springs to mind, though how women were convinced to wear a fashion item that was clearly inspired by an organ grinder’s monkey is a mystery to me. In previous centuries Asia has also produced some variants on the tiny hat, so these mysterious lapses in millinery proportions transcend borders.

Historically speaking the world’s military forces have also produced the occasional doozy, but I don’t include them because the general public didn’t wear them and the men who did had no choice.

Oddly enough, no other fashion accessory that I know of has ever been affected by this tendency. I’ve never heard of people wearing gloves or shoes that are three sizes too big or too small. "What about those boots with the eight inch heels from the early seventies?" I hear you ask. Well, they don’t count either because again, other than Glam rockers and Frankenstein’s monster, most people never wore them.

All in all, hat sizes seem to have settled down, but I have this dreadful feeling that it would only take one really popular celebrity wearing an absurdly proportioned hat to start it all up again. Let us hope that the fashion police stay vigilant and long live the baseball cap!

Take me out to the ball game...

I don’t watch sports as much as I used to, but every once in a while some sports related news item will catch my attention, the most recent one involves baseball. It seems that relief pitchers from two different teams are using the same theme song as they make their entrance on to the field. Apparently, this is the baseball equivalent of the old cliché of two women showing up to an event wearing the same dress.

Now I thought it amusing enough that some players even have theme songs, but funnier still is the fact that this business caused an uproar on sports-talk radio. By the way, I don’t believe in Hell, but if it does exist I’m sure that at least one of the outer circles is reserved for everyone responsible for talk radio of any kind…but I digress.

Anyway, while reading about all this I remembered something even stranger having to do with relief pitchers (at least I think it’s a memory and not a hallucination, but whenever the distant past is concerned I’m never completely sure).

Years ago relief pitchers were actually driven from the bullpen to the pitching mound. Now for anyone not familiar with baseball, let me explain that we are talking a distance of approximately four hundred feet…give or take fifty feet.

The vehicle they were driven in was usually something like a golf cart except that the top half would be shaped like a giant baseball or a giant baseball cap or stranger still a giant baseball wearing a giant baseball cap. Some teams took this idea even further and used a real car…a genuine automobile to chauffeur the pitcher to the mound, at which point he would take off his team jacket (which I can only assume he was wearing because the driver kept the AC on full blast during the long ride in) and start to pitch.


Harder to believe still is the fact that no one at the time seemed to think this at all strange or unnecessary, at least I never heard anyone say so. I can’t for the life of me recall when this practice came to an end or if I was even following baseball anymore when it did. But whenever you hear someone talking about modern athletes being spoiled, remember these valiant men who must jog (or at least walk really fast) those four hundred or so feet before they can hurl a single pitch.

Let's "kick it up a notch"...

Man, there sure are a lot of cooking shows on television. They run the gamut from complicated gourmet cuisine to simple meals anyone could make in thirty minutes. However, the one thing they all have in common is that they lack "edginess", there’s no one "pushing the envelope", not even on "cable TV"(alright, I’ll stop with the quotation marks).

Not surprisingly, I have some ideas for what could be called "alternative cooking shows" (sorry, those were the last quotation marks, I promise) that ought to spice things up a little…

BUSHMEAT FOR BEGINNERS: Chimps, gorillas, leopards and many other exotic animals not normally considered food by most people are on the menu for this show. You will never be caught without a good recipe for spider monkey again.

THE LAST CHANCE DINER: Travel each week to a different state penitentiary and watch as the nation’s top prison chefs prepare the last meals of death row inmates on budgets tighter than a hangman’s noose.

FRYIN’ WITH THE PLAYMATES: Taped at the Playboy mansion this show will feature topless playmates frying everything from bacon to zucchini, all the while jumping and jiggling to avoid the splattering grease. The show will be hosted by Hugh Hefner who, ironically no longer eats actual food, but is kept alive with oxygen and large doses of vitamin enriched Viagra.

EXTREME CUSINE: This show would be the ultimate in adventurous cooking. You will see chefs with more courage than common sense attempting things like:
Roasting hot dogs over the rim of an active volcano, deep frying chicken in a canoe while riding the rapids and serving up elegant examples of Novelle cuisine while dressed up as a Union soldier in the middle of a trailer park somewhere in the deep south.

Hey, even if the Food Network isn’t interested in any of these, I’m sure the Fox Network will be.

History revisited...

If I could go back in time, I think I would like to meet Alexander Graham Bell…and smack him in the head with his newly invented telephone, or at least interrupt his dinner by trying to sell him something.

Of course, there are many other historical figures that have annoyed me in some way. Here are just a few, along with the revenge I would take if I could…

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE: I would have this self-proclaimed "emperor" shot out of one of his own canons, partly for plunging Europe into war, but mostly for giving short men a bad name.

GUTZON BORGLUM: Yeah, I know…Gutzon who? He was the sculptor who defaced Mount Rushmore with those absurdly large presidential heads, for which I would imprison him for one year in Teddy Roosevelt’s left nostril.

NOSTRADAMUS: The sixteenth century crackpot…er, I mean astrologer who wrote a book full of vague and obscure "prophecies" that many modern crackpots, excuse me, I mean "star gazers" still believe to be true. To get even with Nostradamus I would probably arrange for him to discover his wife in bed with a group of wandering troubadours, at which point I would turn to him and shout "You didn’t see that one coming, now did you Nostry old boy?"

CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS: Since it was basically his poor sense of direction that eventually led to my having to study about him in school, I would tattoo a very small but accurate map on his forehead and make him stop for directions every time he walked more than twenty feet.

MOSES: As I see it, by performing tricks like turning his staff into a snake, turning the waters of the Nile River into blood and parting the Red Sea, Moses is responsible for starting a tradition that would eventually result in cheesy Las Vegas magic acts like David Copperfield and Siegfried and Roy. To even things out I would subject him to forty days of Wayne Newton concerts. No wait…make it forty minutes, I don’t want to over do it. After all, they say he has friends in high places.

Thinning the herd...

"Don’t try this at home!"…I’m sure you’ve heard that phrase more times than you can count. Whenever someone on television is about to do anything dangerous, someone else on the show is bound to utter some variation of those infamous words. They do this even when it’s extremely unlikely that anyone could attempt it even if they wanted to…
"We are just moments away from ‘Mad’ Max Borstein’s attempt to disarm a nuclear warhead while strapped to the wing of an F-16 fighter jet as it soars over Antarctica, but remember ‘Mad’ Max is a trained professional and under no circumstances should you try this stunt on your own!"

Don’t misunderstand me, when it comes to kids I’m all for warning them against doing risky and stupid things, but as far as full-grown adults are concerned…I’m not so sure. I mean, if people who should know better want to attach rockets to their cars and try to jump over a canyon because they saw someone else do it on TV, maybe we should let them. Hell, as long as they do it where they can’t hurt anyone else, we should probably encourage them. If they haven’t reproduced yet, so much the better…think of it as putting a little chlorine in the gene pool.

In case you’re thinking that I’m being too hard on stupid people, remember I’m only talking about those individuals who are imitating stunts they’ve seen on television or the movies. People who get hurt doing things that they thought of themselves, like using gasoline to start the family barbecue, asking Mike Tyson for an autograph or going hunting with Dick Cheney…well, that’s a different matter entirely. Oh, by the way… my burns are healing nicely.

Star power...

I think most of us have the impression that celebrities can be a little spoiled, but until the Internet came along, I had no idea how true that is. It turns out that many performers have what is called a rider, which is a list of things that they require and it can cover everything from food to the décor of their dressing room. You can find many on The Smoking Gun website, but here are some that I…er, just discovered myself:

THE ROLLING STONES: one industrial grade defibrillator and six gallons of embalming fluid. At least four coffins containing consecrated soil and under no circumstances are garlic, crosses or wooden stakes to be allowed in the dressing rooms.


BRUCE WILLIS: a large Ashton Kutcher dartboard (this is to be kept TOP SECRET…if Demi asks deny everything. All personnel around Mr. Willis are to be informed that NO reference to Hudson Hawk must ever be made in his presence. Finally, due to past unpleasantness, one extra guard must be hired and put on constant Cybill Shepherd patrol.


BILLY JOEL: three or four disposable cars. At least two people to repeatedly reassure him that’s it’s ok that he produced a lot of crap after marrying Christie Brinkley…after all who can concentrate when you’re married to a supermodel? His manager also requests a razor and shaving cream to be left in Mr. Joel’s dressing room in case he decides to “shave off that goddamned Mitch Miller looking goatee.”


HOWARD STERN: Mr. Stern will require a large assortment of strippers, dwarves, mentally challenged individuals and lesbians. As for parasitic, brown nosing sycophants that laugh at everything he says, Mr. Stern will provide his own.


MADONNA: enough copies of the book “Kabbalah for Dummies” for her entire entourage. A separate dressing room and a case of antidepressants for her acting coach. In keeping with her current incarnation as a respectable married woman, all personnel around Madonna will refrain from asking her to autograph any old copies of her SEX book or to demonstrate her deepthroat techniques on a water bottle.


TOM CRUISE: the walls of Mr. Cruise’s dressing room are to be covered with the Church of Scientology’s official L.Ron Hubbard wall paper. No one over the height of five feet and seven inches is to stand close to Tom when photographers are present. Any mirrors in the dressing room must be newly manufactured and come directly from the factory. Mr. Cruise has been known to break out in hives after having unknowingly used mirrors that have been soiled by the reflections of other people.