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.